The Hand.

     Not sure if you've ever ridden in a cheap wagon with a kid who was battling childhood obesity sitting right behind you, but it's not as exciting as you'd think. First of all, the steering is not what I'd call responsive; it's actually not even sluggish. It's awful. Wagons either go straight or instantly turn 90 degrees. Plus, if I'm ever on a bobsled team, I'll know from experience where to put the big guy. If you put him in the back, you'll go way faster than you actually want, the only problem being stopping. There are no breaks on a Red Flyer Wagon; I've checked. Using my feet and hands far more than my brains, I tried to slow us down, only to have my hand stay in place while the wagon continued forward. After having my hand run over, and hearing an odd crunch, I decided that wherever the wagon stopped moving was the perfect place for me to get out and go home.
     I walked back home, pretty sure I broke something in my hand, wanting my mom to fix it. I went up to her, told her what happened, and asked her to take a look. She poked and prodded, then asked me if I could move my thumb, and wiggled stuff around. Her "professional" opinion? I was fine, now go play outside. I went out and started playing basketball by myself. Then, without warning, someone apparently inserted a tennis ball where my hand was supposed to be. It looked like I was wearing an inflated medical glove. The days of my mother being a doctor were over.
     Naturally, it was broken, which x-rays and a trained doctor proved. The thing that I still wonder about is how my mom could tell me it was okay, and all of a sudden it was! That kind of power is amazing to me. How is it that "kissing a boo-boo" is the salve of the god's? I hope I'll be able to illicit that type of calming affect in my children, but I won't be surprised if I can't. That's a mother's power. The best I can hope for is telling her to walk it of...

The Grumpy.

     They have everything at Wal-Mart! I mean, electronics, groceries, furniture, random people to give your crying kid something to cry about, clothes, cards, baby stuff, and anything else you could want. What's that? You're curious about the new random-people-to-give-your-crying-kid-something-to-cry-about section? Apparently Roger Stephens (who's face is actually on top of the Grumpy if you mouse over the image) will beat the tar out of your two year old if it cries too much. Sure he's 61 years old, but he can still take a 2 year old out!
     Unfortunately, this story is true. Random old guy made it very clear that if a mother didn't shut her kid up, he would do it for her. He then proceeded to smack the kid four or five times. While that is wrong (it is wrong!), I have one little question: What kind of parent sticks around after some old mean looking guy just threatened your two year old? Yes, the slapping happened in a different isle than the original threat, but if you saw that guy coming again and your kid was still crying, you gonna just hang out and wait for the smack to get laid down? I don't think so! Why didn't she report him, tell someone, or straight up leave? I'm serious, the people of walmart can be a little disturbing. Be careful out there people, there's all types of citizens waiting to shut your kid up for you...

The Hair.

     I'm sitting in the car, and every time I breath out something in my nose is tickling me. I figure, booger. I grab a tissue, get to work, and nothing. So I pull down the vanity mirror and attempt to get a look at where the offending invader is hanging out. So I tilt my noggin back, look up the ol' two-car garage, and I see this albino looking hair lodged sideways. As I am not an albino, I assume it's a hair from my dog. He's brindle colored and has this really bad habit of sitting on my pillow, so I figure I breathed it in in the night and it's just now bothering me. While trying to grab it, it turns into quicksilver: the harder I grab it, the more it slips through my fingers. I have to wait until I get home and then I get tweezers and go all "Operation: The Game" on it. When I finally get it and pull something totally unexpected happens: I start crying! It was attached!
     Listen, there's nothing wrong with growing old. As a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to it. But no one told me anything about white nose hairs. I don't remember that in any contract. But it's not really the white nose hair that bothers me. It's the timing of the white nose hair. I'm not even thirty (yet) and I'm having a kid. While 30 is supposed to be the new 20, it sure feels like thirty. I've never been this heavy, tired, or white-nose-haired in my life. And I'm supposed to keep up with a teenager when I'm 45? Why don't I just get in the "Check in here to have a stroke" line now? Am I too old to be doing this? It's not like I have much of a choice, but I don't want to be the weird old dude that everyone's trying to figure out if I'm the parent or the grandparent during open house.

The Quarter.

     Really? One in four women misread a pregnancy test? Really? I might believe that one in four women accidentally pee on their hand, or take the test too soon, or that a quarter of women took their pregnancy test too soon so when it came up negative they went out drinking to celebrate and when they took another pregnancy test a few days later and it turned out positive they freaked out. That last one's a true story, happened to a friend of ours. Don't worry, the doctor said it wasn't a big deal and he gets that question all the time. So maybe that last one happens way more than 25% of the time. But still, misreading the thing? Just look at the box and compare pictures; this is grade school stuff!
     That being said, I should be honest and let you know that Catie and I actually bought the digital one that tells you in words "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant". Not that I doubted my ability to read one line or two, it's just that it would look better in the pictures. It's the truth. In the days when pregnancy albums are obligatory content in Facebook, MySpace, unread blogs, and digital emailing, it's not cool to send a picture of two lines. Pregnancy tests may use a plus or a minus, and if you get a minus it may look like one line, not two, when actually it's a not pregnant, instead of an is pregnant. I think I said that right. Wait, am I getting confused about pregnancy tests? Am I one of the twenty-five percent? Come on!

The Tool.

     I'm not much for reality shows. They pretty much lack reality and there's too much drama. Regardless, there's one show I do kind of want to see: Tool Academy. It's this show that puts a bunch of guys with daddy issues in the same room and films them while they're trying to prove their manliness. The real issue is the way these guys try to change and the motivation behind it. Their girlfriends are there and they go to this group therapy thing that's a little cheesed up for TV, but overall there are many men who could benefit from this type of change. The clip below is douche baggery at its height. Check it out... By the way, two words for you to meditate on while viewing these clips: "Roid Rage!!!"

VH1 TV Shows | Music Videos | Celebrity Photos | News & Gossip

The Diem (Day).

     The day after my wife gives birth is going to be the best! Not only am I going to officially be a new dad, but I'll be able to write about all the stuff that's going on now that's too weird, gross, strange, or embarrassing to write about at the moment. Sure, I should probably be more excited about the birth of my daughter, and I think I am, but this whole pregnancy thing is holding me back!
     We were talking the other day about whether or not to go to birthing class. We're trying to move down to Chula which would add about thirty minutes drive time to the hospital associated with our prenatal care specialist. Never really thought about that. When the day comes, the water breaks, and all my best laid plans fall to tiny and unorganized pieces, I hope I'm not around. I mean, I will be there for the birth of my child with camera in hand, but I'm not sure if I want to be there when "it" starts. It sounds totally selfish, but the leather in my car is really nice and...well...I just don't want the really nice leather in my car to not be really nice anymore. For me, best case scenario is if it happens while she's at work. Because she's a teacher our health insurance is fantastic so the ambulance ride would be free. You know what else we don't have to pay for? Someone to clean out the ambulance after my wife gets their leather all dirty. Insurance won't cover detailing, I've checked.
     As long as it happens at work, we're good to go! She gets a free ride with free cleanup, I get to gather all the stuff she needs, and drive it cleanly to the hospital where the miracles happen. No problem. Well, Catie's going to have to do some work, but according to our schedule, that's going to work out the best. You hear that, Baby Girl? Wait until she's at work, preferably on break, then just go crazy and head toward the light. You know, this parenting thing's gonna be a breeze!

The Home.

     Catie officially started her third trimester yesterday. It was uneventful. The only thing being two-thirds of the way through the pregnancy has done is make me nervous about getting into a house before the baby comes. We're looking, and finding, but it's just so expensive! Have you seen these things? We want to buy before the end of the year because we'll get eight grand from the government and we'll hopefully have enough time to prepare for the baby coming. If all goes well we'll finish unpacking our last box and Catie's water will break. Unreasonable? Sure. But it's important to have goals. I'm just glad this has been a celebratory time instead of devolving into fights over money, where we'll live, or why it's not happening as soon as we want.

The Poker.

    Therapists who are just starting out are often amazed at how many of their clients happen to be dealing with the exact same issue as they are. It's really just a form of projection and the longer you do it the less it's supposed to happen. I think what causes it is that whatever is on your mind seems to be the most easy to notice. Well, a similar thing has been happening to me lately. I've been playing a lot of (free) online poker just for fun. Because of this, I'm starting to notice lessons learned while playing poker are applying to almost everywhere in my life.
     I'm told the key to playing good poker is not in the cards, but in the betting. Knowing when to fold, what to risk, and who your opponents are. This really can apply to my life; especially when it comes to picking my battles. This may be the answer I was looking for with a post from a couple of days ago ( The Acceptance.). The "discussions" (fights) I'm sure to have with my daughter at some point are important. It's also important that I set clear and reasonable boundaries, reward her when she does well, and try to be as understanding as possible when it's appropriate. But there are also times I should just let stuff go. In other words, I should fold. If the pot isn't that big, and my hand's not all that great, I need to be able to evaluate when it's an issue worth betting on, or if I should just toss in my cards and let her have the tiny victory. I know it's not supposed to be a contest, but you parents out there have to admit: there are times when it feels like you have to "win". That sounds like a contest to me. I guess a big difference between poker and parenting is that if I play my cards right in parenting, everyone gets more chips, not just me. If it wasn't that way, any victory would feel pretty hollow.

The Pokemon.

     I'll watch Saturday morning cartoons with the best of them. No problem. I can even sit through the occasional Scooby Doo episode if only to see if it's actually going to be a ghost this time instead of an angry old man who would have succeeded if it hadn't been for those darn kids. But there has been a significant decline in the quality of...something. That's the thing, and I can't put my finger on it. The animation quality has gotten better, the story's are more in depth and full, the character development is, well, there actually is character development! On every level cartoons seem to be getting more adult, complex, and better quality but they just suck. Pokemon is (hopefully) starting to slip out of style, but I'm sure it's going to be replaced by some equally shoddy toon all about a boy and his magical hair brush...or something just as stupid. There's no doubt about it.
     The thing is, I'm probably going to be forced to watch the Wiggles, or some other similarly mundane, inane, and insane show that just has a bunch of guys on it that couldn't hack it in the real world. I'm tempted to agree with Mitch Hedberg when he said that any book is a children's book if the kid can read it. So why do the cartoons feel so dumbed down? Now you may want to say that because I've gotten older, smarter, and more mature it would make sense for animated shows to no longer hold the same sway over my adult mind. Well, you'd be wrong. I still like cartoons from my youth, but I also like some of the newer ones. Of course the staples like South Park, Family Guy, and the Simpsons are cornerstones of late night viewing, but I also enjoy the occasional Robot Chicken and Harvey Birdman, attorney at law. Love them! But they're probably not suitable for a newborn to enjoy. It seems inevitable I will be left sitting in a small room watching morons bumble around, but I'll enjoy it because it entertains my daughter. I'll do everything I can to keep my TV from becoming a babysitter, but I make no promises. There are times when parents need breaks, otherwise they go crazy. I've seen it, and it's not pretty.

The Acceptance.

     My parents and I got into the logistics between accepting a person and approving of their behavior. The example used was when a kids hand gets smacked because they reach for a hot pan. We still accept the child, but their behavior is not okay, so they get punished with a smack on the hand. Just about everyone would agree with this type of swift punishment. The greater good is their health, so a swat on the hand to keep them from third degree burns is acceptable. The problem arises when they get older and start participating in risk taking behaviors where the pay-off may not  be worth the risk. Promiscuity is one of those things. I want my kid to be healthy and safe and hopefully not knocked up, but I also don't want to throw them a spring-break sized supply of condoms and tell them to go wild. If I had my way, my daughter wouldn't know she had a vagina until after she was married. It probably won't work that way, but a father can hope.
     So what's a dad to do? I want her to be safe, I hope she'll be able to talk to Catie or I about that kind of stuff without feeling judged or unaccepted. She needs to know what's right and wrong, and I'm going to tell her. At the same time, if I come down on her too hard, I'm going to push her away and I won't be able to help because she won't listen. If she's going to marry someone I don't approve of, someone that beats her, to "put my foot down" with an emphatic no may do more to solidify her decision than to change her mind. Supporting her while not supporting bad choices is difficult for me. It seems like this is the artisitc part of parenting. Teaching her right from wrong while still letting her know I love her regardless of what she does seems to be at odds with punishing her.

The Wine.

     This just in, having a glass of wine while pregnant may not be a big deal. Now, getting absolutely hammered during the entirety of your pregnancy is still a bad thing, one glass or so may be better than not drinking at all! Catie and I aren't really going to chance it, but this article is compelling, and worth a read. Catie had a good point though, where are we possibly going to get a drink of wine and not be judged on the spot? Can you imagine a pregnant woman in America even ordering a glass of wine without a young priest and an old priest being called? Just a thought.

The Behavior.

"The real question is not whether machines think but whether men do. The mystery which surrounds a thinking machine already surrounds a thinking man." ~B.F. Skinner.

     I'm not sure what's worse, that I'll inevitably begin rewarding and speaking to my daughter the same way I do with our dog, or that it will probably work. Positive reinforcement works really well with animals...and kids. Kids are (probably) smarter than animals and they should see right through those rewards. Shoot, I should be able to see through rewards, but when it comes down to it, the reason I do things is because I think good things will happen in return. That's why the idea of karma is so comforting. It's nice to believe the people that wronged will eventually get theirs, but what's more promising is that all the good stuff I do will bring me more good stuff. Or at the very least cancel out all the horrible things I did in high school. You know, theoretically. Instead of throwing my kid treats and teaching her to sit, stay, or speak I'll be smiling at her, talking in a really high voice, and teaching her to sit, read, and speak. Okay, so there are some disturbing similarities, but kids can take it so much further! Still, if people are so much smarter than animals, why does it take so long to potty train them?

The Dumb.

    While driving to work today I had the suspicion that someone called ahead and let all the bad drivers know I was leaving, then told them to get in front of me. The "F" word kept coming to mind. Of course, by "F" word I mean FAIL. Huge semi's switching lanes at random, a moron on a crotch rocket decides to do wheelies at 80 miles per hour, an ancient woman oblivious to the rules of the road insisting she be let over into the far left lane in order to do 4. It was a pure and unadulterated mad house. Mad I tell you! So I'm pulling a Mohammad Ali, ducking and dodging, bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic, switching between offensive and defensive driving just trying to stay alive. Then somewhere between attempting to anticipate what that bus is going to do (still trying to figure out what a city commuter bus is doing on the highway in the first place) and making sure I'm up to date on all my confessions, I realize I'm bringing a child into this world.
     This world is insane! People are dumb, selfish, they don't care about anything, and the majority of them will screw you over the first chance they get; if not intentionally, then through sheer stupidity. Her heart is going to get broken by at least one daft hormone driven tool, she's going to have to survive in a vile world that wants nothing more than to consume her very soul, and the only thing protecting her from that world is her parents. I think I'll be a great parent, and I'm sure Catie will be, but how can I compete with the constant barrage of media, peers, hormones, and drugs? It's like stopping gravity while my kid's learning to walk. Sure, it'll keep her from banging her head, but it's also impossible to really learn how to walk in a vacuum. When you think about it, walking is just a series of controlled falls. Maybe there's something to that. Maybe learning how to live is just a series of controlled failures. The best I can hope for is to be a good example, in spite of the world around me.

The Meaning.

     Alright, this is like my third post about naming our child and we're no closer to actually coming up with a name. The thing that keeps stumping me is that I want out child's name to have meaning. My name means "gift of God", my wife's name means "Pure". One of our names is ironic, and it's not hers. Regardless, naming our child something that has no meaning doesn't sit well with me. I want it to be a reflection of how we feel about her, how blessed we are, how grateful we are. Yet, we can't find anything that works. We have a book of names, and I feel like we've been through it about seven times, but nothing pops out. Nothing screams: That's it, that's her name! So, we're still calling her baby. The good news is she doesn't seem to mind.

The Break.

     You know what? I've written about 100 posts in a row and it's a Sunday. I'm taking a break. Come on back tomorrow. I'll have something (slightly) more interesting. Thanks!

The Deafening.

     If I wasn't such a stickler for format, I would have named this post "The Night my Internet Enabled Phone Saved my Baby's Hearing". Just like the previous post said, last night Catie and I went to Kings of Leon. The concert was amazing and we really enjoyed it...but we have no idea how it looked. See, we're sitting there, waiting for the first band (The Whigs) to warm up the crowd and when they come on, there's this loud low rumble that makes baby freak out. She starts kicking and swinging in general protest. I had my hand on Catie's stomach and the vibrations from the bass were being amplified by this bag full of amniotic fluid. There's a good reason too. Turns out amniotic fluid amplifies lower notes, but as the pitch goes up the the noise level is actually filtered out. One exception to this is mom's voice, it actually gets amplified by about five decibels while all other voices are muted. You can read the article here.
     After a few more deep rumbles, Catie looks over at me and says, "You know, we never really thought about what this might do to developing ears, did we". In my defense, this is new to me. So I whip out my handy dandy internet enabled phone, and start reading about how loud noises and vibrations can retard mental development or even miscarriage. We decide not to chance it, and walk outside to listen to the rest of the show. It was a great show and Caleb Followill can scream like no one else. The baby's first show was a blast, but for the first time in my life, I'm starting to feel my age. I know this because I ended up looking forward to my bed more than anything else when the show was closing

The Kings.

     The Kings of Leon are playing at Cox Arena and Catie and I are on the guest list. I'm excited. Then Catie reminds me this is probably going to be one of the last shows we go to for a long time. I think I've written about anticipating my loss of freedom, but it's starting to get more and more concrete. That's it. I'm mourning the loss of my freedom! How much am do you really want me to talk about it? Sheesh, ya jerk.

The Infomercial.

     Have you ever seen one of those infomercials where they make extremely simple tasks appear nearly impossible? Tasks like pulling clothes from a closet, stacking Tupperware, making cereal, or breathing are brutally bumbled by hapless idiots who are obviously in desperate need of whatever product they'll be selling for the next hour. This, of course, is designed to make the product look more useful and its ability to simplify our lives is supposed to come into stark relief amongst a background of chaos.
     I can't help but think there are some parents out there doing the same thing. Well, at least I hope that's what's happening. There seems to be some things that should be on the same level of taking clothes out of the closet, but it just get's all messed up. The other night I saw the box for a car seat in the parking lot of Target. Our Target happens to be across the street from a hospital. I would like to think that at some point before we get to the hospital in the throws of delivery pains, I would realize that though only two are going, three will be coming back. Hopefully I won't be putting it together, fresh out of the box, while my wife is giving birth.

The Sweeping.

     There's an asteroid called Asclepius that came close to hitting Earth back in 1989. Then, in 1996, the Near-Earth Asteroid Tracking (NEAT) project was started by the JPL in order to monitor big hunks of stuff floating through space that cross the same path of Earth's orbit in case we turn out to be on a collision course. Everyone with me on this? There are people, who go to work five days a week, and get paid moderate sums of money, in order to figure out if a giant chunk of space dookie is going to not allow us to merge on the solar system's version of a highway. Good. Just one question: say we figure out we're going to be side swiped by a drunk driving celestial body with malicious intent, then what? While it wasn't necessarily a high point in my life, I can admit I've seen Armageddon, but the fiction part of that movie is more accurate than the science part. We're not going to a comet to blow it up. It's not going to happen. And a nuke? Well, have you ever wondered what would happen if you urinated on a forest fire? I think you get the picture. Why are we monitoring something we can do nothing about? I'd rather be surprised.
     What does this have to do with Fatherade? Well, the last down of the up's and down's of fatherhood is Sweeping Down. I think this is the one that comes naturally to most fathers. Catie is probably going to be more nurturing, more comforting, and better at anticipating the acts of our children than me, but this one is just built for men. This is the reason comic books sell, it's why guys work out (or at least say they do), it's why we polish shotguns when our daughter's first date comes over: We want to be hero's. Hero's save people, often miraculously or with super powers. Jerry Seinfeld once said, "All men think of themselves as some kind of low level superheros in their own world. When men are growing up and they're reading about Batman, Spiderman, Superman,.. these aren't fantasies, these are OPTIONS! This the deep inner secret of the male mind." It's true. What he neglected to talk about is the motivation behind this desire. I like saving people, I really do. I'm looking forward to saving my kids from something...anything really. That's what dad's do! We "sweep" in, and save the day! Mom's get all the credit on game day ("HI MOM!!!"), but who gets the call when a car breaks down in the middle of the night in central downtown and they don't know what to do? We're the ones! We get the call! And we love it, even when we act like we don't. It makes us feel (finally) useful. That's what father's do.

The Simmering.

     Not sure if it's coincidental, correlational, or causational, but the more I love someone, the more they can make me mad. And not just mad, but boiling, riotous, über mad. The kind of anger that doesn't dissipate quickly, easily, or with just a couple of deep breaths. Now, before I tell you this next story, there are several background things you need to know:

• When I was a toddler, I was a handful. More like two handfuls really. I was a mess. I just came that way
  
• My father was working, going to school, and already had a daughter (who hadn't really prepared him for me((which is part of the reason I'm so glad we're having a daughter)))
  
• It was the middle of the night
  
• and we were living in crappy, poorly made apartments.

Please keep these things in mind as I tell you this story.
     So, it's the middle of another one of my father's sleep-deprived and short nights, when he hears me crying about something in my crib. My mom must have elbowed him with at least some gusto, because he came in and asked me what I wanted. In, what must have been the definitive whiny voice, I demanded water before going back to sleep. Since he was already up, and a good sport, he strolls into the kitchen, gets me a glass of water, and pops back into my room. It was this point when things started going south.
     He offers me the water, I reach my hand out, push it away, and probably with the same whiny voice I originally asked for the water say, "NO!" That was pretty much the breaking point for my pops. Not sure what the final destination was for that cup of the water; if it ended up in my face, on the floor, or in the sink. What I do know is that my father was so hacked off, and rightfully so, that as he left the room, he slammed the door hard enough that it went past the door jam. I always thought this was an incredible feat of strength, but my father reminded me the apartment was pretty shoddy and it's not like the door jam was built to withhold much pressure at all. He had to put his shoulder into it to get the door back on the right side. In the fear of casting my father in a bad light, please understand that he has never abused me, and in spite of me being a righteous punk, he did not shake the baby!
     Here's the point. No matter how much I love my daughter, she's gonna make me mad. It's gonna happen, there's nothing I can do about it. It's what I do while I'm mad that's going to decide if I'm a good father. There will be some simmering, it's just gonna happen, and it'll probably hit its peak around the same time she starts dating, but "if I don't master my rage...my rage will become my master", right (Mystery Men)? If you need some help, I suggest you get it before the rage begins, maybe at Don't shake a baby.com.