In the midst of a lazy Saturday, book perched firmly on my stomach--trees all dressed in white, my wife came into the house and asked me to help our elderly neighbor dig out her car. Outside the dark pavement is dotted by thin patches of ice, and our neighbor stands at the side of her car, seventy, seventy five, hard to say, holding her shovel. And as I explain to Ruth that I'll dig out her car and tell her to go inside and get warm I began the most useful thing I did all day.
Interpolation on thinking while shoveling snow/using the edge of our plastic shovel to try and cut up some of the more trenchant holdouts.
Altruism-Altruism (pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others.
Note: If you begin to consider things like the definition of altruism you've already probably crossed over the bridge and have no way of getting back to it. Besides which, anyone who wants to watch unaltruistic action first hand, should probably jump inside my brain Being John Malkovich style when the collection plate comes around at church. Oh the mental hang ups and hoops.
A half an hour is a long time to consider whether shoveling snow is a good or bad thing. Probably too long. And relatedly, a good portion of the thinking involved thinking about thinking. Ie, whether life would be nobler if I wasn't analyzing whether life was noble. Ie, merely shoveling snow from point A to point B without trying to gain any insight about what it might mean to me as a human being would probably be a good thing. In short, in which the author defies the working class. Because there is nothing quite like listening to a highly educated person whining about that education.
Are you my grandmother?
So after the author finishes thinking about whether the act of shoveling snow is altruistic and briefly bemoans the fact he's thinking at all, another line of thinking enters. This line of thinking, called here, "are you my grandmother" tends to involve grand narratives related to simple actions. Ie, the pauper who believes that he is a prince. Anyhow, this line of thinking comes about when the author is chipping vigorously away at the snow and remembering just how carefully his neighbor ascended her stairs. The author's grandparents have passed away, and so it's no doubt natural for the author to begin entertaining thoughts of adopting a new grandmother, which is the likeliest outcome of this whole shoveling experience. He even went so far as to encourage her to visit his house if he needed anything proudly saying the address and really meaning it, even though on the best of week nights he can barely manage sprinkling salt on the steps and watching an hour or so of television all while trying to interact/put his daughter to sleep.
Hubris-Hubris often indicates being out of touch with reality and overestimating one's own competence or capabilities.
In the midst of imagining our future bliss as adopted grandchild and grandmother, I began to realize that I was creating a grand narrative out of a simple act. And what I was really doing was the sort of thing that people in the fifties did all the time for another. Though, in many ways this old American stereotype of the good old days has been debunked time and again. Thus, I got to wondering whether it was true that people would actually help one another out more back in the day.
Thoughts-The tree is drenched in white splinters. Outside, the sun is an orange useless ball flung low across the sky.
Which lead me, of course, to consider whether this need to create a grand narrative, adopted grandson, was peculiarly American. I wondered if our culture has always been subject to this disease. Hell, we tell ourselves stories to stay alive, but we also tell them to cover over awful truths. At some point I started wondering whether the need to create a grand narrative was not necessarily limited to Americans but was part and parcel with human existence. Indeed, isn't it the stories we tell ourselves that keep us sane?
Luckily, I had finally gotten Mrs. Rucker's spot dug out to a reasonable level by that point, and I was able to walk up her steps and let her know the job was done. "Thank you," she said to me, and gripped the back of my arm with her small hand. It is not often that we are touched by strangers. It felt good to rest in the flesh. At home I finished reading a book and ready my daughter a story about a duck who was last on the boat. I don't even know what that story is supposed to mean.
Grandmother or not? No, it's just a simple act, is the need for the grand narrative universal or some peculiarly american thing.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I need to get out of this city
Eons ago now, when my child was a mere week or two. It's not really my job to remember those types of things. I'm not certain who's job it is, but it certainly isn't mine. She had a wrinkled mass on her forehead that I was certain were portents of a very worried child. The lines turned out to just be excesses of skin, which makes the forehead lines merely the first in many overreactions that parents are prone to.
Speaking of parents, it is strange is it not a strange juxtaposition that we are born to parenthood as your child is born into the world? Is it unfair of me to expect the same sort of attention on that day that our dear child received? A bath, perhaps some loving care. Of course it isn't, as you well know. Being born to parenthood is dying to self that old Christian reminder. Though I swear that my little darling enjoys Michigan basketball and watches it of her own volition. My wife would like me to believe that I am stunting her mental growth by allowing her to watch television, but I fear as much that by not watching television she will fall behind all those kids imbibing A,B,C's via Sesame Street with their breast milk.
Besides, it seems a cruelty to hide a wonderful thing like the monstrous eye of television from a child. It was probably cold that day. I doubt that much trash was blowing around, which is the type of thing that is generally mentioned when a person is writing about cities, however, we were in Bethesda, which is not the sort of place where trash goes untended. Rather, it is the sort of place where people cross the street with impunity and expect the cars to brake, and where they have wine shops and stores that sell only small bits of chocolate. In short, ritzy.
And as we strolled down the sidewalk, mother, wife, baby, father, we were perhaps taking up a larger portion of it than usual. Why? Because we were pushing a stroller. And, as we walked, chatting idly, I noticed an older man, grey hair, wife in tow, a harridan no doubt, I project with fair reason, but aren't all reasons fair in this type of situation? The fellow, which he was not, was aiming to bump into me, so I tried to slide my left shoulder in front making them horizontal to take up less space on the path to chocolate shops and wine.
And that was when I felt a jolt. Long ago, it was probably useful, biologically speaking, and I'm not even going to google or Wikipedia the damn thing, it just makes sense, for humans, especially males, to be aggressive and protective, particularly with the birth of a new offspring. This would allow the child, though certainly not in the modern play toy sense, to grow up in safety. However, society as we live in, where we agree to certain rules such as: I will not take everything which my heart desires and neither will you, subjugates this a bit.
And after I realized that older gentleman, know that the term I would use colloquially would be something more akin to a--hole, had smashed into me. And now his voice rang out expletive deleted, stop taking up the whole sidewalk, you (expletive deleted). At this point I became filled with rage, turned amongst a sea of people and yelled, "Why don't you shut up?" And approached the older gentleman, who immediately dropped the arm of his wife, poor woman and not a harridan in the slightest, so he could begin cursing at me while I explained that I was out for a walk with my wife and newborn child and didn't appreciate...until I was cut off by this man saying, "I don't give an expletive who you are."
Is fantasizing about hurting someone the same thing as hurting someone? It seems important to note that you never know what you'll do in this type of situation. If you'll adopt the social mores that are thrust upon you since near birth, dear s, if you encounter a gentleman like this in your future you have my solemn dictate to slap away, or do you end up grappling on the sidewalk in Bethesday with a man twenty five years your senior?
The old gent gave me a slight push, and I remembered back to all those years ago when my fifth grade teacher singled me out as a good catch to all the girls in the class because I was smart, because I was going to do something. And I realized that it was best to keep my wits about me and see if I could s a college fund sooner rather than later. "He pushed me," I said, imploring all of those happy white folks and moms pushing three strollers who were studiously trying to avoid the happenings in the street.
If I had to do it over again I would have offered him a secret meet up in a local parking lot where we could have discussed our differences with less decorum. However, society, and social conditioning trumped the biological imperative to protect once again. I fear that I must leave this city soon, or I'll soon find myself rolling around on the ground punching an old man who just happens to be an a--hole.
Speaking of parents, it is strange is it not a strange juxtaposition that we are born to parenthood as your child is born into the world? Is it unfair of me to expect the same sort of attention on that day that our dear child received? A bath, perhaps some loving care. Of course it isn't, as you well know. Being born to parenthood is dying to self that old Christian reminder. Though I swear that my little darling enjoys Michigan basketball and watches it of her own volition. My wife would like me to believe that I am stunting her mental growth by allowing her to watch television, but I fear as much that by not watching television she will fall behind all those kids imbibing A,B,C's via Sesame Street with their breast milk.
Besides, it seems a cruelty to hide a wonderful thing like the monstrous eye of television from a child. It was probably cold that day. I doubt that much trash was blowing around, which is the type of thing that is generally mentioned when a person is writing about cities, however, we were in Bethesda, which is not the sort of place where trash goes untended. Rather, it is the sort of place where people cross the street with impunity and expect the cars to brake, and where they have wine shops and stores that sell only small bits of chocolate. In short, ritzy.
And as we strolled down the sidewalk, mother, wife, baby, father, we were perhaps taking up a larger portion of it than usual. Why? Because we were pushing a stroller. And, as we walked, chatting idly, I noticed an older man, grey hair, wife in tow, a harridan no doubt, I project with fair reason, but aren't all reasons fair in this type of situation? The fellow, which he was not, was aiming to bump into me, so I tried to slide my left shoulder in front making them horizontal to take up less space on the path to chocolate shops and wine.
And that was when I felt a jolt. Long ago, it was probably useful, biologically speaking, and I'm not even going to google or Wikipedia the damn thing, it just makes sense, for humans, especially males, to be aggressive and protective, particularly with the birth of a new offspring. This would allow the child, though certainly not in the modern play toy sense, to grow up in safety. However, society as we live in, where we agree to certain rules such as: I will not take everything which my heart desires and neither will you, subjugates this a bit.
And after I realized that older gentleman, know that the term I would use colloquially would be something more akin to a--hole, had smashed into me. And now his voice rang out expletive deleted, stop taking up the whole sidewalk, you (expletive deleted). At this point I became filled with rage, turned amongst a sea of people and yelled, "Why don't you shut up?" And approached the older gentleman, who immediately dropped the arm of his wife, poor woman and not a harridan in the slightest, so he could begin cursing at me while I explained that I was out for a walk with my wife and newborn child and didn't appreciate...until I was cut off by this man saying, "I don't give an expletive who you are."
Is fantasizing about hurting someone the same thing as hurting someone? It seems important to note that you never know what you'll do in this type of situation. If you'll adopt the social mores that are thrust upon you since near birth, dear s, if you encounter a gentleman like this in your future you have my solemn dictate to slap away, or do you end up grappling on the sidewalk in Bethesday with a man twenty five years your senior?
The old gent gave me a slight push, and I remembered back to all those years ago when my fifth grade teacher singled me out as a good catch to all the girls in the class because I was smart, because I was going to do something. And I realized that it was best to keep my wits about me and see if I could s a college fund sooner rather than later. "He pushed me," I said, imploring all of those happy white folks and moms pushing three strollers who were studiously trying to avoid the happenings in the street.
If I had to do it over again I would have offered him a secret meet up in a local parking lot where we could have discussed our differences with less decorum. However, society, and social conditioning trumped the biological imperative to protect once again. I fear that I must leave this city soon, or I'll soon find myself rolling around on the ground punching an old man who just happens to be an a--hole.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Videos
Recently S has notified me that I'm to stop making odd comments whilst we are video taping our little, though growing at an exceedingly rapid rate, if things continue as they are currently she'll probably be the size of a brontosaurus at some point, fingers crossed, bundle of baby. Apparently complaining about the frequency of her crying or her last incident of throwing up are not the sorts of things that stand the test of time.
And S does have a point. I often deliver little snide remarks during the filming of the videos that I don't offer up as frequently when we're actually just chilling with lil s. I am acutely aware that I'm being filmed, and it shows. However, I'd like to point out that knowledge of your future audience isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. I mean, you have to be aware as a new parent that any number of people may be watching these videos in the future. Hell, even you might be watching these videos, and I think we all know that one of the most awful things in the world is to be bored. Do you know what isn't boring? Saying obnoxious things during videos.
I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm not going to listen to S. Rather, I'm going to continue saying strange things in videos on the off chance that my future self will find them amusing. Or, best case scenario, totally obnoxious because I've matured/been beaten down by the world enough to have stopped making those snide remarks. However, when you've got a three minute video of your child's first bath, which actually just involves her naked and screaming for three minutes, you really have to question the method behind the whole madness of taking any videos at all. I'm not sure that I'll ever enjoy hearing s cry on that video. The girl was born with some serious lungs. Maybe we can enjoy it on mute when she's sixteen or something.
I guess the whole argument for being out of the picture in the video is that the child is the star of the show no matter what. (one of the best things S does in the videos is give lil s's age. It's already getting hard to remember she used to be as small as she was at first. However, now that we have the ability to document every last moment I think the thing that's going to remain interesting throughout the years is whether my various puns on the word chai are going to stand the test of time.
I'm not going to upload the video where Sadie cries for three minutes straight, but I'm tempted to in order to garner further support for the ban on my extemporaneous speaking whilst videoing. (The only downside to the whole project is realizing how annoying my voice is, which I'm not really privy to in the day to day world. I realize this is a common occurrence for people, but I still don't enjoy the sound of it).
Anyhow, I'm looking forward to sitting down on lil s's prom night and watching each and every one of these videos. I'm hoping we're at something like twenty four hours by that point in time, and we can all remember how old she was and how funny I used to be.
Portions of things I used to scribble about:
In the third grade he threw a dinosaur themed birthday party. His mother had knit him a fine stegosaurus outfit, though he found himself troubled on the celebration day by his bipedal locomotion and its inaccuracy relative to the actual movement of a stegosaurus. He was the sort of boy who was inexplicably and irrevocably troubled by small things. The other children’s costume tended to be big ticket sort of predators that were bipedal, and this left the boy, that day, feeling mildly depressed as everyone ate cake, pushing the green sugary frosting to the edge of paper plates, where the body of the maimed green triceratops centerpiece quietly melted.
During the latter stages of the party, when the adults were tipsy from white wine doled out freely in the kitchen, the boy, not knowing how to extricate himself expeditiously from the costume, wet himself in the guest bathroom. He sat on the cold tile and wept. Then, not knowing what else to do, he left the bathroom and sat on the couch, acutely aware of the smell of his own urine rising to meet him, and of its slow dry against his thigh, and the accompanying chafing and general stiffness that it created on the left leg of his costume.
The whole stegosaurus urine affair, and its attendant shame and humiliation stuck with the boy for years. In short, in the way of adults blaming parents for their failings he held the whole costume affair against her, for allowing him, the child, to persuade her to make such a complex costume that made urination such a chore. The other kids at the party generally had wonderful time.
And S does have a point. I often deliver little snide remarks during the filming of the videos that I don't offer up as frequently when we're actually just chilling with lil s. I am acutely aware that I'm being filmed, and it shows. However, I'd like to point out that knowledge of your future audience isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world. I mean, you have to be aware as a new parent that any number of people may be watching these videos in the future. Hell, even you might be watching these videos, and I think we all know that one of the most awful things in the world is to be bored. Do you know what isn't boring? Saying obnoxious things during videos.
I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm not going to listen to S. Rather, I'm going to continue saying strange things in videos on the off chance that my future self will find them amusing. Or, best case scenario, totally obnoxious because I've matured/been beaten down by the world enough to have stopped making those snide remarks. However, when you've got a three minute video of your child's first bath, which actually just involves her naked and screaming for three minutes, you really have to question the method behind the whole madness of taking any videos at all. I'm not sure that I'll ever enjoy hearing s cry on that video. The girl was born with some serious lungs. Maybe we can enjoy it on mute when she's sixteen or something.
I guess the whole argument for being out of the picture in the video is that the child is the star of the show no matter what. (one of the best things S does in the videos is give lil s's age. It's already getting hard to remember she used to be as small as she was at first. However, now that we have the ability to document every last moment I think the thing that's going to remain interesting throughout the years is whether my various puns on the word chai are going to stand the test of time.
I'm not going to upload the video where Sadie cries for three minutes straight, but I'm tempted to in order to garner further support for the ban on my extemporaneous speaking whilst videoing. (The only downside to the whole project is realizing how annoying my voice is, which I'm not really privy to in the day to day world. I realize this is a common occurrence for people, but I still don't enjoy the sound of it).
Anyhow, I'm looking forward to sitting down on lil s's prom night and watching each and every one of these videos. I'm hoping we're at something like twenty four hours by that point in time, and we can all remember how old she was and how funny I used to be.
Portions of things I used to scribble about:
In the third grade he threw a dinosaur themed birthday party. His mother had knit him a fine stegosaurus outfit, though he found himself troubled on the celebration day by his bipedal locomotion and its inaccuracy relative to the actual movement of a stegosaurus. He was the sort of boy who was inexplicably and irrevocably troubled by small things. The other children’s costume tended to be big ticket sort of predators that were bipedal, and this left the boy, that day, feeling mildly depressed as everyone ate cake, pushing the green sugary frosting to the edge of paper plates, where the body of the maimed green triceratops centerpiece quietly melted.
During the latter stages of the party, when the adults were tipsy from white wine doled out freely in the kitchen, the boy, not knowing how to extricate himself expeditiously from the costume, wet himself in the guest bathroom. He sat on the cold tile and wept. Then, not knowing what else to do, he left the bathroom and sat on the couch, acutely aware of the smell of his own urine rising to meet him, and of its slow dry against his thigh, and the accompanying chafing and general stiffness that it created on the left leg of his costume.
The whole stegosaurus urine affair, and its attendant shame and humiliation stuck with the boy for years. In short, in the way of adults blaming parents for their failings he held the whole costume affair against her, for allowing him, the child, to persuade her to make such a complex costume that made urination such a chore. The other kids at the party generally had wonderful time.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
All the books are moving
I've been told that several rows of my books will be moving upstairs quite soon to prepare room for kids toys. I'm not entirely thrilled about this changing of the guard. I was just reflecting on the fact that I've read about many authors giving away their books late in life because they realize they don't need them anymore. Guess what? I'm dying with my books and when lil s walks them down to the flea market and dumps them off in hefty garbage bags I'll be too far away to give a damn.
In the meantime I don't see why we have to convert our living room from an intellectual haven into a warren for grubby toys. I mean, kids toys are nasty. Why? Because little kids are probably the dirtiest thing in the world, and they are constantly handling their toys. I don't see why we couldn't just teach lil s to enjoy pulling a copy of Moby Dick off the shelf and reading a few passages to herself. I'm certain that she'd enjoy learning about nineteenth century whaling. What child wouldn't?
This is probably just the first in a number of battles that I'll be losing in a never ending attempt to retain some of my grip on sanity. I imagine that my musical selections of late, including Jay Sean will soon devolve into Raffi blaring in the car while my ears bleed. Thankfully it will probably take the family a little while to build up enough force to get me to stop watching sports though I'm sure I'll eventually be DVRing every Michigan game while cheering for lil S at some crappy soccer game. Sigh. I like books.
The next thing you know S will be proposing that we take the book shelf out altogether and just replace it with a doll house or a baby Einstein's jungle learning center kit or some sh-- like that. Anyhow, the whole point of this blog post is that I will not go quietly into the night. In fact, next May I plan to embark on a reading of The Pale King with lil s every night before bed. I'll omit that one story about the toddler getting burned but other than that she better be prepared to get literaturified. I think that's a good thing.
Preach it Robert Musil:
"For a long time now a hint of aversion had lain on everything he did and experienced, a shadow of impotence and loneliness, an all-encompassing distaste for which he could not find the complementary inclination. He felt at times as though he had been born with a talent for which there was at present no objective."
In the meantime I don't see why we have to convert our living room from an intellectual haven into a warren for grubby toys. I mean, kids toys are nasty. Why? Because little kids are probably the dirtiest thing in the world, and they are constantly handling their toys. I don't see why we couldn't just teach lil s to enjoy pulling a copy of Moby Dick off the shelf and reading a few passages to herself. I'm certain that she'd enjoy learning about nineteenth century whaling. What child wouldn't?
This is probably just the first in a number of battles that I'll be losing in a never ending attempt to retain some of my grip on sanity. I imagine that my musical selections of late, including Jay Sean will soon devolve into Raffi blaring in the car while my ears bleed. Thankfully it will probably take the family a little while to build up enough force to get me to stop watching sports though I'm sure I'll eventually be DVRing every Michigan game while cheering for lil S at some crappy soccer game. Sigh. I like books.
The next thing you know S will be proposing that we take the book shelf out altogether and just replace it with a doll house or a baby Einstein's jungle learning center kit or some sh-- like that. Anyhow, the whole point of this blog post is that I will not go quietly into the night. In fact, next May I plan to embark on a reading of The Pale King with lil s every night before bed. I'll omit that one story about the toddler getting burned but other than that she better be prepared to get literaturified. I think that's a good thing.
Preach it Robert Musil:
"For a long time now a hint of aversion had lain on everything he did and experienced, a shadow of impotence and loneliness, an all-encompassing distaste for which he could not find the complementary inclination. He felt at times as though he had been born with a talent for which there was at present no objective."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
One more
Lil s spent the night sleeping peacefully between her two parents in bed, as the whole transition to flat surfaces thing didn't go well. It's safe to assume that her refusal to sleep on a flat surface has something to do with her rejection of the pre-Columbus flat world view. Thankfully s was sleeping peacefully because I spent the whole night in an abject fear that I was going to roll over on that tiny little person.
I'm not quite sure how people do co-sleeping successfully. It's just nearly impossible to fall into a truly deep sleep when you know that moving around in bed could possibly smash your little newborn.
Let's see what Robert Musil is on about:
"Only in the most unusual cases is it useful to determine whether a book is good or bad; for it is just as rare for it to be one or the other. It is usually both."
Did anyone ever watch that show Lost? Why was one of the characters named Lapidus? Who's brilliant idea was that?
Tonight we had our second dancing lesson with lil s. We've heard from other parents/books that it's a good idea to develop a ritual for putting your baby to bed. Thus, I've decided that our ritual will be dancing with her to hip hop songs until she spits up some breast milk. I'm sure to a lot of people that sounds crazy, but I'm just going to ask everyone in this ever more tolerant age to respect our family tradition of riling up and jostling our baby before we insist on her sleeping for seven hours. I don't think that's too much to ask. But seriously, tonight we got S to dance as well and lil s had a big grin on her face the whole time, which essentially proves that babies are really amused by slapstick types of comedy and crazy facial expressions. Lil s, Jay Sean.
I can't control what lil s likes to dance to. I can control whether I let her watch the back up dancers in the video. I've got better things planned for you s). Listen, I'd love it if it was a bevy of classical hits, but, like her father, classical music just makes her angry/puts her to sleep. It's hard to know which way she'll go when we put her in her swing. She tends to look angrily over her left shoulder at the piece of plastic that controls the music. I secretly suspect that when she finally discovers how to reach out and grab things that she's going to throttle that piece of plastic. I imagine she harbors some deep feelings of resentment against the thing, and perhaps blames it for her incarceration in the swing. s, it certainly isn't your loving parents.
I'm going to blame that piece of plastic for all sorts of things until she gets old enough to realize that her daddy is a bit of a fibber. I'll use words like fib instead of lie because I'm a dad.
Let's see what Robert Musil is up to:
…. by the time they have reached the middle of their life’s journey, few people remember how they have managed to arrive at themselves, at their amusements, their point of view, their wife, character, occupation and successes, but they cannot help feeling that not much is likely to change anymore. It might even be asserted that they have been cheated, for one can nowhere discover any sufficient reason for everything’s coming about as it has. It might just have well as turned out differently. The events of people’s lives have, after all, only to the last degree originated in them, having generally depended on all sorts of circumstances such as the moods, the life or death of quite different people, and have, as it were, only at the given point of time come hurrying towards them"
Oh, Robert. I'm going to go hold a baby.
I'm not quite sure how people do co-sleeping successfully. It's just nearly impossible to fall into a truly deep sleep when you know that moving around in bed could possibly smash your little newborn.
Let's see what Robert Musil is on about:
"Only in the most unusual cases is it useful to determine whether a book is good or bad; for it is just as rare for it to be one or the other. It is usually both."
Did anyone ever watch that show Lost? Why was one of the characters named Lapidus? Who's brilliant idea was that?
Tonight we had our second dancing lesson with lil s. We've heard from other parents/books that it's a good idea to develop a ritual for putting your baby to bed. Thus, I've decided that our ritual will be dancing with her to hip hop songs until she spits up some breast milk. I'm sure to a lot of people that sounds crazy, but I'm just going to ask everyone in this ever more tolerant age to respect our family tradition of riling up and jostling our baby before we insist on her sleeping for seven hours. I don't think that's too much to ask. But seriously, tonight we got S to dance as well and lil s had a big grin on her face the whole time, which essentially proves that babies are really amused by slapstick types of comedy and crazy facial expressions. Lil s, Jay Sean.
I can't control what lil s likes to dance to. I can control whether I let her watch the back up dancers in the video. I've got better things planned for you s). Listen, I'd love it if it was a bevy of classical hits, but, like her father, classical music just makes her angry/puts her to sleep. It's hard to know which way she'll go when we put her in her swing. She tends to look angrily over her left shoulder at the piece of plastic that controls the music. I secretly suspect that when she finally discovers how to reach out and grab things that she's going to throttle that piece of plastic. I imagine she harbors some deep feelings of resentment against the thing, and perhaps blames it for her incarceration in the swing. s, it certainly isn't your loving parents.
I'm going to blame that piece of plastic for all sorts of things until she gets old enough to realize that her daddy is a bit of a fibber. I'll use words like fib instead of lie because I'm a dad.
Let's see what Robert Musil is up to:
…. by the time they have reached the middle of their life’s journey, few people remember how they have managed to arrive at themselves, at their amusements, their point of view, their wife, character, occupation and successes, but they cannot help feeling that not much is likely to change anymore. It might even be asserted that they have been cheated, for one can nowhere discover any sufficient reason for everything’s coming about as it has. It might just have well as turned out differently. The events of people’s lives have, after all, only to the last degree originated in them, having generally depended on all sorts of circumstances such as the moods, the life or death of quite different people, and have, as it were, only at the given point of time come hurrying towards them"
Oh, Robert. I'm going to go hold a baby.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Are you down?
So, we're transitioning Sadie to the whole sleeping on a flat surface, and we're also trying to move her into the putting herself to sleep when she's really tired mode. However, the child is not taking so well to putting herself to sleep. If mommy and daddy aren't cuddling her it's apparently not time to sleep. Thus, I walked in this evening to see her lying in her pack and play just staring up at her mobile with her arms and legs trussed up in a solid swaddle, her big eyes unblinking.
Basically she looked like a person in an insane asylum. That's why I have reservations about the whole being swaddled thing. I mean, I know it lets her sleep and all, but it also makes her appear crazy. I'm worried that by merely appearing to be crazy s may actually turn out to be crazy. I think that's why parents warn you time and again not to cross your eyes because they might stay that way. Thus, I propose we stop swaddling her, or she's going to grow up with a few screws loose.
s was sort of on a sleep strike today, so I was forced to carry her around the house all evening in her favorite position, essentially sitting down but using my back as the chair back and my arms as the seat, the position allows her to look around freely and avoid the annoying perpetual smile of her father, who desires that she smile back.
And that's just the thing, we've got a serious little baby. I don't know when babies are supposed to start laughing, but I'm pretty sure s won't even attempt a laugh until she's well into her teens. Sometimes I just want to sit her down and let her know that the world is going to be all right, but babies are sometimes hard to reason with, and the copious amounts of drool on her chin don't exactly inspire confidence in me that we're having a real heart to heart. I'm trying to teach her some signs, so I can figure out what she's so worried about.
a) Global warming-I'd explain to her that it's a hoax created by the liberal media and "scientists." I'll air quote the crap out of "scientists," so she knows to distrust them. Scientists, honey, are just people who weren't creative enough to get a degree in the humanities.
b) The political rhetoric being too stringent. I'll explain to s that political rhetoric has always been caustic. I mean, dudes used to shoot each other over disputes. Remember that old great milk commercial with Aaron burr? Of course, none of this will make sense to little s, so I'll just explain to her that the liberal media is trying to force "Obama care" down our throat, and that we're ready to take this country back, and we'll do it by any means necessary. I'll let her know that we only refer to it as "Obama care." Because, lil s, the best way to move forward is to move backward. She'll probably realize I'm a philosopher and stop worrying to much.
c) A general unhappiness best described as ennui. "Be a writer, kid," I'll tell her, and dance her to sleep to her current favorite song. No worries, I don't let her watch the video with all that dancing, which obviously leads to sin. However, I think she looks the hook because she thinks it's all about her since we've called her baby so many times.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Nightmares
Is it possible for children to have nightmares? I mean, how is it that Sadie wakes up from a deep sleep crying like the world is lost? A lot of people are going to tell you crazy things like, "Oh, your baby is probably waking up because she's hungry, but I think it's fair to say that the baby is waking up because she's having some crazy ass nightmare."
A simple word search teaches you that the word nightmare came into existence before the advent of English and Germanic languages. And that a mare, French for mother, was the name given to a particular type of female spirit that made it its business to suffocate you at night. Or rather, that particular type of mare was prone to doing so in the evening. Apparently we have a daymare, which seems much more likely to exist given the extent to which naps often leave you feeling worse after you wake up from them.
*I later found some disagreement with the above definition and for those who find those sorts of things interesting here was the most satisfying, ie, most convincing, etymological root of the word nightmare.
"Interestingly, the mare in nightmare has nothing to do with a female horse. Instead, it comes from Old English maere 'goblin, incubus.' The word was nigt-mare in 1300, and it referred to an evil female spirit afflicting sleepers with a feeling of suffocation. By 1350, it was nytmare and in 1440 it was nyghte mare. Mare 'goblin' is a cognate with Middle Dutch mare, maer 'incubus,' Old High German mara, Middle High German mar, mare (dialectical modern German Mahr 'nightmlare'), and Old Icelandic mara 'incubus.' Mare comes from the Proto-Germanic word *maron.
Nightmare was used to describe 'a bad dream caused by an incubus' in the 16th century, and by 1829 it was used to describe 'a bad dream' in general."
One could alternatively suggest that Sadie's crying is due to our having moved her from the newborn napper to a flat-bottomed sleeping position, which she hates. Why? Because it will build character or something. Honestly, I'm sort of confused as to why we made the change. I think the longest distance between two sleeps is letting your child sleep as they desire. However, I've been advised that she needs to learn to sleep in this manner because...well, she does.
I'm given to supporting the child on this one as spending the evenings repose counting sheep in a newborn napper looks positively luxurious, with all the cushy padding and elevated head, just the way those old fancy mattress commercials used to tell us we slept at our best. And, and, it comes with those fancy bears dangling above your head. Remember, it's best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I'd want those dirty bears where I could keep track of them.
It's now been a solid ten minutes and Sadie has yet to cry out since I put her down, so perhaps she's ready to adjust to this whole sleeping on her back thing. Maybe this is going to be a breakthrough, and we'll have her passing the evening away in her nursery in no time. Or maybe she'll just wake us up in thirty minutes. And we'll have to try and reconstruct her newborn napper while still attempting to sleep. That's the great part with kids, you never know what's going to happen next. They could throw up on you, or poop through their diapers, or cry for hours. I mean, the possibilities are endless.
Or they could lay their tiny head against their mother's chest and gaze back out at the world, all eyes, their head slightly bobbing, a buoy on some quiet sea, and you can trace the spidery purple veins on their forehead with your fingertip and admire that most exquisite creation.
A simple word search teaches you that the word nightmare came into existence before the advent of English and Germanic languages. And that a mare, French for mother, was the name given to a particular type of female spirit that made it its business to suffocate you at night. Or rather, that particular type of mare was prone to doing so in the evening. Apparently we have a daymare, which seems much more likely to exist given the extent to which naps often leave you feeling worse after you wake up from them.
*I later found some disagreement with the above definition and for those who find those sorts of things interesting here was the most satisfying, ie, most convincing, etymological root of the word nightmare.
"Interestingly, the mare in nightmare has nothing to do with a female horse. Instead, it comes from Old English maere 'goblin, incubus.' The word was nigt-mare in 1300, and it referred to an evil female spirit afflicting sleepers with a feeling of suffocation. By 1350, it was nytmare and in 1440 it was nyghte mare. Mare 'goblin' is a cognate with Middle Dutch mare, maer 'incubus,' Old High German mara, Middle High German mar, mare (dialectical modern German Mahr 'nightmlare'), and Old Icelandic mara 'incubus.' Mare comes from the Proto-Germanic word *maron.
Nightmare was used to describe 'a bad dream caused by an incubus' in the 16th century, and by 1829 it was used to describe 'a bad dream' in general."
One could alternatively suggest that Sadie's crying is due to our having moved her from the newborn napper to a flat-bottomed sleeping position, which she hates. Why? Because it will build character or something. Honestly, I'm sort of confused as to why we made the change. I think the longest distance between two sleeps is letting your child sleep as they desire. However, I've been advised that she needs to learn to sleep in this manner because...well, she does.
I'm given to supporting the child on this one as spending the evenings repose counting sheep in a newborn napper looks positively luxurious, with all the cushy padding and elevated head, just the way those old fancy mattress commercials used to tell us we slept at our best. And, and, it comes with those fancy bears dangling above your head. Remember, it's best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I'd want those dirty bears where I could keep track of them.
It's now been a solid ten minutes and Sadie has yet to cry out since I put her down, so perhaps she's ready to adjust to this whole sleeping on her back thing. Maybe this is going to be a breakthrough, and we'll have her passing the evening away in her nursery in no time. Or maybe she'll just wake us up in thirty minutes. And we'll have to try and reconstruct her newborn napper while still attempting to sleep. That's the great part with kids, you never know what's going to happen next. They could throw up on you, or poop through their diapers, or cry for hours. I mean, the possibilities are endless.
Or they could lay their tiny head against their mother's chest and gaze back out at the world, all eyes, their head slightly bobbing, a buoy on some quiet sea, and you can trace the spidery purple veins on their forehead with your fingertip and admire that most exquisite creation.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Commons and cave bears
Columbus wouldn't have discovered the New World if he was married.
As it turns out Columbus was married.
Well, it's fair to say that that's why he found a New World that was already inhabited.
Sometimes, after s has been staring up at the mobile for five minutes or so she throws her arms out wide in the classic moro reflex and then she commences screaming as if the bears were real and possibly going to eat her. It's fair to say that she's far more intelligent than I sometimes give her credit for. Bears are scary. Every time I go hiking, even when it's in Alexandria, I briefly entertain the idea that a bear is going to appear on the trail and attempt to eat us. And I always had to ask myself whether I'd run or let the bear eat me while S escaped. I think it's fair to say that meeting a bear on the trail is probably the sort of thing that builds character.
Now I'm pretty certain that I'd let the bear go for me first. I have 2x S now.
Sometimes I say things like, "I want to move to a college town sized place that's a bit warmer than here." And S says, "Wait, what type of place do you want to move to?" This is the sort of conversation that I'll probably be having in my eighties.
One of the things that I've always remembered from an old DFW interview was his assertion that the basic sorts of things we have in common don't turn out to be all that interesting. Specifically, the shared love of a quick sort of joke as an expression of humor. I like this about people. It is commonplace.
A lot of the time I find myself writing about loneliness because I think it's something we all have in common. The act of writing, ironically, is a sort of bridge between reader and writer.
If I tried to build a bridge in reality, it would fail. Oxen would die. Oregon would never be reached. Words are not all that I have, but it's close.
Sadie, unquestionably, is a very aesthetically pleasing child. I attach a great deal of importance to imminently banal things.
Someone who wasn't her father might question it.
They would be wrong.
In an essay by Milan Kundera he describes the great French writer, Rabelais, experimenting with the concept of the novel. He says, back then, it could have still been anything.
s looks like a pear in her cloth diapers. A giant pink pear.
I am bored easily. However, I will always teach my child that old maxim, "Only boring people make you bored."
I find travel interesting but not work. This probably falls under the veil of things that nearly everyone has in common like quick jokes.
For a while, everyone told us that s looked a bit more like me. However, the more that I see of her, I think she looks just like herself. This is not intended to be profound. Years ago, a fellow writer put it best: Profound-I'm in favor of things being found.
I have an overactive imagination, which may or may not revolve heavily around a fear of bears. I'm fairly certain that if I lived alone I'd sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow.
I think the most salient thing we have in common is a love of money or perhaps the self. Perhaps the self just loves money.
The Cave Bear lived during the Pleistocene and in my childhood it was thought to have been even bigger than a polar bear.
s is sleeping now underneath her mobile of bears seemingly unaware of their malevolent intent.
Why do movies suddenly seem too long?
The morphology of cave bear teeth suggests that some cave bears may have been herbivores. Ergo; one would not have to be afraid of encountering an eight foot bear while hiking. Though, they would never be able to find out if they would run or stay. This seems like a flaw in the whole idea of a cave bear. Presumably, a wise person could just avoid caves.
Humans are responsible for a number of bad things, but we probably didn't kill off the cave bears.
The thing that I've never liked about strict non-fiction is the lack of an imposed narrative. The inability of historical data to present a coherent story.
When s sleeps, she squeaks like a mouse. Mice are reputed to scare off elephants, which has nothing to do with cave bears.
One of the main reasons that we probably don't have ancestral roots with Neanderthals is the evidence that they may have worshiped cave bears, clearly we have nothing in common.
As it turns out Columbus was married.
Well, it's fair to say that that's why he found a New World that was already inhabited.
Sometimes, after s has been staring up at the mobile for five minutes or so she throws her arms out wide in the classic moro reflex and then she commences screaming as if the bears were real and possibly going to eat her. It's fair to say that she's far more intelligent than I sometimes give her credit for. Bears are scary. Every time I go hiking, even when it's in Alexandria, I briefly entertain the idea that a bear is going to appear on the trail and attempt to eat us. And I always had to ask myself whether I'd run or let the bear eat me while S escaped. I think it's fair to say that meeting a bear on the trail is probably the sort of thing that builds character.
Now I'm pretty certain that I'd let the bear go for me first. I have 2x S now.
Sometimes I say things like, "I want to move to a college town sized place that's a bit warmer than here." And S says, "Wait, what type of place do you want to move to?" This is the sort of conversation that I'll probably be having in my eighties.
One of the things that I've always remembered from an old DFW interview was his assertion that the basic sorts of things we have in common don't turn out to be all that interesting. Specifically, the shared love of a quick sort of joke as an expression of humor. I like this about people. It is commonplace.
A lot of the time I find myself writing about loneliness because I think it's something we all have in common. The act of writing, ironically, is a sort of bridge between reader and writer.
If I tried to build a bridge in reality, it would fail. Oxen would die. Oregon would never be reached. Words are not all that I have, but it's close.
Sadie, unquestionably, is a very aesthetically pleasing child. I attach a great deal of importance to imminently banal things.
Someone who wasn't her father might question it.
They would be wrong.
In an essay by Milan Kundera he describes the great French writer, Rabelais, experimenting with the concept of the novel. He says, back then, it could have still been anything.
s looks like a pear in her cloth diapers. A giant pink pear.
I am bored easily. However, I will always teach my child that old maxim, "Only boring people make you bored."
I find travel interesting but not work. This probably falls under the veil of things that nearly everyone has in common like quick jokes.
For a while, everyone told us that s looked a bit more like me. However, the more that I see of her, I think she looks just like herself. This is not intended to be profound. Years ago, a fellow writer put it best: Profound-I'm in favor of things being found.
I have an overactive imagination, which may or may not revolve heavily around a fear of bears. I'm fairly certain that if I lived alone I'd sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow.
I think the most salient thing we have in common is a love of money or perhaps the self. Perhaps the self just loves money.
The Cave Bear lived during the Pleistocene and in my childhood it was thought to have been even bigger than a polar bear.
s is sleeping now underneath her mobile of bears seemingly unaware of their malevolent intent.
Why do movies suddenly seem too long?
The morphology of cave bear teeth suggests that some cave bears may have been herbivores. Ergo; one would not have to be afraid of encountering an eight foot bear while hiking. Though, they would never be able to find out if they would run or stay. This seems like a flaw in the whole idea of a cave bear. Presumably, a wise person could just avoid caves.
Humans are responsible for a number of bad things, but we probably didn't kill off the cave bears.
The thing that I've never liked about strict non-fiction is the lack of an imposed narrative. The inability of historical data to present a coherent story.
When s sleeps, she squeaks like a mouse. Mice are reputed to scare off elephants, which has nothing to do with cave bears.
One of the main reasons that we probably don't have ancestral roots with Neanderthals is the evidence that they may have worshiped cave bears, clearly we have nothing in common.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Babies are strange and other things
So, probably one of the most interesting things about having a child is watching their little brain develop. And when I say, watching their little brain develop, I want the emphasis to be on the little part. I mean, I can be sitting there carrying on a perfectly wonderful conversation with s.
M: Who's the baby?
s: Drools
M: Hi baby Sadie.
s: Cocks her head in a way that denotes irritation followed by a lowering her eyebrows in a way that might express confusion.
M: It's baby Sadie.
s: Stares over my shoulder at some bit of light.
M: Hi baby Sadie.
s: Staring at light.
And so on....This is pretty much the substance of most of our evenings. Even on a good night I know that I'm eventually going to lose out in her affections to our blingin' chandelier. I mean, how's a father supposed to compete with a giant retro chandelier? He can't. This is why I spend the majority of my time trying to emulate a pure beam of light. I always dress in yellow when I'm holding her, and I'm using glisten on my teeth to create the sort of shine that she's accustomed to.
Trying to get a babies attention is akin to getting the pretty girl to talk with you in high school. I mean, sure it might happen for a brief moment, and you're almost certain that the world is a beautiful place designed for your happiness when you suddenly realize that your conversation about what been assigned in English class is over and some guy who doesn't know the difference between commend and command is now sidling up to her while you drift away like so much smoke in the wind. Or something like that. I mean, a baby smiling at you is way more kick ass than some pretty girl.
Other things:
It turned out that all we ever wanted was to wander down dirty streets with someone we loved where the sun's relentless rays kept watch on our pale backs. We wanted to slip through the streets like ghosts. Wander until we reached some strange body of water, pale too, and green. We wanted to strip off our clothes and go swimming in that warm little bay in the middle of nowhere, and I wanted, I now, I wanted to do it with you.
And instead I find myself taking pictures of strangers, sun reddened and tired. Sometimes I might pretend that the people in the pictures are us. And one day, I even walked right up to a couple, British, I think, and I asked them if I could call them sometime in the future. I told them that we'd had a wonderful time, and the dear pleasant people acted like we've wanted everyone to act since we were but mere babes in our mother's arms, they acted like the oldest and best friends I'd ever had.
And we spent the afternoon in some dusty bar, drinking to what was left of our health. They were the closest thing in the world to angels. She, with her rotten British teeth, and he, with his razor sharp British wit. They were like characters in a story, this couple. And I wish you could have seen them. They assured me that they would have loved you, old Alec and Amy. But then again, the damn Brits haven't been right about anything in nearly 100 years. No. They'd have probably liked you as little as I should have, with your cold nasally laugh and pale shoulders. I confess that when we were done drinking, stumbling home through streets made of sand, the wind making patterns in the banyan leaves, I still found myself missing you, and I left those people we used to know and sat down for another drink, this time, pure rain.
M: Who's the baby?
s: Drools
M: Hi baby Sadie.
s: Cocks her head in a way that denotes irritation followed by a lowering her eyebrows in a way that might express confusion.
M: It's baby Sadie.
s: Stares over my shoulder at some bit of light.
M: Hi baby Sadie.
s: Staring at light.
And so on....This is pretty much the substance of most of our evenings. Even on a good night I know that I'm eventually going to lose out in her affections to our blingin' chandelier. I mean, how's a father supposed to compete with a giant retro chandelier? He can't. This is why I spend the majority of my time trying to emulate a pure beam of light. I always dress in yellow when I'm holding her, and I'm using glisten on my teeth to create the sort of shine that she's accustomed to.
Trying to get a babies attention is akin to getting the pretty girl to talk with you in high school. I mean, sure it might happen for a brief moment, and you're almost certain that the world is a beautiful place designed for your happiness when you suddenly realize that your conversation about what been assigned in English class is over and some guy who doesn't know the difference between commend and command is now sidling up to her while you drift away like so much smoke in the wind. Or something like that. I mean, a baby smiling at you is way more kick ass than some pretty girl.
Other things:
It turned out that all we ever wanted was to wander down dirty streets with someone we loved where the sun's relentless rays kept watch on our pale backs. We wanted to slip through the streets like ghosts. Wander until we reached some strange body of water, pale too, and green. We wanted to strip off our clothes and go swimming in that warm little bay in the middle of nowhere, and I wanted, I now, I wanted to do it with you.
And instead I find myself taking pictures of strangers, sun reddened and tired. Sometimes I might pretend that the people in the pictures are us. And one day, I even walked right up to a couple, British, I think, and I asked them if I could call them sometime in the future. I told them that we'd had a wonderful time, and the dear pleasant people acted like we've wanted everyone to act since we were but mere babes in our mother's arms, they acted like the oldest and best friends I'd ever had.
And we spent the afternoon in some dusty bar, drinking to what was left of our health. They were the closest thing in the world to angels. She, with her rotten British teeth, and he, with his razor sharp British wit. They were like characters in a story, this couple. And I wish you could have seen them. They assured me that they would have loved you, old Alec and Amy. But then again, the damn Brits haven't been right about anything in nearly 100 years. No. They'd have probably liked you as little as I should have, with your cold nasally laugh and pale shoulders. I confess that when we were done drinking, stumbling home through streets made of sand, the wind making patterns in the banyan leaves, I still found myself missing you, and I left those people we used to know and sat down for another drink, this time, pure rain.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Speech
Apparently babies are born into the world with these giant sponge like brains, capable of understanding every type of language known to man. And it it only our proclivity (particularly in America) of nattering on for hours in our own particular dialect that limits them to one. Ergo; we've been speaking to Sadie exclusively in Latin because we think it's a language that's going to make a come back. Et tu, Brute? I mean, that (probably fictional) moment in history is pretty much the reason that language was invented. Well, that and probably at some point some cave woman noticed some cave guy just hanging out on a Saturday when he could have been doing something useful like dusting.
Sadie is just in the beginning phases of speech. And I think we're probably as excited as your typical parents to hear what little noise she's going to make next. Actually you're supposed to speak to the child and then pause, thus allowing them time to speak as well (as though you're having a conversation with the little baldy), and then you're supposed to copy whatever noise they make. Anyhow, some of her noises are just plain crazy babyness, so I generally wind up saying Ooohhh over and over again because it's easy, and I figure she'll start getting it at some point, and I can be excited about teaching her a phrase that's useful during eclipses and meteor showers.
I also now spend a good part of my day pointing to my chest and saying da da. And then pointing to my nose and saying, "nose, nose" followed by pointing to her nose and repeating the phrase. I'm guessing that at some point soon my child is going to lament the fact that her father only seems to know two words. This is also just a fair warning to those people in my life, if I come up to you and start pointing to your nose with a great deal of excitement just go along with it.
Sometimes, when I'm walking around work I stop and think of my little chubby cheeked girl. It's as if she's a balloon that's being blown up via breast milk. I think of her red cheeks, and the faint bits of fuzz that are supposed to pass for hair. I think of her long unblinking stare, and I smile, audibly, like a crazy person because I have such a beautiful little girl. (Of course, as I've just finished writing this I can hear her breaking into tears upstairs despite the fact that she's barely slept at all tonight apparently she's taken it upon herself to take the night off from that whole sleeping thing, and I guess it's just one more day of being a parent).
Sadie is just in the beginning phases of speech. And I think we're probably as excited as your typical parents to hear what little noise she's going to make next. Actually you're supposed to speak to the child and then pause, thus allowing them time to speak as well (as though you're having a conversation with the little baldy), and then you're supposed to copy whatever noise they make. Anyhow, some of her noises are just plain crazy babyness, so I generally wind up saying Ooohhh over and over again because it's easy, and I figure she'll start getting it at some point, and I can be excited about teaching her a phrase that's useful during eclipses and meteor showers.
I also now spend a good part of my day pointing to my chest and saying da da. And then pointing to my nose and saying, "nose, nose" followed by pointing to her nose and repeating the phrase. I'm guessing that at some point soon my child is going to lament the fact that her father only seems to know two words. This is also just a fair warning to those people in my life, if I come up to you and start pointing to your nose with a great deal of excitement just go along with it.
Sometimes, when I'm walking around work I stop and think of my little chubby cheeked girl. It's as if she's a balloon that's being blown up via breast milk. I think of her red cheeks, and the faint bits of fuzz that are supposed to pass for hair. I think of her long unblinking stare, and I smile, audibly, like a crazy person because I have such a beautiful little girl. (Of course, as I've just finished writing this I can hear her breaking into tears upstairs despite the fact that she's barely slept at all tonight apparently she's taken it upon herself to take the night off from that whole sleeping thing, and I guess it's just one more day of being a parent).
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Parenting and other things
Conversations that you kind of only have with babies around.
M: How was your day.
S: We had a nice lazy time in bed, but then she pooped everywhere.
M: If I had a dollar for every time I told my buddies the same thing, I wouldn't have any more dollars than I do now.
S: I bet this line will show up in the Bachelor this season.
M: I don't see why that would be a bad thing.
Some advice to mothers. It's safe to say that I can speak for all of men throughout time, including pre-literate eras, when I say that we don't need any advice on taking care of the baby. Do you know know what a mom's favorite thing to do is? Give advice on how to properly take care of her baby.
Why? A lot of people would say that it's to be helpful, that she can see the husband is frustrated, and that she just wants the bonding experience to be deepened for both of them. That is a ridiculous lie. No. They are giving advice in order to demean your ability to parent. And anybody who tells you anything different is just trying to demean your intelligence. To interpret any sort of advice on how to care for the child who's genes are at least fifty percent yours can only be interpreted as a simultaneous attack on your masculinity, fitness as a parent, and general worth to the world.
The sort of advice that a husband/father is looking for when he's taking care of his child is your support. Ie, if the baby starts crying or even sort of looking a bit wild-eyed like they do for those first few months it's okay to step in and take the child away while he idles away on the computer. However, it is not advisable to peer over his shoulder and give helpful hints about how he might go about "calming" the baby if he was just a little more gentle. And does he always have to be sarcastic? She can already understand things, doesn't he know?
This sort of micro-managing is not welcome in the office and it is not welcome in the home. If I'm taking care of the baby, then I'm taking care of the baby. That might mean she stays awake until 2 A.M. watching episodes of The Wire. But dammit! I'm not a babysitter, I'm this child's father! And if I want to parent them in an irresponsible and half-assed way, I don't expect to be contradicted. Okay, I do. However, I won't like it.
What I'm really getting at here, is that, certain dads, may be a bit sensitive to criticism. We're aware that as we're not the primary caregivers we might not have all the tricks in toe. However, we'd like to believe that we could do the whole parenting thing just as well if given the shot. And, in some cases, that might not be true. But what is a life lived without the fantasy of being good at something. I mean, our entire stock market is essentially based on just those same warm and fuzzies. Let's not create a great recession in parenting, watch us bundle the child up with both legs in the same pajama bottom without saying a word. And then, twenty minutes later, politely ask if we'd noticed the mistake. It will work wonders.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
On sleep
Ah, for the loving embrace of sleep. How I long to wash up on dark shores and spend an eternity wandering across the black sands of your beaches. I have dreamed of sleep between the beep of the hospital monitor and the sharp and quick inhalations of breath. I have dreamed of sleep the likes of which Rip Van Winkle has not known between the soft cries and shrill screams.
Okay, yes. The point of the preceding paragraph was that all too familiar advice about parents needing to get sleep. Guess what? s slept a solid ten hours last night, which means....that I still only got seven hours because I went to bed well after she did, and still managed to be tired enough to take a morning nap. Praise vacation. I was initially reluctant to praise our lovely sleeping daughter, 7, 8, 10, for fear of jinxing the whole damn thing, heathenish, I know. Yet, here I am, writing before you right now because I am proud that s has her wits about her and has learned that sleep is a gift of the gods and without the cost poor Prometheus paid for fire. Pish posh, s says, to those who would deride sleep as a mini-death. Nay, she says, sleep is but the dream from which we are constantly awakened. Or something along those lines though the translation is often garbled.
Needless to say, I'll no doubt be awakening to s screaming in about an hour's time because pride cometh before screaming babies. However, I wanted to praise her brief three day run before it ended because I've made New Year's resolution to express more gratitude for life's good gifts. And, as I intimated before, a good night's rest is one of them.
I really do have no doubt that these things will change. You see, with a little one as small as s things are constantly in flux. Why, for a person as old as I am it takes a trip down memory lane to remember that my face once lacked so many lines. Or, I could just visit my grandmother in-law (incidentally, lovely lady, and I intend her remarks to be interpreted as humorous rather than that old spiel about in-laws)
G-in-law: (Upon seeing me) (To a group of roughly seven people) I saw a picture of Andrew on my coffee table just the other day. And I thought to myself, he looks so young! Thirty really did you in!
M: ....I blame the baby.
And so, like the silver backs of fish passing through pools of dark water time slips away. And we are left holding pictures, and memories that do not admit as much truth as we'd like. Sleep well, little s.
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