An Appeal to the Attorney General

110910 - SleepDeprivation

Welcome, STS

To have a child is to fall in love.

The details of the day I first met the FTS, nearly two and a half years ago, exist in my mind like tangible things. They have form and substance, dimension and clarity. The memories are so distinct that they blur the lines between past and present.

[Cue the trilling harp and start the wavy flashback special effect…]

After 16 hours of labor that day, the OBGYN had told the FTM that it was time to start thinking about a C-section. The doctor knew that the FTM was determined to deliver naturally, so she offered this news with the care and concern of a veteran. Of course, the doc had been around the block enough to also know why the medical profession called delivering a baby the “trial of labor.” The delivery of the FTS was a trial in the Biblical sense, in the God testing Job sense. So she wasn’t surprised when the FTM responded with a desperate, relieved “Yes, please, anything, just make it stop.”

The sharpened point of medical necessity ran into the soft flesh of the patient’s desire, and like it always does, the sharp point won the day.



The role of the husband during delivery is support. Short of battlefield injuries sustained in the cruelest of wars, the level of pain, discomfort, and humiliation borne by a woman during the trial of labor is nothing a man will ever experience. But truth be told, it’s not easy on us, either. To watch the person you love most in the world suffer through the final insult in the 9-month-long ordeal of pregnancy is a trial all its own. There is screaming, and sweating, and bodily fluids evacuated in ways more gruesome and unpleasant than you could imagine. So when the doctor announced her plan to deliver via C-section, I was as relieved as anyone.

Either through Hollywood’s over dramatization of the world, or through my own misinterpretation of the same, I had a mental image of an operating theater that bore no resemblance to the real thing. I had pictured a dark room with deep shadows, the only illumination coming from bright spotlights throwing yellow halogen warmth on the doctor and patient.

What I found instead, on that day more than two years ago, was the best-lit room on the planet. Every corner, every crevice was bathed in a white light. The surface of the mostly white floor, counters and table were cleaned to a shining brilliance that made me feel like I was stepping onto E.T.’s mother ship.

The FTM and I were seated in the center of this alien environment, our view of the surgery blocked by a large blue drape. We were making nervous small talk when we were interrupted by the cry of a baby. This is how we were introduced to our son, and it was an astounding moment. What had been only the idea of a baby – a writhing, tumbling, hiccoughing idea of a baby – was suddenly real. He was swaddled, ointment was applied to his eyelids, and the FTS was handed to me.

To say it was a life changing moment would do a disservice to the words life, changing, and moment. I entered the operating room a self-centered, self-absorbed person whose understanding of the meaning of life was limited to his own aspirations. I left as a father.

I know this all sounds like a cliché. And I know it’s not the same for everyone. It can’t be. If it was, no parent would ever harm a child, abandon a child, or simply not love a child. And there are way too many parents who are guilty of all three sins for my experience to be anything approaching universal. So when I speak, I speak for myself and no one else. What I experienced was true, unconditional, unadorned, everlasting love. I know this because really, there are no words to describe it.

When the FTM became pregnant for the second (and last) time, I was terrified. How could I possibly have that experience again? Wasn’t that day a once-in-a-lifetime event? How could I possibly love another being the way I love the FTS? Isn’t it his uniqueness, his singular bond with me, his oneness that makes him so special? How could a second son evoke any of those feelings in me? Won’t it just seem like old hat? I have been living in fear that when I hold my new son for the first time, I will feel nothing. Wait, that’s not right. Not nothing, but nothing special. Been there, done that.

[Okay, cue the flash forward harp music and the wavy special effects. Back to present day.]

At the doctor's suggestion and to the FTM's great relief, pregnancy number two was to end in a scheduled C-section rather than a trial of labor. So this past Monday, my betrothed and I were led to what I think was the very same labor and delivery room we had occupied in 2008. Same ominous machinery, same neonatal resuscitation poster, same view of the parking lot. It was eerily familiar. But that’s where the similarities ended.

While the first pregnancy saw hours of labor, punctuated by moments of frenetic activity, today’s trip to the hospital was a hurry-up-and-wait affair. The FTM was scheduled for a 9:30 a.m. c-section. Her doctor materialized right on cue at 9:20, but only to tell us that another one of her patients was fully dilated and starting to push. We would have to wait. And wait we did. And wait. And wait. And wait some more.

To add insult to injury, the
hospital clocks were all off by an hour.

The FTM had an IV and a fetal heart monitor, and oh yeah, she was still uncomfortably pregnant. We killed time watching Neil Diamond perform a Monkees song on the Today Show, Rick Springfield being interviewed on Access Hollywood, and the worst noon-time newscast I’ve ever seen. (NBC in New York, you should be ashamed of yourself.) Time passed in slow, rhythmic waves, each one bringing more anxiety than the one before, kind of like non-contractions contractions.

Finally, after what felt like an entire epoch in recorded history, it was the FTM’s turn.

My wife was wheeled away and I changed into my hospital scrubs. Then I waited some more. And then some more!

Nearly half an hour later, they came for me. I was led into the same blindingly white operating theater I had been to for the delivery of the FTS, averting my eyes as I passed the medical team that hovered over the FTM’s torso. I was directed to my now usual seat behind the blue paper screen. The FTM’s head and arms seemed to be floating free behind that screen, as if she were an apparition. Seated behind me was the anesthesiologist, a man about my age, who seemed to content to read his email and send text messages from his phone.

The surgery itself was a more brutal experience for the FTM than was her first delivery. More than once she gritted her teeth and gripped the O/R table, feeling the pain and pressure of the doctors jostling the baby. Most disconcerting was hearing the doctor instruct a resident on how to perform a C-section. It was kind of like getting a haircut at Barber College.

At 1:49 p.m., we heard a cry. More like the screech of an angry and very small bird. Or maybe a velociraptor, if the Jurassic Park movies are to be believed. This wasn’t the cry I remembered from two years earlier. This cry was kind of scary.

The boy, who we quickly and officially named Second Time Son (STS), was weighed (7 lbs. 9 oz) and given the Apgar Test. Apgar is both the name of the doctor who invented the test and an acronym for Appearance, Pulse, Grimace, Activity, and Respiration. It’s a quick and dirty way to make sure a new baby has no overt medical problems. The test is done at the moment of birth and again at birth plus five minute,s and is scored on a scale of one to ten, with ten being perfect. (Seven is a pretty normal score.) We were delighted to hear that the STS scored a 9 at birth and 10 at birth plus five. The nurse told us that scores of 10 were very rare. (Maybe she says that to all the parents, but either way, the STS aced his first exam, and dammitall if I wasn’t proud!)

Weighed, tested, and foot-printed, the little guy was held up high for his mother to see, and handed to yours truly. Given his perfect Apgar score, I was a expecting a hearty handshake and a “How do you do, father? Pleased to make your acquaintance.” But for some reason, he was still wailing like a siren when I took him.

Like his brother before him, the STS was swaddled to immobility and his eyes were sealed shut with a Vitamin K paste. His mouth was moving not quite in time with the screeching, like a badly dubbed foreign film. Going on instinct, I started to sing to the boy:

Hold me now
Oh hold me now
‘Til this hour goes around
And I’m gone on a rising tide
Gone to face, Van Diemen’s Land



It’s the first verse of a U2 song written and performed by The Edge, and it calmed the STS down. I sang several other songs, rocking him gently as I did, all of which he seemed to like. With the siren silenced, I was able to contemplate my new soon with calm, cool, clarity. And here’s the truth:

I didn’t feel the same way I’d felt with the FTS.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to.

What I felt with the STS was no less potent, no less profound, and no less love. It was just a different kind of love. Kind of like the difference between your first true romantic love and your last true romantic love. (For some folks, this is the same person, but not for most of us.) The first true love is a white-hot passion, a brightly burning fire that overwhelms you. Your last true love is a like a heated pool on a cool night, enveloping you in so much warmth and safety that you never want to get out. Both are real, both are love, and both mean the world to you. That’s what it was like with the FTS and the STS. Of course romantic love, especially your first, can end. Parental love, near as I can tell, lasts forever.

Many more things happened this day, notably the introduction of the STS and FTS to one another, which I’ll save for a future post. For now, let me just say again, to have a child is to fall in love. And I am in love, again.

Second Child Syndrome?

From the moment the FTM and I first found out that she was pregnant, we fawned over the FTS.

During her pregnancy, the FTM and I paid constant attention to the FTS. We read him books, sang him songs, explained the mysteries of life. We spent every waking moment, and I suspect most sleeping moments, thinking about the FTS. What will he be like? What will our life be like? I joined the FTM at virtually every OBGYN appointment. I read three parenting books. And I subscribed to multiple parenting email newsletters. I was like a doctoral candidate preparing for my oral exam on how to be a dad. And this was all before the little guy left the womb.

With the STS (Second Time Son), we’ve done none of this. We don’t read him books, don’t sing him songs. I’ve only been to two doctor appointments, and haven’t touched a parenting book in years. Most days I barely remember that the STS there. Only the look of tortured agony on the face of the FTM reminds me that there’s something brewing in that belly.

At this point, it’s water under the bridge. The kid will be here in less than 50 hours, so it’s time to focus on the future. What kind of parents will we be once he’s born?

In the last two and a half years, we have made the FTS the center of our universe. Not because we’re overprotective or because we feel obligated, but because we genuinely like the kid. He has a well-developed sense of humor, a finely honed sense of play, and he’s a really nice guy. If I were a toddler, I want the FTS to be my wing man. Strike that. I’d want to be his wing man.

What if we don’t like the STS? What if we’ve used up all of our parental love on the first one? The boy-to-be is, I fear, a victim of SCS – Second Child Syndrome.

The FTS had the advantage of being a first mover. He was the prodigal son. All that worry, all that relief, all those feelings of wonder and newness and love, were unique to him and him alone. Whatever I wind up feeling with the STS, I don’t see how it could possibly be the same. It would almost be an insult to the FTS, wouldn’t it?

The truth is, the STS has seemed more like a logistical problem to be solved than anything else. Have we cleaned the baby swing? Has the car seat been re-installed? Do we have a plan of attack for sleeping and eating?

Now, I know what you’re going to say. “Hey, FTF, lots of people have more than one kid. And they seem to love all of their children equally.”

Yeah, but what if it’s all one big conspiracy? Think about it. Who would actually admit that they loved their second kid less? I’m the youngest of three, and really, by the time I came along my parents were so worn down that they just gave up. Don’t get me wrong, I feel as loved as the next sibling, but what if it’s all a sort of ruse? It’s no coincidence that the power in a monarchy passes to the eldest male offspring. The King and Queen just aren’t as gaga over number two.

I guess I won't know how I feel until I meet the kid, but I tell you, I'm nervous as hell about it!

Of course, there is one thing that the STS will have that the FTS did not. The STS will have a big brother.

The FTS talks to, kisses, or pats his Mommy’s belly, and talks about his baby brother all the time. He goes out of his way to help the FTM because he knows she’s incapacitated in these final days of her pregnancy – he brings her water, brings her a pillow, he helps her up, all without being asked. It’s like he’s trying to prove to us, and to the new baby, what a good guy he really is.

Whatever shortcomings I might have with regard to the new baby the FTS is going to love the STS enough for both of us, and vice verse. That, I have to believe, will make up for everything. And then some.

Next up – We meet the STS.

“I love you. You suck?”

As you embark on your career as a parent, there are some snippets of wisdom you’ll hear so often that they sound like clichés. Most of them are true:

• Let sleeping babies lie. (You never know when you’ll get them to sleep again.)
  
• Don’t buy too many toys; your kid can make a toy out of anything. (The FTS, if we don't stop him, is happy to play with garbage. It's true.)
  
• Don’t let your two-year-old drive your car. (Okay, we haven’t actually done this, but even so, it’s good advice.)
  

But not every cliché is true:

Barney the purple dinosaur sucks.

Now, I’m not dumb. I get it. All you have to do is watch an episode or two of Barney to get it:

• Barney’s voice characterization is annoying. It’s super-di-dupery annoying.
  
• The children with whom Barney consorts are always singing badly written songs and dancing badly choreographed routines, and they’re doing so while wearing ear-to-ear vaudevillian grins and playing directly and awkwardly to an unseen audience.
  
• The actors who play the children with whom Barney consorts can’t really dance, sing, or act.
  
• The three kid dinosaur characters — B.J., Baby Bop, and Riff — don footwear and headgear and nothing else. If B.J. isn’t going to wear a shirt and pants, does he really need sneakers and a baseball cap?
  
• One of the kid dinosaur characters is, in fact, named B.J. I can only guess that stands for Barney Junior (I shudder to think of the alternative), but there’s never been any indication that Barney is his or Baby Bop’s (B.J.’s sister) father. What exactly is the message here?
  
• Barney is kind of phallic looking.
  
• If Barney really is, as the intro song says, a “dinosaur of our imagination,” would he really be teaching the children (who seem to live in that park) educational and moral lessons? Wouldn’t a child imagine a dinosaur that would A) be 70, not seven feet tall, B) eat people and stuff, or C) fly and shoot lasers from its eyes (like Mothra)?
  
  

But those are the things that I see when I watch Barney & Friends. The FTS sees something entirely different:

• A giant, purple, friendly dino-man who teaches him about colors, letters, and sharing.
  
• A friend that is always happy.
  
• And a friend that, as the song that closes each episode says, loves him.
  

The songs within each episode inspire the FTS to look at his mother and I and say, “I want to dance,” which is followed by the three of us doing silly dances around the living room. And the FTS is always a little better at relating to people after having spent time with Barney. Plus, there are no commercial breaks, no product placements, and no negativity.

It’s this last notion – no negativity – that is the biggest knock against Barney. Parents have complained for years that the show doesn’t help kids deal with negative emotions. Really? I can’t find 30 minutes a day to let my two-year-old forget about negative emotions? Have we become so fracking cynical that we feel a need to saddle our toddlers with our adult baggage every waking minute of the day? What exactly is wrong with being happy for a little while?

To the FTS, Barney is a good friend and a good teacher, and he makes the FTS feel good about himself and about the world.

So how do we reconcile the difference between what our children see and what we see when we watch Barney & Friends? How about this:

Barney isn’t made for adults. Get over it!

It’s a happy 30 minutes, aimed at toddlers and brought to us by the good folks at the Public Broadcasting System. It has a wonderful and long-lasting impact on our children, and I for one applaud the big galoot.

I leave you with this:

The FTM Finds Her Calling

“Go ye therefore, and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them into the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit...” – Matthew, Chapter 28, verse 19

I’m what you might diplomatically refer to as irreligious (click here for the gory details), and I would characterize the FTM as nonreligious. God and spirituality are not important to my wife. She doesn’t think about religion, doesn’t worry about it, doesn’t really seem to need it. So naturally, when we decided to take the nuptial plunge, more than three years ago, we planned a secular ceremony.

We wanted to stage our own wedding -- write our vows, choose our own songs, create our own ritual. This was our event; it should be done our way. But we also wanted it to be personal.


(One of the songs we quoted in our vows. The other was Led Zeppelin's Thank You.)

Enter the Friend of the FTM (FotFTM).

The FotFTM – one of the FTM’s oldest and dearest friends -- had been ordained by an Internet ministry and offered to perform the ceremony for us. Even though she was technically a Christian minister, the FotFTM was happy to honor our request and exclude god from our wedding ceremony entirely. Brilliant! The FotFTM did a fantastic job, and our union was legally (as far as we know) consecrated in the great state of New Jersey, without any interference from a higher authority. (Some would say without any blessing from a higher authority, but to those people I simply say feh.)

When we recently learned that the FotFTM was getting married, it seemed only right that the FTM should offer to return the favor and officiate at the wedding. The offer was quickly and happily accepted.

So, last week, the FTM – my nonreligious wife – received a packet of materials ordaining her as a minister in the World Christianship Ministries. Here’s what she got:

• A missive on official World Christianship Ministries letterhead telling her she was now a pastor and that she could perform weddings and baptisms.
  
• A “license” of sorts – really a certificate of ordination -- to hang on her wall.
  
• A “Clergy” sign to put in her car, presumably to bag a better parking space when ministering to those in need.
  

The FTM did not have to attend divinity school. She did not have to live in an abbey. She didn’t even have to prove she was really a Christian. What she had to do was pay $80.

Are you fracking kidding me?

Living vicariously -- and remember, the first five letters of vicariously spell vicar -- through my clearly better half, I am feeling drunk with power. This newly acquired and government sanctioned authority is crying out to be abused. A few ideas:

1. Baptize random people. Walk down the street with a small vial of holy water – and now that she’s a minister, I presume the FTM can get holy water right from our tap – and pour a little on the head of each passerby while muttering something in Latin. I recommend “animus ipse meus stultus.” (According to Google, that’s Latin for “Your soul is mine, fool.”)
2. Excommunicate random people. While it’s true that the paperwork from the World Christianship Ministries makes no mention of any authority to excommunicate anyone, I figure there has to be a way.
3. Put the clergy sign in the window of her car, put a blinking red light on top, and pull people over. I’m not sure anyone would really pull over for a Toyota 4Runner, even if it did have a blinking light and clergy sign, but I’m certain it would be fun to try.

Of course, when the FTM hears me suggest these and other fun ways to abuse the power of the cloth, she just rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue in disgust.

“FTF,” she tells me, “I’m doing this for FotFTM. It means a lot to her and a lot to me. If playing childish pranks is that important to you, get your own goddam credentials.”

And she has me there. Being irreligious, I could never bring myself, even as a joke, to become a minister. It’s not in my DNA. So I guess I’ll have to just be proud of the FTM’s good deed and go on taking cheap shots at religion in this here blog. You have to admit, it’s a super easy target.

Next up, an actual blog post on parenting.

The Why of It All

“Daddy, stay here.”

While the FTM deals with her ordeal – also known as her pregnancy – I’ve taken the lead role in the care and feeding of the FTS.

I drive him to “school” (daycare) every morning. The shouts of “move your car, grandpa,” as I’m trying to maneuver my way through the perpetual traffic jam in the facility’s cramped parking lot are a bright start to my day. I know I’m older, but Grandpa? Really? Some of the other parents look like college students, or, in one case, high school seniors. It makes me wonder if their children weren’t the result of too much beer on prom night. (Truth is, they're all very nice and no one actually calls me "grandpa." I just feel really old.)

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, I have the pleasure of bathing the FTS. (Yes, he gets three baths a week, with many a “warm wet” washcloth in between. Not enough for you? Call social services.) The bath is like the shower scene in Silkwood. You’d think I was trying to get the FTS to confess the names of the other toddlers in his terrorist cell.



I also tuck the FTS into his newly acquired big-boy bed each night. The one and only time the FTM tried -- at 7 months pregnant and right after the FTS graduated from his crib -- she could barely get back up. So for now, this duty is mine and mine alone.

The FTS and I have developed what is now a well-defined routine. We read two or three books – Tractor Mac, Little Dump Truck, and the very timeless Very Hungry Caterpillar, are the tomes du jour – turn out the light, lie down, and talk.

The conversation is usually a combination of deciding what we’ll dream about (friends, family, and Lightning McQueen), telling stories (often spur of the moment inventions), and/or singing songs (Wheels on the Bus, Happy Birthday, and Seven Spanish Angels). Then we close our eyes and try to sleep.

When I hear the FTS’s breathing fall into a slow and even tempo, I know he’s ready. I start to back off the bed. That’s when he says it:

“Daddy, stay here.”

It’s a few minutes on either side of 8:30 p.m. when the FTS utters this magic phrase. It’s the end of a very long day:

The FTS and I left the house before 8 a.m. to go to daycare and work respectively. I spent all day in the service of independent bookselling, not arriving home until after 7 p.m. And from the moment I walked in the door until the moment I’m making my move to back off the bed, I’ve been a full-time dad, with little room or patience for distractions.

It’s also the beginning of a very long night. On my list of things to do:

• Eat dinner
  
• Wash laundry
  
• Answer work email
  
• Write
  
• Watch television
  
• Other
  

It'll be midnight before I even think about sleep.

“Daddy, stay here,” he says again.

I can’t, I think to myself. I really have to go. I’m hungry. I have no clean underwear for tomorrow. I have 548 emails in my inbox. I have an editor willing to read my manuscript if I can finish it. I really want to watch the new DVD of Chuck Season Two that Netflix has today delivered.


(Spoiler alert: If, like me, you're only on season two, you might not want to watch this.)

“Daddy, stay here.”

I look at the FTS, his face just visible in the ochre glow of the nightlight that provides warmth and security from across the room. His eyes, inexplicably blue, are a few inches from my own. They are windows thrown wide, allowing me -- and only me – a view into the very deepest part of his being. I’m struck with a feeling of privilege that I should be allowed such a personal glimpse into the soul of another. What I see is undiluted love.

The hunger vanishes. Laundry and email can wait. I’ll write later. I’ll catch up with Chuck another night. I put my head down, put my arm around my son, and close my eyes. I’m not going anywhere.

“Daddy stay here?”

“Yes, ok.”

======

Next up: My wife the High Priestess.
 

Proto Junk

The FTM will be the first to admit that she and pregnancy are a bit like high fever and a virus. You can’t deal with one without having to endure the other. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it. And really, who would?

There is (as of this week) a five-pound, human male infant in my wife’s body doing things you wouldn’t want him doing on your couch. For example, the day we found out his gender, the ultrasound nurse said, “Look at that, he’s playing with himself.”

“What?” we said in unison.

“Look,” she said, moving the cursor of her mouse over the blob of ultrasound weather radar that was supposed to be my still-forming son. “His little his hand is moving up and down on his penis.” (I admire health care professionals. They can say “penis” without giggling. I’m giggling just typing this.)

“What?” we said again.

“There, on the screen! He’s a little porn star in the making,” she chuckled.

The FTM, horrified, leaned forward from her perch in the stirrup chair, and I got up and walked to the screen. The nurse was right. The freaking nurse was right. The STS (Second Time Son) had his proto hand firmly around his proto junk, and was going to town. While this may have been valuable as a sort of unofficial paternity test, it wasn’t something I really wanted to see.

On the other hand, it did make me fall to my knees and thank the universe for my Y chromosome.

Even women who are blessed with non-masturbating fetuses still have writhing, burping, gill-breathing, tiny little human beings making nests inside their bellies. It’s like something from a Jack Finney novel. I can’t even imagine.

So when the FTM tells me that she’s uncomfortable, that she can’t sleep, that it hurts to walk, or that she’s just freaked out, I take her at her word. And when I’m exhausted from trying to juggle work, writing, and friends, along with having to bathe the FTS, tuck him in, or take him shopping, I stop for a moment and think of the day of the ultrasound and thank my lucky stars.

And then I thank the FTM, again, for doing all the really heavy lifting.

Next up, The Best Moment.

Back in the Saddle

What’s that sound? Is that the tap-tap-tap of a keyboard?

What’s that eerie light? Is it the soft beige glow of a blog resurrected?

Just what the hell is going on around here?

If you guessed that the First Time Father is back, you’re right! Give yourself a cigar. (If you don’t smoke, give yourself a chocolate cigar.)

So what force of nature was potent enough to drag the FTF away from his tumbler of cognac, convince him to turn off yet another Two and a Half Men rerun, and prompt him to revisit the blogosphere? The answer is that the FTF needs money, and this blog is a freakin’ gold mine. Either that or he’s about to become a Second Time Father.

That’s right, in less than four weeks time, the FTF is slated to magically transform into the STF.

Allow me to anticipate your next question:

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I have no idea.

After slogging through two years of infancy and toddlerhood, the FTM (First Time Mother) and I are finally at a place where the FTS (First Time Son) is sleeping until 8 a.m. each morning, going to bed at 8 p.m. each night, and is a pleasure every minute in between. He talks, he walks, he makes us laugh. He can clean up his own toys, sleeps in a big boy bed, and watches movies (Cars, Toy Story) that we can enjoy too. Life is good. Damn good.

And yet, with full knowledge of our actions, we’ve elected to blow it all to hell. In less than a month we’re going to introduce a wailing, puking, pooping, sleep-deprivation machine into our happy home. In other words, a baby.

Allow me to now anticipate your next question:

“Uh, dude, what the hell were you thinking?”

We were thinking of the FTS. Truth is, both the FTM and I have siblings, and those relationships are among the most important in our lives. We simply wanted the FTS to have that same experience.

Of course now that I’ve gone back and read all of the earlier posts on this blog -- about health scares, burping, sleeping, and more -- I can’t deny at least a tiny bit of buyer’s remorse. But it’s too late. The die is cast.

The STS (Second Time Son) is scheduled to arrive via planned C-section on Monday, November 1, which also just happens to be the FTM’s birthday. We’re preparing our home and preparing our son for the special day, and now that it’s almost here, I find myself needing to collect my thoughts. Hence the return to this blog.

I set out with the same agenda I had the first time: To provide other parents – and more importantly, would-be parents – with a glimpse into the life of a First and now Second Time Father. Hopefully you can learn from my mistakes.

I’m back, baby, I’m back.

Next up, a few words about the miracle of pregnancy.

Well Deserved Abuse for a Mets Fan

I have a friend who happens to be a rabid Phillies fan. Last year, as the Mets began their historic late season collapse, this friend began a tradition of taunting Mets fans by writing snarky baseball haiku. We Mets fans would send our own anti-Phillies haiku back, but in the end, his had more meaning as his team, well, you know, won.

This friend, who I’ll call Joe, because that’s his name, had been strangely silent this year. Until today. Until the exact moment the Mets now trademarked late season collapse was once again complete. (I know history repeats itself, but this is ridiculous!) At the exact moment the game ended – 5:10 p.m. today – Joe unleashed a torrent of tortuous haiku. I post them here for your reading pleasure, or agony. In any case, he’s earned the right. I hate him, but he’s earned the right.

P.S. – The last haiku, which relates to this blog, is inspired.
P.P.S. – The knucklehead in the Mets marketing department who scheduled the “Shea Goodbye” ceremonies for after, rather than before, today’s game should be fired.

HAIKU POEMS FOR THE METS by JOE [NAME REDACTED TO PROTECT JOE’S SAFETY]

BLUE SHIRT SOILED AND TORN
ORANGES BLIGHTED BY FROST
WORTHLESS AS THE METS!

JOHAN AND CARLOS
TWO SANTANAS THAT EXCEL
ONE WILL PLAY THROUGH FALL

BILLY WAGNER PINCHED
AND WHERE DID THAT GET THE METS?
LEAVE BRAD LIDGE ALONE

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK
TREES IN CRIMSON, GOLD, AND BROWN
METS GO TUMBLING DOWN

CENTRAL PARK BENCHES
THE HOME TEAM DUGOUT AT SHEA
BOTH CROWDED WITH BUMS

BRIGHT ORANGE AND BLUE
IT’S THE NEW SIGN FOR CHOKING
IT’S THE NEW YORK METS

MY BASEBALL DIET?
CHEESESTEAKS, BEER, NO BIG APPLES
SO EAT IT METS FANS!

STADIUMS IMPLODE
HOUSE THAT RUTH BUILT AND SHEA FALL
NEW YORK TEAMS COLLAPSE

YOU SPENT BIG MONEY
YOU BRAGGED ABOUT THE NAMES
SO HOW’S THAT WORKIN’?

MAYBE THEY’RE CONFUSED
WITH OFF-SEASON GAMES – IN GOLF
THE LOWEST SCORE WINS

THE METS ARE NEW YORK
YELLOW CABS AND STRANDED MEN
HACK LICENSE ANYONE?

JAMIE MOYER THROWS
FASTBALLS SO SLOW THAT THEY SWING
THREE TIMES ON EACH PITCH

YOUR BULL PEN IS BAD
BATS SILENT AFTER THE SIXTH
TEE BALL NEXT SEASON?

OUR PHANATIC WOULD
KICK THE ASS OF MISTER MET –
NO BODY, ALL HEAD

And one very special poem for The FTF

PITY YOUNG [FTS]
DON’T RAISE HIM AS A METS FAN
THAT’S CHILD ABUSE

The FTF is Back....

The FTF is Back…

Pop quiz time, kids.

The FTF has been missing from the blogosphere because:

1. He was abducted by aliens and suffered a series of physical indignities that cannot be recounted on a family blog.
   
2. He joined the Peace Corps and has been performing emergency appendectomies on the good people of Tuvalu, who, for some reason, have genetically weak appendixes.
   
3. He put his money where his mouth is and moved to Virginia for two months to go door-to-door for Barack Obama.
   
4. He’s a lazy doofus who simply can’t be trusted with the responsibility of a blog.
   

If you guessed anything other than 4, well, then, you’re not too bright. Like all of you, I have been busy the past couple of months, but that’s no excuse. I’ve neglected the sacred blogging duty entrusted to me by me, and for that I am contrite.

So, what’s been going on in the world of the FTF for the last 45 days? Here’s a summary of what you’ve missed:

• The FTM and I took the FTS on his first vacation, to Lake Champlain. He slept in the car all the way up, spent three days being passed around (from one eager aunt to the next) like a joint at a Grateful Dead show, and slept all the way back. All in all, a great trip.
  
  
• The very next day, the FTS started daycare full time. A few minor bumps along the way, but it’s been a mostly positive experience…Except, of course, for this week’s battle with conjunctivitis. (The name of which sounds more like a chronic inability to link words and phrases than a gooey eye condition, which is precisely what it is.)
  
  
• I had my first post-daycare business trip, and the instant I left the FTM took sick – 103 degree fever – while she was the sole caregiver for the FTS. My sister (the FTA) came over to help, but I still felt like a rat for being away.
  
  
• 
  The FTF won a “Post of the Day” Award from Rising Blogger. Hey, thanks, Rising Blogger, and thanks Always Home & Uncool for nominating me! Now I need to pay it forward and nominate one of my favorite blogs….Hmmm…. I have to think on that one for a day or two.
  

Milestones in these 45 days include much stronger neck muscles; an interest in and (almost) ability to hold and use the pacifier on his own; a steady stream of drool and grunting, signifying, we think, early onset teething; rolling over, sometimes…when he feels like it; a bigger, longer body; and even more I just can’t remember right now. (It’s 4 a.m…. The boy often now sleeps better than his dad.)

Of course, all of this has been taking place against the backdrop of an increasingly alarming presidential race (when did John McCain become such a creep? I used to kind of like him, even if I didn’t agree with his policies); an economy in complete free fall; and the most frustrating and heart-wrenching end to a baseball season since…well…last year. (But it ain’t over yet.) With the world seeming like it's imploding, how can I worry about things like Pink Eye?

This is how: Life goes on. It’s still the little things – the Pink Eye, the teething, the FTS’s seemingly ceaseless ability to smile and laugh, the daily visual improvement in motor skills – that make all the difference. The rest of it matters, but not nearly as much. It’s window dressing.

(That said, before I go, here’s a piece of window dressing you might enjoy. A friend and I conceived and wrote this anti-Palin ad, and I slapped it together.)

The System

Until I realized just how boring it is to watch a bunch of horses run around a track, I was a handicapper. A bad handicapper. I couldn’t pick a winner in a one horse race.


(Okay, not all races are boring. This one is amazing.)

Everybody and their brother had a system for picking winners:

• Horses dropping from a route to a sprint
  
• Horses stretching from a sprint to a route
  
• Class drops
  
• Class jumps
  
• Circle back patterns in the speed figures
  
• Pairing speed figures
  
• First time blinkers
  
• Blinkers off
  

And on and on and on. You can’t get through the gate at Saratoga without five different young men hawking their tout. “I had five winners yesterday,” the eager fellow would say, waving his Xeroxed one-sheet in your face, “Two on top!”

But if any one of those systems worked, tracks wouldn’t still be in business.

And so it is with training your baby to sleep. There are myriad programs for getting your little one to sleep through the night by eight weeks, ten weeks, or twelve weeks; each rigid in its approach, each promising a miracle. But if any of these systems really worked, I have to believe that no parent would ever be sleep deprived. But guess what: We are. We really, really are

This is on my mind because the FTM and I just read Twelve Hours Sleep by Twelve Weeks Old. It lays out a plan for weaning your baby off the middle of the night feedings, while setting up a schedule of afternoon maps. Truth is, there’s a lot of good information in the book. Unfortunately, the FTS can’t read.

What do you do when the book says the boy must be kept awake in between his last two feedings of the day, but the munchkin is sacked out like a solider after a weekend furlough? (If you’re a parent, you know the kind of sleep I mean; the “poke-him-in-the-eye-and-he-still-won’t-wake-up” kind of sleep.) Seriously, what do you do?

Dogma is anathema to me, so I’m kind of fighting the implementation of the rigid system. The kid should sleep when the kid wants to sleep, right? No, says the book. The “Twelve Hours by Twelve Weeks” system has worked 100 percent of the time! Uh-huh. The one thing I learned at the track: Never trust a sure thing.

So we’ll pick the parts of the book like best, give it a shot, and probably go on being sleep deprived. It can’t last forever. (Can it?)

Meet the FTS

We're in a period of relative calm, so there isn't much to blog about vis-a-vis the FTS. But a picture is worth a thousand words, so I offer these 4,000 words for your consideration:


Three weeks old in his Books Inc. shirt.



Clearly, my son.



Man hands.



He really is this happy.

Mutual Benefit of General Life Good Hands Western Omaha Umbrella Insurance

 
I’m gonna die.

Well, not next week or anything (or at least not as far as I know), but to have a kid is to get hit in the face with a mortality bat. We’re all gonna die. And while I may have known about this in the pre-parenting days, I didn’t really believe it. But that’s not the most surprising thing about facing death. What is surprising is that I’m okay with it.

No, I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to outlive my son. And since I don’t expect him to live forever, I have to think about my own demise. If the FTS can make it into his 20s as a healthy, happy young man and embark on his own crazy journey, well, then let fate do what fate has to do. Besides, Social Security, AARP, false teeth, unbridled impatience, and a walker don’t seem all that great to me.

BUT(and notice that is a big “but”), I am terrified of going early. Specifically, I’m terrified of going before my life insurance application is approved.

I’m writing this post from the Continental Airlines frequent flyers lounge, and I can’t help but reminded of a news story from earlier this week:


(Associated Press) The 346 passengers were cruising at 29,000 feet Friday when an explosive bang shook the Qantas jumbo jet. The plane descended rapidly. Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling as debris flew through the cabin from a hole that had suddenly appeared in the floor.

It wasn't until they were safely on the ground after an emergency landing that they realized how lucky they had been: A hole the size of a small car had been ripped into the Boeing 747-400's metal skin and penetrated the fuselage.

A car-sized hole in the fuselage? I’m about to get on an airplane to Phoenix -- it’s the first in a series of seven business trips over the next three months -- and I still don’t have my ****ing life insurance!

I recently gave blood, urine, and my net worth to a series of total strangers, and am now waiting for the privilege to pay $1500/year to some mega corporation that will hire teams of lawyers to make sure my wife and son never see a dime of insurance money should I meet an untimely end. (And yet, somehow, it still gives me piece of mind. I can be such a slave to convention.)

So, dear friends, should you read about a Continental plane slamming into the Continental divide, dig deep into your pockets and pledge a donation to the FTM and the FTS. (I’m still working on a mechanism for donating to an anonymous blog; in the meantime, you can just leave a paper bag full of money on the north bound side of the Springdale train station. In fact, no need to wait for me to croak. Leave the money now.) I thank you.

God, God bo God, Bonana fanna fo God, Fee fy mo God…God

(In which yet another Fairfield County blogger posts on religion.)

I had this dream last night: I was with a friend sitting near the back of a large auditorium and we were both in a pretty good mood. All of sudden a cheer went up from the front of the hall and worked its way to where we were sitting. It became apparent that the cheer was for a group of priests (maybe they were monks) who were walking up the aisles and handing out diamond studded crosses and crucifixes. I was handed mine, and my good mood vanished. I flagged down the next priest to pass and tried to hand the cross back, but his neck went stiff as he said a curt “no” and kept walking. I turned around and threw the cross at him.

That dream should give you some idea of my feelings toward organized religion. This was brought home to me again last week when we took the FTS to the emergency room.

The doctors had just told us that they wanted to order an MRI, an EEG, and a Spinal Tap, all meant to explore the possibility that the boy had had a seizure. One of my first thoughts was “God, please don’t let this happen.” I’m an agnostic who prides himself on not buying into this sort of pandering, and it pissed me off. My father, a man who grows more spiritual each year he grows older, always tells me that I’ll be a deathbed convert to religion. I always dismiss the notion out of hand, but there I was seeking divine intervention at the first sign of trouble. I dismissed the urge to cry for spiritual help and brought myself back to reality.

A little later we were sitting just outside the triage room listening to our son wail in total agony as the ER pediatrician tried to administer the Spinal Tap. Through those tortured screams I heard a voice inside my head. It’s a voice I hear from time to time, and it seems hell bent on trying to find ways to draw me back into the flock. This time it must have known it had me over a barrel, because it said “if you worship me, I’ll save him.”

Before I get to how I answered that voice, let me describe my own views on religion in a bit more detail: Religion sucks.

Okay, more detail than that.

I’m not an atheist. The belief that there is nothing that science, given enough time and enough resources, can’t ultimately explain (my own ham-fisted definition of atheism) seems almost as arrogant as organized religion itself. No, I’m what you might call a militant agnostic—I don’t know and goddamit neither do you.

But even acknowledging that I don’t have any answers, the Judeo-Christian-Islamic explanation of theology has never felt right to me. First you have this omniscient, omnipotent, anthropomorphic god who plays mind games with the Chosen People for a few thousand years, always making it impossibly hard for them, but always demanding fealty. Then this same god sends his son to Earth and gives him the power to perform miracles and dispense good advice, but lets a bunch of fanatics nail him to a couple of wooden boards, leaving him to starve and bleed to death. Then Mohammed comes along, talks to this very same god, and finds out that what he (God) really wants is for his followers to wage war (jihad) on the non-believers.

Is it me, or does this God fellow seem like a bit of a wanker?

And that’s just what I was thinking in the hospital room when I answered the voice in my head. “You mean the only way I can be sure my son won’t have brain damage and/or a seizure disorder is to genuflect before you…whoever or whatever you are?”

“Yes.”

“F*** you,” I told the voice. I mean honestly, who the hell would allow a one-month old baby to feel that kind of pain, let alone inflict it, in exchange for forced adulation?

“You know that voice in your head is just superstition,” the FTM said to me when I told her the story later. And of course, she’s right. (More on my frighteningly large collection of irrational superstitions in a future post.) Because the god described in all the literature isn’t a god at all. He’s a tyrant. Milton said something about it being better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven, and I think there’s something to that. (No, I’m not actually smart. I know that quote from "Space Seed," the Kahn episode of the original Star Trek.)



In fact, religious literature is a big part of the problem. Sam Harris, in his two excellent books – End of Faith and Letter to a Christian Nation – makes the point that every field of study or thought in human history shares the common characteristic of progress. We challenge our own assumptions in physics, biology, economics, art, or you name it; we’re always moving forward. Except for religion. Question the Torah, the Bible, or the Koran, and you’re a heretic. For thousands of years those sacred texts have remained unchanged. It’s the one area of human thought where using our most precious asset, our intellect, isn’t really allowed. (Ironic, no?) We have to accept what we’re told, blindly, and without faltering. (And don’t talk to me about Bible classes, where the parables told in the Bible are discussed. Let’s talk about how what’s written in the Bible is actually wrong. I won’t belabor this point...I’ll simply refer you to Mr. Harris’s books.)

The religious among you probably think you can trip me up by asking this question:

“So, FTF, what will you tell your son when he’s three years old and one of your pets dies?”

Good question and I have a good answer: I’ll tell him the dog or cat went to heaven. That’s right, I’ll tell the FTS all about heaven.

“Aha!” you exclaim. “You’re a hypocrite!”

Uh, no. I will tell him about doggie heaven and people heaven, but I’ll also tell him all about Santa Claus; and maybe I’ll let him think there really are magicians and wizards and honest politicians, at least for a little while. You can’t put too high a premium on bedtime stories. Eventually I’ll come clean about all those myths and encourage him to do something no religion would ever encourage (or even allow) him to do: to ask his own questions, to do his own research, and to make his own choices.

The Real Meaning of FTF

Two days ago, right before I left for work, I picked the FTS up to say goodbye. He smiled at me; I smiled back.

Then, without warning, he arched his neck and back and made his entire body as rigid as a 2 x 4, he turned bright red, and he foamed at the mouth. The whole episode lasted less than a minute, and when it was over, the boy crashed and crashed hard, falling almost instantly asleep in my arms.

We had seen three similar episodes in the weeks gone by, but thought we could explain them as the FTS straining to move his bowels. (Sorry to be graphic.) But this episode was more intense and had no clear explanation, so we called our doctor.

“Get ye to the emergency room,” we were told.

After hearing the FTM and I describe the episode, the ER doctors became immediately fixated on one notion: seizure.

Bit of back story here: A colleague at work has a daughter with a seizure disorder and developmental issues. I’ve watched him live through three years of this and I don’t know how he’s done it, because I can tell it’s been a living hell for him, his wife, and their daughter. Hearing the ER doctors say “seizure” about our own son made me feel like Jimmy Stewart in the opening scene of Vertigo. The world was about to fall out from under me.



Before we knew what was happening, a battery of tests was ordered -- MRI, EEG, Spinal Tap – and the FTS was going to be admitted for observation. There were two directions this could go. I could let it spiral out of control and become the basket case I very much needed to be, or I could figure out how to buck up under pressure and be there for my wife and son. Like Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger, I kept repeating the mantra, “Keep it together, keep it together.” I kept it together. (It helps to be married to a saintly rock of stability.)

After getting our pediatrician on the phone and hearing her concur with the opinion of the ER doctors, we set everything in motion. The next few hours were a blur, but here are my scattered memories:

* We sat outside the triage room in the ER listening to the hospital pediatrician try but fail to do a Spinal Tap; she couldn’t find any fluid. So the FTS felt all the pain, but with no benefit. Listening to him wail in agony was something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

* When we were summoned to the MRI room, a six foot, three inch tall male model of a male nurse with a New Zealand accent wheeled the FTM and FTS -- the FTM was on the gurney cradling our son -- down the hall, and all I could think was not only am I going to lose my son to some horrible seizure disorder, but this oily Kiwi bohunk is going to wheel the FTM right out of my life.

* We were taken to the semi-dark and vaguely creepy hospital basement to wait for an EEG technician who never showed up. Instead of the oily Kiwi bohunk, we were wheeled there by a 90-pound, female, Slavic orderly who needed my help to push the gurney.

But the worst part of the day, by far, was waiting for the neurologist to come tell us the results and diagnosis. It was like waiting at the DMV combined with sitting in summer Saturday traffic on the Garden State Parkway combined with watching the phone and waiting for a prospective employer to call you back...times 100 million. It was the Bataan Death March of waiting. (Side note: I used to think that was called the “Rattan Death March,” but really, who would march themselves to death for bamboo furniture?) Finally, he arrived.

The pediatric neurologist was a young man with a bedside manner that put us both immediately at ease. He interviewed us, examined the FTS, and told us that while he wanted the radiologist to confirm his reading, the MRI looked good. “You know what,” he finally said, “this just doesn’t smell like a neurological problem. I don’t think it was a seizure.”

Clouds parted, a choir of angels sang, sunlight shone through a hole in the ceiling of the hospital room. Hallelujah… Halle-freakin-lujah!!!!

24 hours later the EEG confirmed the doctor’s instinct, and neurological problems were all but ruled out. “I can never promise anyone that a one month old didn’t have or won’t get a seizure -- seizures are deceptive -- but I just don’t think that’s what’s going on here, and the evidence supports that theory,” said the neurologist.

The ultimate diagnosis is that the episodes are caused by some form of Reflux, with formula sneaking its way up the esophagus and sometimes causing distress and maybe a bit of choking for the little guy. This is something we can get our heads around and manage. And while it may make for a long infancy, a healthy, normal childhood is waiting for us on the other side. (And if we can successfully burp the boy, things will go even more smoothly between now and then.)

So what did I learn from my ride on this emotional Yo-Yo? I learned that FTF doesn’t really stand for First Time Father; it stands for Full Time Father: As I stared at my son, with 23 electrodes being taped to his scalp by the stoic EEG technician (it was like something from A Clockwork Orange); as I sang him to sleep in the MRI room, so he wouldn’t need anesthetic; as I somehow managed to block out my own basic needs for sleep and nutrients, I knew with metaphysical certitude that I would do anything and everything to protect my son, to make him comfortable, to give him every chance to have a good -- strike that -- to have a great life. From here on out, there is nothing in my life that doesn’t somehow involve, even tangentially, the FTS. And as trying as the last couple of days have been, this realization makes me very, very happy.

Coming in a future post -- the one "person" who was absolutely NO help during this ordeal: God.

N.A.P.S.

If you’re an expectant or an aspiring First Time Father, there is one thing I can promise with metaphysical certitude: you will experience sleep deprivation. The days of sleeping eight or even five consecutive hours will end with the birth of your child.

Sleep will come in negotiated stretches of two to four hours, with you and your partner bartering and haggling for rest like Egyptian rug merchants. But those blissful few hours won’t be enough, so you’ll find yourself supplementing them with MicroNaps.

What are “MicroNaps” FTF? Glad you asked. A MicroNap is defined (by me) as a period of time not less than 5 minutes but not more than 15 minutes during which your mental state straddles the border between consciousness and unconsciousness. Typically you MicroNap when it’s your turn to watch the baby and you and he are both drowsy. He might be on your lap or in his swing or in the Pack and Play, but he has to be somewhere safe enough that your brain can switch off.

You can identify a MicroNap pretty easily: You’ll still be able to see everything in the room in which you’re resting, but none of it will seem quite right. For example, when your one month old son climbs out of his swing, climbs on the dog, and rides her happily around the living room, you’re MicroNapping. The MN ends as soon as the baby makes any movement louder than a housefly landing on a marshmallow: You wake up, see the baby in the swing, see the dog sleeping near by, put the pacifier an inch or two deeper into the baby’s mouth (or if you’re really out of it, the dog’s mouth), and lie back down, starting the process all over again.

While MicroNaps are enjoyable in much the same way certain hallucinogens are purported to be enjoyable, they don’t leave you feeling rested. And if I can’t get rest at home, maybe I should be getting rest at work. It’s for this reason that I’m starting N.A.P.S. – The National Association for the Promotion of Siesta. Americans work more and vacation less than the citizens of any country in the industrialized world. The least our employers can do is let us get some ****ing sleep. I encourage you to visit the site and join the movement.

Good Night Charlie (A bedtime story)

There once was a boy named Charlie
Who lived in a house that was red
And he would put up such a fuss and such a fight
Whenever it was time for bed

“No!” he cried, “I’m not tired!
There so much in this world that’s making me inspired.”

“But Charlie,” his mother said,
“You need your rest. Now please my angel, go to bed.”

“No!” he cried. “I don’t want to lie down.
I want to see all there is to see, from the forest to the farm to the country to the town.”

“But Charlie,” said his father’s stern voice,
“This is not a request, you haven’t any choice.”

“No!” he screamed, “I have too much to do!
“There are books to read and songs to sing and games to play and friends to make
And I have get smart, because someday I want to go to school.”

“But Charlie,” said his dog Cheyenne,
“You need your sleep, now close your eyes, try, see if you can.”

“What...? Dogs can’t talk!” Charlie screamed.
“So maybe I’m already asleep; maybe this is just a dream.”

So he closed his eyes
And his father turned out the light
His mother kissed him on the cheek
And they all said, even Cheyenne the dog, we love you Charlie…good night.

The Set List

There are times when a full belly, an empty bladder, a clean diaper, and a pacifier just won’t soothe the FTS. When all else fails, I turn to the set list.

The FTS was born in the evening and delivered via C-section. Because the FTM had the post operative woozies, I stayed on a cot in her hospital room that first night. (The cots are designed by the same company that designs furniture for McDonald’s. They’re purposely made to be comfortable for 20 minutes and 20 minutes only.) The next morning, while the FTS was in the hospital nursery, I made a quick trip home to shower and change. On the way back to the hospital I listened to a mix CD I had made a long time ago, long before I was thinking about babies and how to quell their anxieties.

When I got back to the hospital, I found myself holding the FTS and I just started singing to him. I wasn’t singing “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” or “London Bridges,” or any other kids’ song; I was cooing the last tune I’d heard on my mix CD – Seven Spanish Angels as performed by Willie Nelson and Ray Charles:

He looked down into her brown eyes
And said say a prayer for me
She threw her arms around him
Whispered God will keep us free
He could hear the riders coming
He said this is my last fight
If they take me back to Texas
They won’t take me back alive

There were seven Spanish Angels
At the altar of the sun
They were praying for the lovers
In the valley of the gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish angels
Took another angel home.

Even at 17 hours old, the FTS was transfixed. I was the Pied Piper and Saint Peter all rolled into one. Since then, when we need the boy to mellow out, I carry him around the house and sing. Seven Spanish Angels is always the first and/or last song of my performance, but the set list has grown to include:

Amazing Grace (which is truly amazing because I’m agnostic)

Van Diemen’s Land (U2)

Rosie (Jackson Browne)

Two original songs

An original spoken word bedtime story (I’ll save that for a future post)

And Folsom Prison Blues

I spent years playing in a band – I dropped out of college to go on the road – so music is in my soul. But never did I imagine I’d be using music like this. It does get a bit weird when I (really we, because the FTM sings to him, too) change the lyrics. Case in point, the second verse of Folsom Prison Blues:

When I was just a baby
My momma told me son
Always be a good boy
Don’t ever play with guns
But I shot a man in Reno
Just to watch him die
And when I hear that train a-rollin’
I hang my head and cry

becomes…

Now that I’m a baby
My momma tells me son
Always be a good boy
Don’t ever suck your thumb
But I made a poopy diaper
And I don’t know why
When I feel that squishy mess
I hang my head and cry



When I stop and think about the horrible lack of respect we’re showing for such a timeless song, I kind of hang my head and cry, too. My apologies to Johnny Cash and his estate and may the possibly non existent God have mercy on my possibly non existent soul. But hey...you gotta do whatever works.

Barack the Vote

So what business does a parenting blog have spouting off about politics? Shouldn’t I leave it to Daily Kos and Matt Drudge to duke it out? Uh, no. There is no more important bloc of voters in this election than parents. What happens in November will mean everything to my son and his future. But he’s only three and a half weeks old and not yet able to type, so I’m standing up on his behalf to tell you why he’s an Obama baby.

Let me be up front and tell you that I’ve voted with the Democrats in every Presidential election since 1984 (I voted for Reagan that year), and that I vote Democrat in most, though not all, local elections. My politics are left of center and can occasionally feel a bit Libertarian, though I don’t really like what that term connotes.

Let me also tell you that I have a lot of admiration and respect for John McCain. The guy seems to be a thoughtful, dedicated civil servant who has given far more to his country than yours truly. But he plays for the wrong team. He’s kind of like Derek Jeter; you can't help but like him, but there is just no way to root for someone wearing pinstripes.

“Okay, FTF,” you might be asking, “then what’s your problem with the Republicans? They’re for trusting people more than government, and for security, and for personal responsibility. What’s wrong with that?”

Hey, dear reader, that does sound good! Just as good as knowing that my local Wal-Mart really cares about the community, or that the Exxon/Mobil is committed to fighting climate change. In case the sarcasm isn’t coming through, the point is, the Republicans say one thing and do another.

Republicans say they want government to interfere less in the lives of citizens. A noble thought, but:

• Republicans want to tell a woman what she can and cannot do with her body. (Anit-choice)
  
• Republicans want to legislate who can and cannot be married. (Anti-Gay rights)
  
• Republicans want to suppress scientific discovery (stem cell research) and learning (evolution vs. Intelligent Design).
  
• Republicans want to listen to my phone calls and read my emails. (Wiretapping bills)
  
• Republicans want to suppress my right to express my displeasure with the government (Constitutional amendment to outlaw burning a U.S. Flag, even as a form of political protest)
  

The truth is, the Republicans only want smaller government when it comes to taxes, and when it comes to government oversight of big business. (The lower taxes would be fine if the Republicans – when they controlled the presidency, both houses of Congress, the judiciary, and a majority of state governments – didn’t outspend all of the Democrats that preceded them. You need only look at Senator Stevens “Bridge to Nowhere” to understand that the mantra of smaller government is an out and out lie.)

“Okay, FTF, but what about security? The Democrats are soft.” I guess reminding you that Democrats led us into and successfully navigated our way through WWI (Wilson) and WWII (FDR, Truman) won’t much matter. “Old news,” you’ll say. “Fine,” I’ll say back. “But ask yourself if you think the U.S. is safer after eight years of Republican rule.” It’s not. Our position in the world militarily, economically, and diplomatically is weaker than it was eight years ago. We’re mired in a war we had no business fighting (Iraq), never finished a war we had every right to fight (Afghanistan), and are beating the drums of war (Iran) that will further destabilize the Mideast and antagonize the other world powers (Russia, China, India).

“But FTF, the surge in Iraq is working.” Well, duh. Add tens of thousands of troops to any military theater and you’ll make it more secure. But what happens when those troops come home? As I say, well, duh.

Perhaps worst of all, the Republicans, who wrap themselves in the flag and call themselves patriots, are systematically trying to dismantle the Constitution. I’d spout on about Habeas Corpus, but Saramerica already said it better than I possibly could.

I could also go on about the environment and big oil; about the banking industry run amok; about lies and obfuscation of the Bush administration, and on and on and on and on about why I don’t want – can’t let – my son grow up in the world these yahoos want to create. But I think I’ve said enough. If you still don’t get it, maybe this video will help:

The DHD

The DHD

In the 18 days since the FTS was born, I have failed at the following:

• Remembering one my best friend’s Jack & Jill baby shower
  
• Giving my nephew and godson (and one of my favorite people on the planet) a graduation and 18th birthday present
  
• Visiting my parents
  
• Getting enough done at work
  
• Keeping up with posts from my favorite bloggers (Manager Mom, Always Home and Uncool, and the rest of the list off to the left there)
  
• Keeping up with my own non-blog writing projects
  

In short, The FTF has become the DHD – the Dill Hole Dad.

Everyone tells you how much your life will change and how all-consuming parenthood will be, but you just don’t grok until you’re in its midst. When you’re not handling the baby – marveling at every sound, facial expression, and flick of a finger; trying to quell a nascent fit before it gets out of control; feeding, burping, changing, clothing, and fretting over him – you’re doing laundry, washing bottles, reading parenting books, and trying to sleep. And you’re still going to work and mowing the lawn and balancing the checkbook and taking out the trash (which there is now a mountain of) and yadda yadda yadda. How then are we supposed to find time for all the other stuff…the fun stuff?

I don’t know, but find time I will. The last thing the FTS needs is a DHD. I’ve always believed you lead by example, so I think the FTM and I need to figure out how to live active, fun lives, specifically so the FTS sees healthy, well-adjusted parents. (Well, so he sees what appear to be healthy, well-adjusted parents.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we should bring our two week old to a movie, just that we should remember there’s a mommy and daddy life beyond being mommy and daddy. So I say farewell DHD, and welcome back FTF.

Coming next….the FTF gets political.