Stop Pushing My Face

Why do babies like to push on your face? How do they know that it is such a clear and effective way to communicate? Imagine saying anything to anyone and suddenly your face is shoved to one side or another. You stop talking, don't you? I like to think of it as another way that a child takes ownership of the parent. The child knows that the parent belongs to her or him and so the child is free to do whatever is in their power to effect change in behavior. Granted, there isn't much a child can do, especially one whose age is still calculated in months. But when that little arm reaches out and those little fingers poke into your cheek as your head is forced to one side, you do exactly what they want. You stop talking or singing or whatever the hell you're doing, because that's basically what your child just told you to do. Stop.

I can't talk yet, but I know how important your face is in the communication process. So if I can manage to push hard on your face and move it so it's not facing me anymore, you'll probably get the message that I want you to stop doing whatever that is that you're doing. And If you start up again, I'll just shove your face again. I can keep this up as long as I need to. You'll get the idea eventually. Also, I pooped in my diaper, and it stinks. No hurry though, it doesn't really bother me.

Gator-Head Wind Chimes

I spotted a billboard along I-95 on my way home from work that boasted 'Gator-Head Wind Chimes'. It was for a tourist/souvenier/truckstop place along the highway. I immediately began to take mental stock of my supply of gator-head wind chimes, in order to decide if I needed to swing in and pick some up. It occurred to me that i have no gator-head wind chimes, so I considered further. I like wind. I appreciate chimes. I enjoy wind chimes as a rule. I like gators - including their heads. I'm not so keen on the head, once it's been separated from the gator's body. Then i thought: This was someone's idea? I suppose they thought - "These are some mighty cute little gators. If I catch them, I can cut their heads off, dry them out and schelaque them. Then I'll tie them up on a string so they can clank together in the wind and it will be a dandy thing to hang on someone's front porch and listen to all them gator heads smacking together in the wind." Is this considered a good idea? How many of the ideas out there are equivalent to this? Are there actually exhausted vacationers whose minds are so numb that they see GATOR-HEAD WIND CHIMES, and obediently exit to pick some up? I'm sure the gator community is not thrilled about this. Also, whatever happened to the old reliable oranges, sea shells and sharks teeth? Meanwhile, when you're puttering around inside your house, and the wind dances past your porch, please enjoy the calming clatter of tiny, dead, severed alligator heads knocking together in the breeze. Evenin' neighbor ;-)

Let Me Break It Down For You

I can change a tire. I can hook up jumper cables. Yep, that's all I can do besides pump gas. Wait, wait! I can refill my windshield washer fluid too. I do plenty of stuff myself around the home, but i'm not inclined to fix my car. I rely on word-of-mouth to find a good mechanic. My current "mechanic" is a chain that's close by and doesn't seem to rip me off. But how am I honestly supposed to know the difference? I don't know what they do with my car. All I know is whether or not it drives. Here's my beef: Why are mechanics allowed to charge more when they have to take something apart? Right? I understand the basic parts & labor concept - it seems fair enough. So why, do they have to explain to me that something costs more because they had to take it apart? Isn't that precisely why I've brought in my car in the first place? When a mechanic says "We have to take off the whole door panel" or "we'll need to remove the framostat to get to your timing belt" or "we had to dismantle part of the hyperbonic-turbo-incabulator to access your brake light fuse" I want to say "Yeah? So what! Does this mean I'm going to have to pay you extra - since you had to remove some parts of my car and put them back together? That's what I brought my car here to pay you for in the first place! You take it apart. You put it back together. You fix it. That is the description of an auto mechanic. That's what you are supposed to do!" Does a baseball player get paid extra for running the bases after hitting the ball? Should I pay an additional price for a pizza place to box up my order and hand it to me once they've already made the whole pizza? Will a lawyer expect more compensation for explaining the contents of the documents you're signing once he's drawn them up? I just don't see the justification for bothering to tell me what you had to take apart to fix my car - as if I'll then understand why you charged me extra. Don't imply that i'm paying you for doing two jobs. You're not fixing my car and, ALSO, fixing my car. It's one job. Please just fix it and call me when you're done. And if you repair the thing we agreed upon, then you did NOTHING extra. So if you're going to charge me extra, keep it to yourself. I'll stick with you as long as I choose. Although, I may stop respecting you far sooner than that.

Hair chair

I just took part in the time-honored tradition of sitting in a chair in the middle of the kitchen floor getting a haircut from my wife. Actually, it was only a trim. Nevertheless, it delivered the full effect of not being too proud to save a few bucks and still having the privilege of sweeping up my own hair afterwards. Many a husband and son (or daughter?) have shared the sweet spot on the tiled or linoleum floor as tufts, wisps and clumps of hair float down around their ankles. It's oddly meditative. Sitting there, nearly motionless - at first to avoid the accidental earlobe or forehead scissor poke, then to encourage an eventual end to the task as the teacher inevitably loses focus and stamina and seems to just want it to end. At that point the patient - or - harcuteee instinctively adopts the physical attitude of - "please finish off without rushing but don't go too fast, but make it quick for our sanity. I can picture myself in that chair

Save The Drama

I like old expressions, such as dude and bummer. I also like new ones, like peeps - and even newer ones, like belieber (believer in Justin Bieber). I am often put off, however, by blanket statements. I was taking a workshop on something or other, in which one of the instructors said to "save the drama for the stage." This is poor communication, a flawed analogy and bad semantics at the very least. I give those who utter this tired phrase the benefit of the doubt and assume they are attempting to say "please don't overreact without first having an adult conversation." Drama is being substituted for being touchy, over reacting, or complaining too much, or being over-dramatic. This is not what drama means. Drama has to do with human interaction and conflict on the tv, screen or stage (it actually comes from the Greek word meaning "action"). I realize that drama in colloquial terms often refers to people who have too many problems or complaints or perhaps a short fuse. That's fine, and is to be readily understood as such in context. If someone says something like "keep your drama to yourself," or "don't be so dramatic," or "ease up on the drama," or - something like that - that's clear communication. But, when I hear "save the drama for the stage," there is a clear implication that the stage is a place where people over react, behave extremely touchy, or carry on about irrelevant material. That's not what goes on - on stage. As a theatre artist, I don't appreciate the pigeon-holing of the term 'stage.' It almost sounds like "save your crap for the stage." Crap has its place, but not on the stage. I would like instead to say: Please keep your crap OFF the stage. I have a healthy respect for slang and colloquialisms, but I try to maintain a general respect for different meanings within different contexts. I hope this is clear. If not, save your complaints for the suggestion box, box step, stepping stone, stone cold, cold shoulder, shoulder the burden, burden of proof, proof of purchase, ...buyer beware.

Fair Warning

I change a lot of diapers. I don't mind it. My daughter is still fairly tiny, and someone changed mine when I was a young nugget. I also make a habit of washing my hands directly afterwards, and I recently learned exactly why. A few weeks ago I noticed that the right side of my right thumbnail appeared damaged. I found this immediately odd, since I recalled no incident that would result in such damage. I also noticed the skin around the cuticle was red and swollen. Although this was a tad disturbing, I did as I often do at the onset of signs or symptoms of injury or illness. I ignored it. A week later - worse. The whole right side of my nail was brown and jaggedy, and my cuticle had become red, swollen, cracked and excruciatingly tender. I glimpsed a fleck of poop on my thumb while changing a diaper (my ten-month-old is extremely uncooperative during diaper changes, and regularly kicks and flails about with her legs as if I was attempting to forcibly fasten flaming, thorny leggings to her chunky little legs). I quickly put two and two together, told my wife, and she made a doctor's appointment for me. The doctor took one look at my thumb and said I damaged my thumb. I told her my theory and she agreed right away. She prescribed the equivalents of amoxicillin and neosporin, then got to work on my thoroughly unappetizing thumb. First, a couple injections of lidocaine into the swollen skin around my cuticle. She prefaced these by saying "bee sting." If by 'bee sting', she meant intense, sustained, burning, scorpion-like injection - then she was completely accurate. I looked away as she leveled the retractable scalpel onto my thumb. She coaxed out as much blood and fluid as possible, then cleaned me up and applied a small bandage. Yikes! After three and a half days of oral and topical medication, the swelling has gone down significantly and I feel I'm on the mend. I'll be sure to take every last prescribed dose. More importantly, I wash much more thoroughly after every single diaper change, every visit to the bathroom, every several public doorknobs, handrails, you fill-in-the-blank. This has been a semi-graphic heads-up, from me to you. Sadly, "poop" is not nearly as harmless as it sounds. And, while I got off easy - with minor cuticle damage. It could have been much, much worse. I feel the need to go, now, and wash my hands. I recommend you do the same - if not right now - soon. Have a nice day :-)

The Lemonade Stand

We spread out a bunch of our unneeded stuff in two parking spaces for our community yard sale today. Beside us, in a patch of grass, my daughter and her friend manned their first lemonade stand. Two pitchers - one for pink lemonade and one for yellow - sat on a little princess table, with the girls perched on pink chairs behind it. We had a small supply of ones and quarters on hand for change, the girls had a mini pink princess bucket to collect the 25 cents per cup they were charging. Both girls sampled the lemonade, declared it delicious and were ready for business. They had their first customer before we did, and the trend was set for the morning. People wandered by in chunks and milled through our array, and none could ignore the little girls at the lemonade stand. Customers balked at paying 3$ for a dress, then they'd put a quarter in the girls' bucket and say "I don't want any lemonade, but you two are so cute! Here's a quarter." My daughter kept having to pee from drinking all the lemonade, but that didn't slow down the flow of coins to the lemonade stand. People would say "How much for this quilt?" And I'd say "Ten bucks?" They'd walk away without even making an offer. Meanwhile "You two are adorable. May I have another lemonade?" Perhaps it was because the girls had a script:
Hello, welcome to our lemonade stand.
Would you like yellow or pink?
Here you go.
Have a pinkalicious day!
Maybe we should have only tried to sell stuff that was yellow or pink. Actually, we had quite a bit of pink stuff, come to think of it. A tiny boy sat in his stroller and looked unimpressed by our display of puzzles, books and kids clothes. I told him I was sorry that we mainly had a lot of girls' stuff. He glared at me and had his mommy wheel him next door for some lemonade. Pink or yellow, his choice. We did sell some of our stuff and enjoyed hanging out with our friends whose daughter shared the lemonade stand duties with our daughter. But, come noontime, the girls had sold all but the last 5 cups of lemonade. They gave them away in a grand gesture to a thirsty family who had just bought our $200 tv for twenty bucks. I'm not jealous, but they had practically nothing to clean up and a pile of coins for their piggy banks. We went home with a bunch of stuff and a pile of crumpled, dirty dollar bills. We got some nice pictures, though. And there's always Goodwill. Meanwhile, the girls are already planning their next lemonade stand. Have a pinkalicious day!

Update

If you don't vote, the candidate you would least prefer to gain power is more likely to win. If you don't vote, who will believe that you care. If you don't vote, how will your complaints sound to those around you? If you don't vote, you will let down yourself and your children (and me and my children). If you don't vote, you are the poster child for being Unpatriotic. If you don't vote, you give up your place among human beings. If you don't vote, who will believe that you care?

Need a Plan?

No plans for next Saturday? Try this:
Wake up with plenty of time to leave to go wherever you go on Saturday, but still end up rushing to get everyone and everything out the door. Buckle the kids in, jump in and hear nothing when you turn the key, since the battery is dead. One of you hook the jumper cables up from your other car and start those engines, while the other calls to say you'll be late. Fill the garage with exhaust fumes while trying a few times before the car revs to life. Then you're off - keep the windows down to help get rid of that nasty exhaust fume haze. Park the car and enjoy whatever that next thing is, then pack everyone and everything back into the car in time for it not to start again. Now begin scouting around to ask friendly people for a jump. Enjoy being turned down by a number of people because these are progressive times when we can look everything up on our phones, but we still don't trust anyone. Finally someone from a throw-back era agrees to give you a jump. Again, it doesn't spring to life the first time, but it cranks up after a few minutes. Then take a breather and let Saturday run it's course for a bit. Now it's time for a couple of errands right before nap time. Notice the car being jerky, then having no pep, then coasting to an almost stop. Before it stops, jump out and run alongside as your partner slides over into the driver's seat. Now start to push. That's right. While you're pushing your whole family and everything in your minivan, have a conversation about your most current plight with your spouse who is steering. Encounter a hill and lean further and further forward using all your strength until the last ounce has your face inches from the pavement and your partner senses your defeat and lovingly applies the break. Notice nosey/helpful dude who offers to give you a lift to the nearest gas station. You have nothing to carry fuel in, but he suggests a water bottle with no long nozzle to dispense gasoline. Know that won't work, but go ahead anyway. Leave your stranded spouse and children in the hot sun and climb in the cramped back seat and listen to Bill Jasper and his fiance, Rhonda bicker in an honest, yet uncommitted way. Calmly answer your spouse's semi-panicked text inquiring if you'll ever see each other again. Arrive at the gas station, buy a conveniently over-priced container and fill it with exactly $6 worth of gas. Cool because you find out later that you only have $6.35 in that particular account. After returning to your family, pouring the gas in the tank while spilling as little as possible - don't be truly surprised when the car still doesn't start. Call your roadside assistance peeps, navigate an excruciating phone menu, at long last, talk to a person long enough to explain every single aspect of the situation before trying to star the car one more time - this time successfully. Now head to the gas station to fill up your large tank at a time when gas prices are higher than they've been in a long, long time (attempt to use the card on the account with only 35 cents left before using another account). Now your battery is adequately charged, your tank is full and you're not taking anything for granted, but you agree with each other that having cell phones is pretty darn handy - even if you don't have the fanciest phones or the fanciest plans. Now you ought to have enjoyed sufficient physical exhaustion from pushing your car with your whole family in it, and suffient psychological stress from having endured two dead batteries and one empty gas tank in a single day, - so you should be in good shape to be able to really relax and enjoy the rest of the day. Unfortunately you're slated to attend a birthday party with a giant bounce house full of sugar crazed kids who you must keep from inadvertently squashing your somewhat smaller kids. Lots of fun! Oops, you weren't able to squeeze in naptime, so prepare for a cranky bed time. That's cool, because maybe SNL will be a new one. If you're lucky you won't fall asleep before or during the best/only decent sketch (it's okay, you can watch it online later in the week). Cheers!

Men At Play

*In response to my wife - Emily's post entitled Dadly Men*

I admit it. I like to play. I'm not referring to joking around, fooling around, being silly or playing specific games. I'm talking about true play. I do it because it still comes naturally to me (Keith Johnstone refers to adults as "atrophied" children). Although I'm an adult, I've refused to put away ALL childish things. I'm also highly aware of the mental and social health benefits of real, creative play. As long as I can drop traditional rationale and slip into a bout of improv make-believe at any time, I know I'm still mentally healthy. I suspect this is somewhat rare in adults and kids recognize it, although they may not be able to put their finger on it. Friends are one of the most (if not THE most) important aspects of life. If our first friends are people with whom we play, then why ever take the playing out of the equation? Science has shown that true creative play is excellent for keeping the mind healthy. I'm just lucky that it's a habit of mine.

Ghosty

Why is it frightening to encounter your own child in your own house? I was brushing my teeth last night, when I looked into the mirror and saw a child in a gown clutching a small, ragged stuffed animal. I didn't quite pass out from fright, but almost. Of course it was my own daughter standing there in the full light of our bathroom wearing her Disney princess pajamas. So why did she give me a heart attack? I know her well, she lives in my house. I see her everyday and can expect so see her about the house at any given time. Why would I practially choke on my tooth brush and simultaneously spew tooth paste into the sink? I suppose it could be because at that particular late hour, I assume that Zoe is fast asleep in her own bed where I tucked her in hours ago. To see her suddenly appear without a sound right beside me is understandibly startling. So why do I never get used to it? I'll be just nodding off in bed and hear a cry from upstairs. I reflexively throw off the covers, trot up the steps, turn the corner and - Yikes! She's standing in the middle of the hallway clutching her lovey and wearing her little nightgown. Why does my own adorable daughter appear to me - instead - as a ghostly apparition from the mysterious past? I was actually on my way up for the express purpose of seeing her and comforting her, yet encountering her in the hallway is more like an ambush than a reunion. She's my own offspring, not the undead - so why does my heart skip a beat while I suck in my breath out of fright? I just can't explain it. The rational mind knows that a three-year-old could conceivably be nearly anywhere in the house at any given time. Nonetheless, there's something about encountering a child after dark - even if she's your own - in a nightgown holding her blanky. She goes from precious to horrific with no effort at all. She obviously, knows something I don't. Meanwhile, anytime I sneak up on her, she simply stares at me, completely unphased - as if to say "what are you doing?"

Better Like This or Better Like This?

I hate reading glasses. I don't hate them for reading, they're good for reading. But if you happen to look up from reading and you look at ANYTHING else, it's all a foggy blur. I can read without my reading glasses, but they do make reading easier, plus I don't get a headache after reading for a while (perhaps I should be wearing them right now - but the computer screen has more contrast than the page, so I feel like it's not really necessary). I just have a shorter range to see close-up anymore, so I have a mild prescription for reading glasses. Is it me, or is it extremely annoying to have to take them off every single time I look up? I know, I want to be writing the next big thing, so i prefer to read a lot so that my writing skills will sail upward and keep my writing instincts from becoming formulaic. It just sucks that I can't even glance away from the book for even a second without wanting to yank my glasses off. If it sounds like i'm whining, you've got my tone exactly. Thanks for listening, I mean reading.
btw - Don't get me started on the outrageous cost of frames (even those made in China).

Pay It Forward

Are we really running out of food? I've read that the Earth is becoming overpopulated and won't be able to sustain the increase in food consumption if the current trend continues. I think about my children and can't imagine a more crucial time to think about the future. We need to develop specific plans to collectively alter our course. We have to stop mass-producing food and practicing self-sustaining methods of providing our food. It is our food - we live here together. Insects are historically the most successful animal at practicing these types of food production. Will we learn from insects, or will they outlive us? I don't like guessing at this question - especially when I think about my daughters.

Hello in there.

It's time to reconnect. Does this mean saying "Hi" to strangers? Yes it does. You don't have to stop and exchange emails. By all means, maintain a brisk pace. But the moment you decide to not greet people on your path, you choose not to be connected. I'm not suggesting that we all go nuts like a bunch of over-eager birds or beasts looking for a mate at some yearly ritual meeting place. I'm just saying: Say "Hi." What can it hurt? You're in the same place with another human - this serves as sufficient commonality to justify a simple greeting at the very least. As are other species of animals, all humans are very much alike. It wouldn't do to ignore our status as equals on a planet that seems to be, sadly, more and more limited - especially lately. I've caught my daughter asking another little girl "What's your name?" - Even as recently as yesterday in the middle of a play we were attending. Less than half of the people (little girls) that my 3-year-old asks do not reply. They look for a moment longer, than recall what they've observed from their parents. People don't just say "Hi" to other people. Children learn by exposure. Expose them to connecting with others in a healthy and safe way. Teaching trust and friendliness will lead to a more trustworthy and friendly world.

Simply Not Enough

For some reason, when I fall asleep at the computer, I always seem to wake up to see an endless line of K's. Why k's? I don't know. But more importantly, why am I falling asleep at the computer? That's simple; I'm not getting enough sleep. I always hope and plan to be in bed earlier, then I wind up falling asleep somewhere else. Sometimes I'm perched beside my three-year-old on top of her princess blanket. Other times I'm bent impossibly in half, leaning all the way over the side of the crib where my 9 month old is sleeping. I've fallen asleep standing up doing the dishes, standing up watching tv, brushing my teeth. The truth is, I'm too lazy to go to bed. Instead, I fall asleep doing everything BUT going to bed. This is my current version of a ridiculous man. I hope to graduate soon, to a new - wiser version of ridiculousness. Meanwhile, I'm going to shut down this computer and get a glass of water, make sure my cell phone is charged, check all the doors, make sure all the lights are off, look in on my daughters....Damn, it's a long way to bed - I should carry a pillow with me - or maybe just strap one to my headkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Complaint Department, a bm (blog-mini)

If I keep busy with life - even it means writing a silly blog entry - I will have less time for complaints and fewer opportunities to regret.

Check between the cushions

I like watching tv to be entertained and lower my stress. But I find myself watching a little too long - then I wind up watching really crappy tv. The only thing worse than really crappy tv, is really crappy tv - late at night - when you should be sleeping. I need a tv that turns off automatically after it's been on for several hours. A message could pop up on the screen that says buffering, initializing, checking for viruses or de-crap-ifying, followed by the time it will turn on again.

Am I too lazy to turn off the tv? Yes. But here's my question: Why do I expend more energy wandering the living room trying to locate the remote, than I would by just walking over to the actual tv and pushing a button. I guess it's because I demand convenience, and I'm going to search and search and search for it until I've found it. I'll be damned if I don't enjoy that convenience with the handy remote rather than actually trekking all the way to the tv and pushing the one button with my spoiled finger.

Exercising Restraint

Do you ever have to hold your child down? At some point, you have to. You have to take her temperature, force feed her medicine, suck the snot out of her - the list goes on. It takes two to manage this. One partner restricts hands, arms and legs the best they can. The other tries to negotiate the head or other end with minimal success. It is at these times, you note the amazing ability of your child to unleash formidable body-language. This tiny person, restrained by two much larger and more coodinated people, can still manage to wriggle, writhe, wrest and often break free - albeit briefly - from two pairs of much bigger hands. How do they do it? I'll tell you how: They fear for their life. It's instinctive. Imagine how you might cringe a little if someone were about to give you a shot. Now; consider the strength you'd suddenly be able to muster if someone (or two) had a hold of you and you TRULY BELIEVED that they were going to kill you. You'd give them a run for their money, no matter how big they were. How? Simple; Self-preservation. Don't feel bad. When they grow up, they rarely recall those times when they thought you were trying to kill them. They subconciously blocked them out - as all healthy adults should. Cheers!
--Signed,
Please do everyone a favor and forget to videotape these moments.

I'm A Baby

I’m a baby. I’m learning how to stand. It’s a big deal for me.

I appreciate your support, but please don’t insist on wiping my face at the first sign of drool or snot. I realize it would bother you if it were all over your face, but – honestly – I don’t mind it that much. So, when I’m using all my strength and negligible coordination to pull myself up onto the coffee table, please don’t swoop in with a wipe and drag it across my little face. Perhaps you’ve noticed that I cry out in protest, EVERY SINGLE TIME you do this. It’s just a little fluid, that’s all. If you really believe it bothers me, how do you suppose I can tolerate a squishy poop spreading itself all over my bottom (and sometimes up my back), until you get around to changing my diaper? If I’m going to wallow in my own poop for that long, you should know that I couldn’t care less about a little dribble. So, the next time you reach for that millionth wad of unwelcome tissue or scratchy wash cloth, consider my priorities for a change.

Thanks,

Your baby :-)

Ever Onward, Through The Fog

It's really late at night and a heavy fog is blanketing my neighborhood. There's a ghostly line of trees at the back of the yard. The moon is there - a reminder that the fog is just a layer of mystery, not permanent. Every time I think about it, the fog quiets my thoughts. It's oddly oppressive and comforting at the same time. Like time. Ever onward - never knowing exactly what's coming.

Watching Them Eat

I don't need to see grown men eating in commercials. It's enough that I have to watch my three-year-old eat. I love her so much - but sometimes it seems like she just smears the food on her lips and teeth and cheeks. I say "Sweetheart, why do you have to eat like that?" And she smiles, revealing more food stuck in all the nooks and crannies of her mouth. Somehow I manage to keep my own food down - barely. But, watching grown men eating mouthfuls of food on a big-screen tv...now that's disgusting.