Denver Dad

Discussing My Itinerary

2008-01-08T09:10:00.001-07:00

This morning, Chunk and I stretched out across the floor, looking at a huge, cartoon atlas he got from his grandparents. We had it open to a double-paged view of the United States, each state showing capitals and large cities, as well as little drawings of what you can expect to find in each location.

He quickly pointed out Denver, telling me that was where he lived. I showed him Minnesota, where we visited last summer. He found Mount Rushmore and told me about the "faces." I stretched my arm out and pointed to Kentucky.

"That's where I'm going today," I told him.

"You're going to work?" he asked.

"Yep. I have to work way over there," I answered.

He turned to me and asked, "Can I go with you?"

How can you say no to something like that?

Has It Really Been A Month Since My Last Post?!?

2007-12-29T07:01:00.001-07:00

It's been a long while since I've posted, so I thought I'd get you all caught up on the various activities going on in the Denver household. Here are the important or noteworthy events:

1. Chunk turned three! THREE! Geez, if people call it the "Terrible Twos" what are the threes? Something so profane, so unspeakably vile, that it can't even be uttered aloud? Almost overnight he went from a decent, pretty well behaved kid to someone in desperate need of legal action to help him regulate his meds. In the immortal words of my people, uffda!

There have been some goods things to come out of this weird transformation, however, such as the constant lectures from Chunk stating "I'm a big boy now, daddy" whenever I accidentally refer to him as my "little guy." Also, the way he literally walks around in public holding up three fingers as a sort of shorthand for "I'm still the birthday boy, damnit!" is kind of hilarious. And, as frustrating as he can be, it's been pretty amazing to see him becoming his own, independent person, a little bit every day. I'm hopeful that when he turns eighteen, I'll still be able to tolerate him, and his therapist will tell him that not everything is my fault.

My prediction for the next year: 1) Many posts that start with, "Man, that kid is driving me crazy..." and 2) An eBay listing for a slightly used three old, complete with toys, books, and croup.

2. Christmas Cards! My wife and I decided it was time to finally do the time honored tradition of sending out Christmas cards. We've been adults... legally... for a long time now and the world was an empty, sort of sad place, without a carefully constructed form letter from us addressed to anyone who'd be dumb enough to open the envelope. So, taking a very fetching family photo we took up in the mountains, we plugged my credit card into Shutterfly and were quickly the proud owners of 50 photo cards.

Let me tell you, when the envelope came, it was as if it was filled with opportunity. The smell that came from the fresh photos wasn't the scent of chemicals, but the lingering aroma of respectability. We would be sending out Christmas cards! Yes! We would add our pictures and lame Christmas update letter to the same stack of junk mail that contained offers from Citigroup and address labels from the Dumb Friends League! That would be us!

Then the smell went away.

So, how many did we send out? Well, we gave a few away on Christmas to family members, but that's about it. Denver Family: 0, Laziness: 1.

Maybe next year.

3. We celebrated Christmas! To be more precise, we celebrated three days of Christmas, starting with Denver Mom's extended family on the 23rd, my family on the 24th, then our small family (plus Denver Mom's mom and grandma) on the 25th. It would have been helpful to have water stations between the holiday meals, so I could run by, grab a cup, and throw it on my face before checking my pulse and continuing on to the next celebration, but I didn't plan far enough ahead.

The great thing about being a parent on the holidays is that you suddenly have power over your own parents. You know how when you were younger you had to do whatever your parents said, on and around every holiday? When you have a child, that completely disappears, because your child is the ultimate trump card. So, when my parents say, "We're going to go down to the Legion to help with the Christmas party" I can say, "We're busy!" Or, when my parents say, "We're going to watch Miracle on 34th Street on Christmas Eve," I can say, "It's not that same old Betamax version we've been watching since 1986, is it? We're busy!"

So, instead of marching along to my older sister's Christmas dinner orders, we can do our own thing, and that's exactly what we did. And, not to be arrogant or anything, but my ham was by far the most moist and flavorful out of the entire holiday bunch. Actually, my entire Christmas meal, which consisted of the already mentioned ham, garlic mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, and a salad, was by far the best meal out of all three. And, the pumpkin bread pudding we made for desert more than meet expectations.

Chunk had a blast, of course. I think he thinks his birthday is sort of like Christmas Lite, because going into the holidays that kid had his unwrapping skills honed to near perfection. He was the Michael Jordan of gift unwrapping! And yet, even he got tired of unwrapping stuff. After a while, he sort of sighed and shrugged whenever we urged him to open another gift, acting more like we were trying to get him to eat lettuce, than open up another book or toy.

The crazy thing is we really tried to cut back this year. Last year was simply embarrassing. It was every bit as vulgar as those cynics say Christmas has become, and so this year, we made an effort to restrain ourselves. Even then, he was overwhelmed by it all. We might cut back even more next year, but I don't really know how to walk that particular line.

I was talking to a woman in my office a few weeks ago and she mentioned that her kids get two presents every year, one from them (the parents), and then one from Santa. That seems a little too far in the other direction, but there has to be a balance there. If anyone wants to play armchair Santa in the comments section, I'd love to hear what your family does.

4. Snow! We had a white Christmas! And, a white... um... Thursday! And Friday was sort of white too. Today? Looks like it's going to be vaguely white with a chance of white. Tomorrow? Yeah, even I have to stop here... the joke is only a couple of sentences long and it's already getting old. We're getting lots of snow in Colorado, which is both sort of weird, and sort of expected.

Last year we had a blizzard every week. Literally. Every Saturday something would blow in and hammer us, so we got used to lots of snow (and cannibalism, for those Denverites that didn't have well stocked cubbards). The thing is, before last year, things have been kind of dry around here. In a lot of ways, the snow has been really fun, so I'm not complaining. I just wish the inside of the windows in the Subaru weren't icing up!

5. Guitar Hero III! Remember when I confessed that Guitar Hero II had threatened my very soul? Remember how I was both dreading and longing for the sequel? Well, my friends, Guitar Hero III is definitely in the house and it's every bit as fun as I was hoping. They have a new co-op career mode, which when translated out of nerddom, means Denver Mom and I have formed the most face-melting, cheesy plastic guitar band in Denver and we rock it when Chunk goes to bed. We rock it hard. Seriously. You should see us shred "When We Were Young". Denver Mom even does some cool guitar moves while she plays and so I'm expecting the inevitable Pete Townshead windmills any day now.

Denver Mom's Mom played on Christmas when she was over and she loved it. Looks like we're going to have to get Rock Band now, so all three of us can play at the same time. Sigh.

If we ever needed proof that video games are corrupting America's youth, we now have it. Chunk's new favorite song is "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," thanks to Guitar Hero III, and he knows all the words. I'm going to have to get video of him playing and singing along, all while dancing, because it's something you really do have to see to truly understand. I don't think I could explain it in a way that would do it any justice.

So, what's ahead? I'm glad you asked! In my immediate future....

1. Split Pea Soup! Yeah, I make it. And, it's pretty kick butt too! Insert macho cooking gestures here.

2. New Job/Travel! I start my new job in just over a week! And, my first day will be spent on an airplane, as they're flying me out to Kentucky for a national meeting! I've never been to Kentucky, so this should be sort of fun.

3. Jury duty! It's my civic duty and I'm all about civic duty, but I'm really dreading this. I hope I don't get called in. I'm trying to wrap things up at my current job and I could really use the time in the office. I missed the "whine to get out of it" deadline, so it's all up to luck now... which, sadly, has never really had my back.

The End of An Era

2007-12-04T07:15:00.001-07:00

How long, exactly, is an "era" anyway?

After 20 months, I've decided to leave my current position. It was a difficult decision for me, because unlike previous times when I've left jobs, I still really like where I'm at and believe in the mission of my organization. I genuinely care about the families we serve, believe we're making a difference in the community, and enjoy the quirks (and yes, irritations) of my coworkers, but as burnt out as I've been feeling, I needed a change.

It's funny, because one of the weird truths about the "industry" I work in (I put industry in quotes because its a strange word to describe what I do) is that development people last, on average, only eighteen months. So, I guess, I exceeded the average, but only barely. Why the huge turn over of staff? Well, begging for money is stressful, and although I was lucky enough to be one of the higher paid staff in my organization, "higher paid" doesn't necessarily translate into "high pay."

I gave my resignation last week and since then things have been a little tense in the office. My boss is pretty disappointed that I'm leaving. She's been great about it, very understanding, but I can tell that I've let her down. My coworkers seem to feel the same way, but one or two of them are probably glad to see me go. Offices are like that.

I guess this is my long winded way of saying that things are changing a bit over here. I'm hoping with my new position comes a little more time for myself and my family, which I hope will also translate into a little more time for this blog. Heck, I might even start sleeping again, but I don't want to get my hopes up just yet.

I'll post more soon!

She's Not That Kind Of A Girl, Booger!

2007-10-16T14:01:00.001-06:00

I'm not usually one for posting YouTube videos. There's nothing wrong with doing that, of course, it's just not something I've done on Denver Dad. However, having made my obligatory protests about this sort of thing, people need to see this.

Isn't your faith in humanity suddenly restored?

The truly dangerous thing is that you can actually buy a track suit like that. Hmmm. It's too late for my birthday, but Christmas is just a few short months away....

It Eats The Pizza Or It Gets The Hose

2007-10-16T07:27:00.001-06:00

We have neighbors that, for some unknown reason, see us as something of a charity case. And, not just any charity. No, instead of dropping by with checks or warm winter coats or boxes of filled with canned food, they bring us their leftover pizza.

I don't get it. It's not like they caught me gazing longingly at the pizza boxes in their trash can one early morning, my lips smacking at the thought of pepperoni I wasn't able to eat. It's not like we were talking to each other over the fence and I said, "I feel like I'm a pretty good dad, but I just wish we weren't so poor that we can't afford pizza. My son deserves pizza, damnit! He deserves it! Sob! Sob!" It's not like we even had the "what kind of food do you like?" conversation and I screamed back at them, "Pizza, and lots of it! Hey, if you ever have leftover pizza, you should totally drop it by!" And yet, this morning, what do our neighbors bring with them when they drop by for coffee? Leftover pizza.

In theory, I'm all for it. I happen to like leftover pizza more than most grown men should, but something about this situation leaves me feeling vaguely uncomfortable. I mean, why have we been singled out for this kind of treatment? Why not the neighbors to their east? Why not the scientist across the street, that also works in my building? And, even more importantly, why pizza? Why not, say, chili dogs or tiramisu or that midwest staple I grew up with, "hot dish?"

The only rational theory that I can come up with is that they're plying us with pizza so that we'll eventually join their cult. If the pizza continues, I'm completely fine with shaving my head and giving away all my personal belongs.

Crystal Meth Visions and Cough Syrup Dreams

2007-10-12T09:09:00.001-06:00

Of course! Of course I couldn't buy cold medicine at Target because I, like many around me, are brewing crystal meth in my basement! I'm so naive, which is kind of hard to swallow for some of you, I know, because I usually come across as being so hip and "street." Thanks for pointing out what should have been obvious to me, faithful readers.

Speaking of medications and the issues that surround their use, has anyone been following the recent blow up about cold medicine for infants and toddlers? The national and local news was on Defcon 4 yesterday, dropping tantalizing teasers about how cold medicine is kicking in doors, doing unspeakable things to our children, then blogging about it so all of its friends can laugh cruelly at our families. So, like most parents home during that time of the day, I dutifully sat on the couch, hugging a pillow, praying that cold medicine wouldn't be taking my son away, and watched the news stories with cold terror grasping my heart. I should have known this was going to be like every other crisis... something of a non-issue.

Basically, the terrifying news is that parents are ignoring the labels on the cold medicine they give their children, and making up dosages for their children. This is causing overdoses in children which is leading to horrible complications and sometimes deaths.

I'm not sure I understand the hysteria. The labels, if you take the time to read them, on any over-the-counter medication you find for children clearly say "check with your doctor" for dosage amounts for children under two years old. The labels never say, "Check with your doctor or just give them eighteen tablespoons, an apple, and some fresh air." They don't say, "Oh... just give out whatever you think is good." They state very clearly that you should check with your doctor. So, what's the problem? Why the overdoses? And, is this really an issue that the Federal government should be getting involved in, as they are? Is this the sort of thing that really requires medicine being pulled from shelves?

The problems with asking these questions is that they lead to a number of sticky social areas. Why aren't people checking with their doctors? Maybe they don't have access to doctors. Maybe they don't have insurance. We have what I think is pretty good insurance, but getting Chunk's pediatrician on the phone is a little like trying to call the governor of your state. Are people just not reading the dosage labels? Do people just take for granted the danger that medicine poses, especially for little ones?

It's a weird issue. On the one hand, I think this panic is a little uncalled for. On the other hand, I can see how it could be an issue.

Thoughts?

Completely Unrelated Comment: I finally broke down and purchased an actual "blogging" application. Journler is nifty, but doesn't work with Blogger, so I tried out a couple of other applications like Ecto and Mars Edit. For what it's worth, I went with Mars Edit. Check it out if you're an OS X user and are looking for something simple, but powerful.

Papers, Please... I Vould Like To Zee Yer Papers

2007-10-04T10:20:00.001-06:00

So, I ran to our friendly neighborhood Super Target last night to grab our son some new socks (his feet are massive now and eating through his old socks like they are make of acid... the feet, not the socks) as well as pick up some groceries. Does it make me less hip to admit that I have a strange, secret crush on Target and all their supposedly low prices? I say "supposedly," because groceries seem to cost more at Target than any other place on earth, unless you're buying pods for my ridiculously pretentious and complicated coffee maker. On the one hand, I just know they're screwing me with their prices, but their commercials are all shiny and have lots of stuff spinning around and they keep saying they'll save me money, so I believe them.

Sigh.

In many respects, Target is a lot like a politician. If Target runs for president in 2008, expect a landslide vote, then a raise in taxes all while sweater clad twenty-somethings smile and wave and dance with new appliances. Seriously.

Anyway, this post isn't about Target's bait and switch tactics. No, this post is about cold medicine.

Denver Mom wasn't feeling well and asked that I get her some "Advil Nighttime." After ten minutes spent looking for it in the cold medicine aisle, I determined that it doesn't actually exist, so I grabbed "Advil Cold & Sinus." Or, I thought I was grabbing Advil Cold & Sinus. In reality, I was grabbing a little plastic card, which told me I had to go up to the pharmacy desk if I actually wanted medicine. Then, the pharmacist asked to see my ID, then scanned it, and made me pay for the cold medicine right there, even though I had a whole cart of groceries I was going to be paying for shortly. I even asked the guy, "This isn't a prescription. This is just normal cold medicine, right?" The look I got, in response, was a combination of annoyance and shock.

What's going on here? It's not like the medicine was expensive ($4.85). I literally had an easier time getting codeine when I had pneumonia. Is there some rash of crazy teenagers getting hopped up on decongestant?

Those About To Rock... In Their Underwear

2007-09-26T06:46:00.001-06:00

Just a few blog posts ago I was boosting about my maturity. No, no, the siren call of video games doesn't affect me any longer, for I have become a responsible adult! I was so bold, so self-assured, so proud of my newfound responsibility, so of course it wouldn't last. My friends, if there is another sudden disappearance from this blog, weeks and weeks of nothing new appearing in the many shades of green text you find here, you can blame Guitar Hero II.

Yes, I know, I thought I wouldn't be able to follow the plot either, what without my having played the first Guitar Hero, but I've managed to find some sites on the internet that have explained the idiosyncrasies of the story to me. And, thanks to my keen deductive mind, I've been able to follow the labyrinth of twists and turns with a fumbling, but modest success. What? You're not a fan yet? You don't know about Guitar Hero II?

It boils down to this... you strap on a cheesy, plastic guitar-shaped controller that has buttons on the neck and a weird switch/bar thing you can flick in its center. By pressing the keys and strumming in time to the music you're instantly transformed from a mild-mannered, non-profit office drone into a God of Rock. Or, at least, that's how it works for me. You might have different results, especially if you resist the urge to play in your underwear.

So, Guitar Hero has become my new “thing.“ It's become my hobby, my obsession, nearly become religion for me. Chunk? He loves it too. He doesn't really get that you have to press the buttons and strum at the same time, but he sure likes trying to play it, even if his attempts result in odd noises from his virtual guitar and his little computer-generated rocker gets booed off stage. What else does he like? He likes dancing along to the music while I play, which is kind of neat, as I get to indulge in my new obsession and then claim we were actually having some father-and-son time. I didn't know you needed dancers when you were performing old Motley Crue and Primus songs... again... in your underwear... but it seems to work in the Denver household.

The only bad thing I've discovered since mixing Guitar Hero II and parenting is that while it's a lot of fun, many of the songs are completely inappropriate for a two year old to know by heart and sing along to in public places. There's one particular song called “Possum Kingdom“ by the Toadies which, while not having any foul language or anything, seems to be sung from the perspective of a serial killer “seducing“ his next victim. So, of course that's Chunk's favorite. It's just called “the guitar song“ now and he likes to sing it while we're driving around, hanging out at the coffee shop, or running errands. I would lie to you and say it's cute, but really, it's just kind of creepy.

You Found This Blog... How, Exactly?!?

2007-09-18T15:17:00.001-06:00

Yes, that's right, I'm still phoning it in until I get back into the blogging routine. So, in pursuit of my own, special brand of blogging laziness, I present yet another dip into the Search Keywords bag, where all sorts of nuttiness on the internet brings me new and unexpected readership. Ready, dear readers, to investigate the mysteries of the net? Tis not for the faint of heart, so steel yourselves, take my hand, and wade into the weird with me....

“dady day care gams”

What the hell does this even mean? Is “dady” supposed to be “daddy?” Is “gams” supposed to mean... well... “gams?” What do day care and gams even have in common? Or, is it that “daddy” has “day care gams?” I'm so confused by this one I'm not even sure I should be talking about it.

“ladies who spank in denver”

ANOTHER spanking search? For crying out loud! I make one little reference to spanking and suddenly my blog is the go to spot on the internet for people who've been naughty and need to be punished. I guess you should go with whatever works, so my next post on Denver Dad is going to be “Naughty spanking dominatrix hootchie mamas who live in the 303 area code.” I'll be swimming in the page hits for sure!

“his father like to watch his son spanking his wife”

Oh, for crying out loud! Seriously? This is how you found my blog?

“glasses vs contacts”

People are doing legitimate searches for help on an important issue in their lives and they get my full page complaint about how little plastic discs have defeated me and I'm doomed to forever look like a nerd. Shouldn't Web-MD be getting these hits? Or, one of the spanking sites I keep getting confused with? You know, the one with with the librarian focus?

“if i'm not that pretty can I still be sexy for my husband?”

I swear to you that I'm not making this up. That's an actual keyword search that brought someone to my blog. It seems like when I'm writing about the keyword searches that bring people here, most of my comments are sarcastic and judgmental, but I'm going to actually answer this question. If you're still reading my blog, anonymous person, I want you to know that you can still be sexy for your husband. We are never as ugly or as beautiful as we think we are. We're always somewhere in that glorious middle that's full of truly attractive people. Your husband thought you were pretty enough that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, so I guarantee he still finds you sexy. It doesn't matter what's changed between then and now, he still finds you sexy. Go talk to him. You'll see.

“sexy im guna win you over quotes”

Like the previous keyword search, I feel like I have to answer this one with sincerity and seriousness, because I sense there is a real need for help here, even if its expression is squeezed into just a few words. If you “guna win over” a woman and you need a good line, try this one: “Baby, all four of my eyes are trained on you!” That one is a classic, especially in the calculator isle at your local office supply store. Or, maybe try, “You make my swimsuit areas get all tingly.” How about, “I'm so lonely. Oh, god, I'm so terribly lonely. Please, please love me.”

What? No good? Hey, they worked for me! You don't marry a woman as great as Denver Mom without a little wordplay razzle-dazzle.

“how to ask your babydaddy to move in with you”

Just ask. Honesty is a pretty useful and powerful thing and it often inspires more of the same. The answer might not be what you want, that's a chance you'll have to take, but having an answer is always better than agonizing over the possibilities. If you have a “babydaddy” that means you have a baby. That also means you're probably in a pretty unpredictable situation right now. You and that baby need stability, so find it. Hopefully your babydaddy wants to help you get there, but if that's not the case, you'll need to know so you can find stability on your own. Good luck.

“resparking a marriage”

Have you tried spanking? What about wearing contacts? Did you try to be sexy for your husband? None of that worked? Practice saying the following: “I don't think we're communicating very well at the moment.” Listen, if you're Googling for tips, something has gone off the rails at some point and it probably had something to do with your ability to communicate with your spouse. If you can say that, while being honest, and your spouse can hear it as something other than an attack, you're well on your way to getting back on the rails. It might start a conversation where you are communicating, then the rest is easy.

Whew... that was fun... and a little strange.

A Day With My Son

2007-09-14T08:58:00.001-06:00

Well, the special event at work that has been consuming all of my free time is finally over, and while the clean-up is almost more work than the day itself, at least I've been able to get some sleep and spend time with my family. As a matter of fact, I'm taking today off to have some father-and-son time with Chunk, something I've been looking forward to doing for a couple of weeks now.

It's a strange feeling. Although I know my status as a dad wasn't taken away from me, at the same time I feel like I haven't really been much of a dad for the past month. Sure, I've made sure he's had something to eat, I've gotten him in the bath, told him that he wasn't allowed to smoke in bed, all the important things, but I haven't been much of a father, in terms of being there for my son. When he's grabbed me by the arm and shouted, in that shrill little voice, "Daddy, daddy, let me show ya!" I've just answered him with a grunt and more typing, rather than dropping everything and following him into his room to see whatever it is he's currently excited about. So, as weird as it sounds, I feel like today is my day. Maybe its not enough to make up for a month of being preoccupied, but it's something, and I plan on enjoying it.

My original plan was to take him to see "Underdog." I'm aware that its probably one of the worst movies of the year, but during our first movie experience as a family ("Ratatootie" a couple of months ago) we saw the trailer for "Underdog" and Chunk very nearly exploded. "It's a dog superhero!" he screamed, pointing frantically at the screen, and checking to make sure I was paying attention. Have we talked about his love of all things spandex wearing? Have we talked about his fascination for dogs? "Underdog," while undoubtedly bad, looked like a perfect film for him, but alas, it looks like it's already come and gone. The only theater showing it in town is the Cinema Latino de Aurora and I think its been dubbed into Spanish. Chunk probably wouldn't mind, but my Spanish is pretty rusty and I want to be able to follow the intricate plot and subtle character development.

More soon. For better or worse, I seem to be back.

A New Exhibit By Chunk

2007-09-04T07:47:00.000-06:00

I know, I know... you don't know why you keep coming back here. There's no new posts and this "Denver Dad" guy is an awful blogger. I apologize. The non-profit I work for has its biggest special event of the year coming up and I've been completely swamped. It'll be over next week, so I hope to be back to my usual sarcasm and whining after that. Thanks for your patience with me.

Until I have some time to squeeze in a few new posts, I thought I'd share some of my son's recent photos.

Photo 1: The Commute Series

Photo 2: The Commute Series

Photo 3: The Commute Series

Photo 4: The Commute Series

Lunch: A Portait

He inherited my previous digital camera and is obsessed with taking pictures. When I was making a pizza a couple of weeks ago, he documented the entire process, demanding that I lift him up so he could take pictures of the dough, then the crust, the sauce, the sausage, etc. Unfortunately, we lost those photos in an accidental "format card" incident, but that hasn't slowed him down one bit. He's still at it.

I asked him the other day if he was documenting "truth or beauty?" He didn't have an answer for me, so I have no idea if these photos are supposed to be photojournalistic in nature or artistic. I guess you'll have to be the judge.

Take care, all! I'll be back soon! And, if anyone has any suggestions for how to better use Flickr with Blogger, I'd love to hear them. I had to post each photo from Flickr as individual posts, cut and paste the code, then delete the photo post. There's got to be a better way.

The Truth About Working From Home

2007-08-10T11:34:00.000-06:00

Telecommuting is great, but also dangerous. I've been splitting my work week between the office and home for as long as I've been a dad, and after two and a half years of balancing my work load between two offices (and at two different non-profits), I think I have a pretty good grasp on how to work and when to work, so that everything I need to do actually gets done. The problem is that even though I understand when I am most productive and what kind of schedule I need to follow to make sure I'm checking things off my to do list, its not always easy to follow that schedule.

Avoiding the distractions I thought were going to be a problem is pretty easy. When I started this, I was concerned that my biggest problem would be the urge to drop everything and just watch movies all day long. There is nothing quite like the siren call of a shiny new DVD or a seductive, old favorite, calling out to you when you've got a stack of thank you letters to write and zero interest in doing them. Why develope that pitch for your new special event when you can watch Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman spin an imaginary war? Why make follow-up calls when you can see that sneaky HAL-9000 murder astronauts?

But, surprisingly, I've been able to resist. Video games? No problem. Those are alluring, yes, but either being a dad has matured me some or I've just outgrown the need to shoot aliens in the face, but I don't spend much time with those any more.

The biggest problem is my son. Some days he's very understanding of my need to work. He plays quietly by himself, or loudly by himself, but he generally leaves me alone. Other days, he'll walk over, pull one of my hands away from my computer keyboard, and say, "Come on, Daddy, let's go play!"

How can you resist that? How can I possibly say, "No, son, daddy doesn't love you. I'd rather spend all morning on this report than spend fifteen minutes on the floor with you, playing pirates?"*

Or, what about when nap time rolls around? That Chunk is a clever kid, always playing the angles. He hates to take his naps, so mustering all of his avoidance tactics, he'll say, "Sleep in big bed? Come on, daddy!" and drag me off to my own bed, where he expects me to nap with him.

Again, there are exactly zero ways to stay firm and on task, when your child is offering to tuck you in for an afternoon nap. And, unfortunately, Chunk is smart enough to know this. He's damn, persuasive, that kid. He'd make a good politician.

* Not an actual quote, of course, but it sure feels like it sometimes.

Thomas The Tank Engine Is Trying To Kill Your Kids

2007-08-02T13:35:00.000-06:00

I always found Thomas the Tank Engine a little... weird. I mean, sure, he's the cheeky one... says so in the song and everything, but he's got some serious self-esteem issues. If Sir Topham Hatt isn't praising him every day and calling him "useful," Thomas spins off into this whole self-worth death spiral. I don't know if I want my son learning lessons from a steam engine that clearly needs a good therapist.

On top of that, Thomas and his pals are also horribly poisonous. Not in that wanting "Nothing... but a GOOD TIME" way, but in that "coated in lead paint, asbestos, and deadly asps" kind of way. Check it out.

I would have mentioned this earlier, but this came up during my month of ne'er-do-well-ness and so I wasn't really posting.

The good news? The company managing the recall seems really sincere. I mailed off all of Chunk's affected toys and got an e-mail back saying they're working on it. I don't know what that means exactly, except that my son cries whenever the subject comes up, but they're on it and I guess that's good.

All joking aside, I don't have to tell any of you that lead paint is a bad thing for little minds. If your son or daughter is a fan of the Thomas wooden train sets, check the recall. Like many things, it's better to be safe than sorry.

The Morning After

2007-08-02T13:06:00.000-06:00

He does it on purpose. I don't have proof, but I just know this is all a part of some devious, even nefarious, scheme of his, no doubt concocted with his little tribe of preschool friends. They're all in on it, you see, plotting, scheming, with their Crayola-etched blueprints and plans, their apple juice box models diagraming precise locations, potential escape routes, maybe the location of the “nilla wafers.”

Yesterday was board meeting day for me, which combined with the mentally ill hour I try to get into the office (no later than six thirty in the morning, thankyouverymuch), made for a fourteen hour work day. That's fourteen and a half hours, if you want to get technical, followed by a ride home on my bike... yes, in the rain. It's a common saying in Colorado that if you don't like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes, and something else will come along. It's an exaggeration, of course, but not much of one. Except for last night, when Colorado was apparently doing a dress rehearsal for the part of Seattle, making my commute home a bit more soaked than usual.

But, it's not something I was going to complain about. No siree, I got in a good, productive day and from my vantage point, it was all downhill from there. No, not on my bike. That's all uphill for the trip home. Love that. I meant the work week was all downhill from that point on.

I came home to a family already sleeping, so tiptoeing through the dark, I crawled into bed for a well deserved night of rest and... those of you who are parents know where I'm going with this... only to have a night of screaming and crying.

Chunk, of course, was sick.

Denver Mom didn't feel much better. So, right after I got home, she took some sort of cold medicine and slipped into a drug-induced coma that an atomic bomb test couldn't disturb, leaving me as the sole parent to handle that special two-hour mambo that requires water, comforting, and back-rubs at precise times throughout the night, or... I don't know... the world itself will end.

Does anyone want a two-year old? He's slightly used and has more miles on him than you'd expect, but he's built like a tank, is cute as hell, and knows the names of the entire Justice League of America.

My Performance Review

2007-07-29T18:35:00.001-06:00

It's difficult to summon the energy it takes to post to a daddy blog when you're just not enjoying being a dad. At first it's not a big deal. You can skate by with your previous deeds, acting like you're still working hard at it, but eventually, people catch on.

I imagine a closed door meeting with the HR person, going something like this:

HR Person: Denver Dad, you've been Director of Daddy Affairs, for how long now?

Denver Dad: It's been two years, eight months, and counting.

HR Person: Right. And, you've been doing a pretty good job, for the most part. That bit of projectile vomiting at the grocery store aside, your performance has meet standards and even exceeded in a few places.

Denver Dad: That's right. I drove to Minnesota and back with Chunk and didn't even raise my voice.

HR Person: Is that true?

Denver Dad: Okay, no, I did raise my voice. But, it was like only once to twice.

HR Person: That's not bad.

Denver Dad: Thanks! And, I took Chunk to see “Ratatouille” in a real theater and everything. That wasn't exactly a picnic. Neither was taking him to ride the light rail, just for fun, because he loves trains.

HR Person: That's great, but you know why we're having this particular conversation, right now, don't you?

Denver Dad: I won some sort of lotto and get a month of paid vacation?

HR Person: Hahaha... man, that's rich. You're a funny guy when you're not all depressed and morose.

Denver Dad: Umm... thanks.

HR Person: The reason I wanted to talk to you, Denver Dad, is that I noticed your performance has been... well... slipping lately.

Denver Dad: Listen, I've been under a lot of stress at work and I told Denver Mom I'd make it up to her. It was just that one time.

HR Person: Sigh. No, I mean with your duties as a dad.

Denver Dad: OH! Right. Sorry. I got a little confused.

HR Person: I was hoping you could tell me a little about what's going on with you and your son.

Denver Dad: Well, frankly, that kid is crazy.

HR Person: Crazy?

Denver Dad: Totally crazy. He cries when you put him in his car seat, but then he won't get in his car seat voluntarily. He whines constantly. He gets up at five thirty in the morning, every morning, like he's keyed off some freakin' atomic clock or something....

HR Person: I thought you were an early riser too.

Denver Dad: I am, but I wouldn't mind sleeping in until six in the morning... you know... just once.

HR Person: What else?

Denver Dad: We're still on that whole “momma do et” kick, which between you and me, has gotten more than a little old.

HR Person: And?

Denver Dad: Why would a kid voluntarily sit in his own poop? I mean, really... just say, “Dad... I dropped a load.” It takes like three minutes to clean up. It's not a big deal, but he acts like its some horrible secret that I'm not allowed to find out about.

HR Person: I've read that kids have issues surrounding their potty habits, because it's one of the few things they can really control.

Denver Dad: Are you kidding me? That kid controls everything. It's like having Dick Cheney has your son.

HR Person: I think you're exaggerating a little.

Denver Dad: You're right. I'm exaggerating. Chunk doesn't have a shotgun.

HR Person: So, how are you going to handle these recent setbacks?

Denver Dad: Well, I was hoping to just hide from him.

HR Person: Hide from him? That was your plan?

Denver Dad: That or track down the receipt the hospital gave us and see if I can get my money back.

HR Person: It's that bad?

Denver Dad: Some days it's not bad at all, but others... I'm pretty sure that demon that possessed that kid in “The Exorcist” got my son.

HR Person: Again with the exaggeration?

Denver Dad: Listen, pal, you haven't been locked at home with him. He's a monster.

HR Person: I'm still going to have to write you up.

Denver Dad: Pffft! You think I'm scared of a piece of paper? Listen, when we're done with this little meeting, I have to go back to him. I'm hoping you write me up really slowly so I can savor the time away.

HR Person: Just sign here. The yellow copy is yours.

That's pretty much what the last month has been like. Sorry I haven't been around, but like I said, it's hard to post glowing anecdotes about the joys of fatherhood when being a dad has been kind of a bummer lately. He's a great kid, that hasn't changed, but he's been challenging. The true wonder of it all is that I haven't killed him yet. Or, that he hasn't killed me. Glorious, eh?

More soon. I promise.

The Post Where I Admit I'm A Terrible Parent

2007-06-29T08:25:00.001-06:00

After almost a week back home, everything is once again approaching normalcy at the Denver family household. Chunk, who wasn't exactly sure he wanted to share Denver Mom with daddy again, is settling back to his usual self. By “usual self“ I'm speaking specifically of that charming combination of adorable and aggravating that toddlers seem to have down so well, as if maybe they'd been taking night classes while you're sleeping. So, in general, things are good.

I was talking with a coworker yesterday who has an adorable new baby. Okay, she's over six months old, but she's still adorable, and according to my coworker, already getting her move on. What? You don't know what a “move on“ is? It's just that strange quasi-crawl bumping, bouncing thing babies learn before they truly get mobile. With her baby already mastering her move on, my coworker is suddenly concerned that she needs to start baby proofing her home... RIGHT AWAY... or else tragedy will strike and her baby may get a boo-boo or something. That's when I realized something... I still haven't baby proofed our place.

Oh, sure, I put some of those outlet covers in a few of the holes in our walls, but I never went full out and wrapped our furniture in nerf, locked all the cabinets with keypad access/rental scanning super-computers, or put up little reenactments of the Great Wall of China in baby form, effectively sealing off parts of the house from our little mongolian barbarian.

See, I guess I just couldn't be bothered with that. I know, I know, I'm a monster, but I found that screaming “No!“ and sprinting across the room in a panic, arms waving madly, legs churning like I'm a cartoon character, suits my parenting style much better. Chunk is trying to stick a pen into an electrical outlet? Scream, run, and dive. Chunk is seeing what the speaker cables taste like? Again, do that slow motion “Noooooooooo!“ while you trip over the couch and knock over the lamp on your way. Chunk testing furniture densities with his forehead? Bah... just let him do that. He'll learn.

When I was a child, baby proofing mostly consisted of picking up the ashtrays and only letting the kids have a couple of sips of beer, and I turned out fine. Oh... wait... okay, now I see everyone's point about safety. Maybe I am a monster.

What about you? Did you go crazy with the baby proofing? Or, did your living room resemble an episode of the Fall Guy on most occasions?

Coming Home

2007-06-24T21:37:00.001-06:00

It's all over. The arrangements, the viewing, the funeral, the uncomfortable conversation of the reception. It's all finished and I'm heading home, rolling towards Iowa at 70 mph.

As I said in my previous post, I was able to learn a lot about my Grandpa this week. Some of it was very surprising, some less so, but all of it endlessly fascinating. I never found myself waiting for a story about him to end, only wishing it would go on just a little longer.

I left Chunk and Denver Mom in Denver, traveling up to Red Wing with my parents. Making that drive, just one more time, this time as an adult, has been weird, but also nice. An uncle patted me on the back after the funeral, telling me it was nice to get to know me as a man, as opposed to the little boy he used to know, but that was only after I helped him set up his iPod, so I guess his comment might be a little suspect. My dad and I talked a lot of politics, something he used to only do with his dad, so in some ways it felt like the torch had been passed to me. I was able to have a few conversations with my grandmother-in-law that were nice and also very sad. She has a rough road ahead of her, a lonely road, and if any of you have any well wishes or supportive thoughts left in you, I'd appreciate it if you send them her way. She could use them more than I could.

It was very strange being away from Chunk. Denver Mom and I have had time apart, but I've never been away from my son and this week was harder on me, for that reason, than I thought it would be. I miss being a dad and I'm looking forward to getting that job back at the end of our drive. I'm also looking forward to being a husband again. I'm ready to be home.

We found a notebook in my grandpa's office where he had been writing down some of his memories. Whether my grandpa had known it or not, he had been doing a bit of blogging, and I'm looking forward to reading some of his memories and thoughts in the week ahead. I might even share some of them here.

Below is my favorite picture with my grandpa. He was quite a fisherman and I spent a lot of time in the boat with him, learning how to fish, but mostly learning how to be quiet and still. I'm told it was my grandpa's favorite picture too.

We Inherit So Much

2007-06-20T06:31:00.001-06:00

I'm in Red Wing again. My grandpa passed away on Monday.

I'm told he fought until the end, literally thrashed and kicked, until death finally took him. My grandpa's wife, Bev, thinks he fought it. I'm inclined to believe he fought for it, flailed his arms and flung his exhausted body at death, making it take him whether death was ready or not. In a way, that makes me happy, proud to know that when my grandpa wanted something, he got it, even at the end of his life.

He was ready. He had made decisions about whether or not he should be resuscitated. He picked out the people he wanted to be pallbearers at his funeral. He waited until he had one last visit with his son, then after he left, let his strength and resolve faded away just as my dad had done, starting the drive back home.

My grandmother was much the same. Although she wasn't able to fight off the cancer that took her, she had made a choice not to fight. The kind of cancer she had was simply too powerful to combat. Treatment would only prolong her life, while still taking away its subtle qualities, so she decided to just let her disease run its course, to live with what time she had, rather than force her body to give her more. Given her dignity and grace while facing death, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my grandpa would choose his time with as much bravery and resolve. All of us will have our time, there's no escaping that, and I hope when my time does come, I can be as sure and poised. It's a powerful gift you give to those you leave behind and I'm thankful for it, thankful for the many amazing lessons he's taught me, thankful for this last one, one of many.

I've said it on this blog before, but my grandpa meant a lot to me. He was a father, when I didn't have one. Sitting around last night, I learned some things about my grandpa's own complicated relationship with his dad, and then his step-dad, stories that made things much clearer for me, made me understand why he stepped up when no one else did, why he protected me.

On these parenting blogs, we talk a lot about the duties of being a parent, about our responsibilities to our children. I take those very seriously, especially given the recklessness I experienced under my biological mother's watch, but it seems like many of those responsibilities are born in the physical world. We have to protect our children from the elements, feed them, protect them from harm. But, if we're lucky, we also teach them lessons about the emotional world, guide them towards honesty and love and responsibility. If we're lucky, we help them to become better people, kind people. Some of us learn what that means from hard-won experience, others simply know it, given an easy path from their parents, a path that works.

I don't know if, one day years from now, Chunk will look back and suddenly understand why I tell him every day that I love him. I don't know if he'll ever truly get why I hold him and tell him he's important, but he's an intelligent boy, almost too smart, and so maybe the light bulb will go on for him, as it did for me last night. Maybe he will have a single moment of clarity that makes him see why the path I tried to lay out for him had the turns and long stretches. If that moment comes, when he's tired and grieving and feeling lost, I hope it brings him the joy and peace that it has brought me. My grandfather has given me so much over the years, I was shocked to get yet another gift from him, even after he passed, and I'm thankful for that flash of understanding and clarity, that insight that came so quickly and powerful it was as if it had been written to me.

On Monday, before I learned that my grandfather had passed away, I went to pick up Chunk from day care. By that time, my grandpa was already gone, but for us, it was just an ordinary day, simple in its naivety. The room teacher pulled me aside and told me that a little girl in the class was upset in the morning, crying, and Chunk went over to her and held her hand. Maybe it was just the innate kindness all children have, the human urge we share to comfort those in pain, before cynicism and pain make us harder, cruel, aloof. Or, maybe he learned that empathy, was taught to be concerned when others are hurting. If he did, if I taught him any of that, it's because of my grandpa.

His gifts keep coming, even after his death.

An Update About Gramps

2007-06-13T08:36:00.000-06:00

Grandpa isn't doing well, again.

Dad called last night to let me know that grandpa has pneumonia and doesn't seem to be responding well to treatment. Dad was about to leave for Minnesota again to be with him, just in case this was "it."

It.

A decade or so ago, we had another scare with my grandfather. They had run some tests and found that he had cancer. A tumor had already claimed one kidney and had spread into one of his ribs. The doctors were going to remove the organ and bone, hoping to stop the cancer's spread, and things looked dire. My dad called, explained what was going on, and he and I left just a few hours later, driving nonstop to Red Wing in my dad's silver Caddy, alone.

It was a stressful, strange trip, but also neat in a lot of ways. That probably bears some explanation.

My dad and I aren't good with each other. We never really were. Although we share some common interests, and have certainly enjoyed each other's company, we're usually only good for about two or three hours together, before silence starts to set in and we're both left wondering, "Geez, how much longer do I have to talk to this weirdo?" Given that it's a fourteen to sixteen hour drive (sans toddler) to Minnesota, that put us at well over ten hours of awkward, stilted dialog, not counting rest stop breaks or eating.

Some neat things happened during the trip. I got a lot done on my laptop which was nice (and not very unexpected). We got into an argument on gun control that made my dad so angry he couldn't speak in complete sentences for almost one hundred miles. Good times. Some other things happened, though. We went drinking. Well, he drank. I had soda water, but we sat at a bar together, drank, and talked. Then, I got to drive dad home, in his precious Caddy, which was something neither of my sisters can claim to have done. We laughed. I think that trip was the first time he saw me as a man, which was a corny and still very special thing for me. I also think it was one of the first times I saw him as a man, rather than a father. He made fun of what I was reading. I pretended to be interested in all the "Car and Driver" magazines he brought along. Although I can't claim that it was a good trip, I think it was a turning point for us, and our relationship has only gotten stronger since then.

It's funny how sickness and stress can do that. We always see the bad in the bad moments in our lives, but sometimes there is good, as well.

I think my dad wanted me to go with him. I think his telephone call, something he doesn't normally do, was his way of inviting me. Tired from a long weekend, I missed those cues, and I'm sorry I did. It would have been nice to spend more time with both him and my grandpa.

More Father's Day rambling coming soon... your excellent comments have me thinking, so there's certainly more to say....

Is Being Your Baby's Daddy All That Important?

2007-06-11T15:03:00.000-06:00

I've come to the realization that I am, in fact, one of those bloggers. Oh, you know the type... they only blog about the exciting stuff they do or complain about how the entire world, no, the entire universe, has had numerous secret meetings behind the Applebee's to plot against them and crush their every dream. You know... those irritating bloggers. Yeah, I'm one of those.

Why have I come to this realization? Well, I haven't posted anything in over a week and while I have this nagging feeling like I should be posting something, I just can't muster the strength needed to waddle over to my laptop and type something inane into my text editor. I mean, what would I write? Would I blog about the coworker that is slowly eroding the sanity of everyone in my office, like some H.P. Lovecraftian horror? Would I blog about my dissatisfaction with my current telephone, a dissatisfaction that stems less from any issues with its ability to make calls, but more from my boredom with it? Or, would I draw up some elaborate blog post about how my son's slavish devotion to apple juice is making me angry, yes angry, at apples themselves, as if those fist sized fruits were somehow trying to steal my son's affection from me?

This is what you may not know about those bloggers. Sure, you get irritated with them when you visit their pages, day after day, only to find that nothing has changed. But, have you ever considered that their inability to post, their shocking laziness compared to other, more prolific bloggers, is actually a gift to you. Tell me the truth, would you rather read about my mind-numbing crankiness with my cell phone or would you rather I didn't post anything at all? Yeah, I thought so too. That's why it's been a week without any updates.

Not surprisingly, I've been thinking a little about Father's Day and what it means to me this year. Last year, I asked if I deserved it. Was I a good enough father to merit a day to celebrate my skills in child-rearing? This year, for whatever reason, I've been thinking more about society's views of fatherhood, a much bigger topic than I could hope to touch on in a blog post.

Several months ago, maybe even longer than that, I was having coffee with a friend of mine. We were discussing the challenges we had encountered since becoming fathers, the particular hurdles that had been tripping us up, and he made a startling confession to me. He and his wife had adopted two beautiful girls from China, but he was ashamed about needing to adopt. You see, he was struggling with the idea that because he was unable to get his wife pregnant, he wasn't a real man.

At first, I thought he was joking. I might have even laughed at him, since I'm sensitive like that, but he was very serious. We spoke in hushed tones, that morning, whispering into our coffee cups, trying to make sure the cute girl with the pastry tongs didn't overhear our man-speak.

I have another friend, father of an adorable daughter, who also carries a sense of shame. You see, he is troubled by the fact that his family name will die with him, unless he "sires" a boy. His daughter, although wonderful, won't carry his admittedly strange name into the future. If his family name is to continue, he needs a boy and time is running out. He explains this fact with a voice that continually rises in volume, his tone growing more and more stretched as he speaks.

What the hell is going on here? Is this the 21st century or is it the 17th century?

I know, I know... men have it easy when it comes to child birth. If pop culture is to be believed, we also have it easy when it comes to being a parent, as our job is simply to organize the garage, repeat "go ask your mother," and pray that our Viagra kicks in when the "time is right." With our jobs being so simple, so easy, of course we have to be saddled with some sort of weird insecurity, but does it have to be this? Haven't we passed the time when our worth is measured not in our abilities to parent, but our abilities to "father?"

Maybe this is where we're headed. Maybe, in a society where a term like "baby daddy" had to be coined, we need these old fashioned insecurities to come back into vogue. Maybe, with women becoming more and more independent, men suddenly feel like they have to contribute something unique to be valued. Or, maybe I just hang out with a strange bunch of knuckle-draggers. I just don't know.

Any thoughts on this topic?

It's Cliched Blogger Time... A Look Into The Search Keywords Bag!

2007-05-30T05:51:00.001-06:00

I know it's a cliche, but darnit, I just have to comment on a few of the searches that have brought me new readership. If you were getting these kinds of hits, you'd have to comment too.

“dad spanking little boy underwear for fighting“

Okay, I can kind of see how a spanking search might have brought someone to my blog. I mentioned spanking specifically in my mind your own business post a few months back, but “underwear for fighting?” What the hell is that? I'm imagining some kind of demented toddler Fight Club, only more creepy and even more illegal.

Even more bizarre is that someone actually sat down and typed that string of nonsense words, words that alluded to some hidden, deeper meaning, into Google and hit return, hoping for an actual result. If you're still reading, underwear-for-fighting-person, welcome! Also, what the hell where you thinking? As much as I'm sure the answer would frighten and disturb me, I really want to know!

“dominatrix golden showers“

Uhh... yeah. Huh?

“help find dad in denver“

This one actually intrigues me, because if you read it out loud, it sounds like “HELP... find Dad... in Denver!” I can imagine a bunch of scenarios, many of them tragic and epic, like something Homer would have written (the poet, not the Simpsons dad). Was the person looking for their own, specific dad? Or, would any old dad do in a pinch? Was there some sort of hotline or service the person was hoping to find? “1-800-Lost-Dad! You lose 'em, we find them again!”

The majority of my new visits, it would seem, come from being listed on the blogrolls of my many internet friends and acquaintances. If you're on my blogroll, it's because I read your blog all the time and enjoy what you have to say about life and being a parent. If I'm in your blogroll, I just want you to know I appreciate being thought of so highly that you'd bother to list me.

Okay, everyone, group hug... no, really. That means you, too! Get over here, you big lug and give DD some lovin'!

I'm Not Going To Quote The Grateful Dead And You Can't Make Me

2007-05-25T13:35:00.000-06:00

I'm not one of those guys that can complain about being prematurely gray -- the guys that, on their 25th birthdays, wake up to a silver sheen and a stunned sort of look on their faces can complain. I'm not one of those unfortunate men, but lately, my wife has been commenting more and more at the amount of gray that has found itself on my head.

I had a good run. I'm going to be 36 next month, so a bit of gray seems appropriate, but at the same time, still feels a little early. Men with gray hair shouldn't be obsessing about video games and zombie movies. No, we should be retiring to our dens to reflect on the works of Dickens, pulling leisurely on our pipes, and occasionally discussing which actress in “the pictures“ currently has the best gams. Or, at least, that's how I imagined adult life would be once I became a mature man. Little did I know I'd be the same dorky guy, only a little bit older.

Have you seen the “Just For Men“ commercials? They seem to be on a lot these days, or maybe I'm just more sensitive to them, now that I'm exactly the demographic they're trying to win over. They're actually kind of amusing. I'll recount the action, in case you missed them:

Sad sack guy is at a bar that hasn't been renovated since 1974, his hair conspicuously gray. No, really, this otherwise handsome guy looks like a grandpa... a GRANDPA! Geez, all the hot chicks are avoiding him because they're worried he'll try to ply them with Werther's Originals and then offer to take them back to his pad to show them his etchings.

If only he could cover up that gray! Wait... thanks to the miracles of modern science, he can! With just a simple application of a dye that looks a bit like the stuff that Spiderman's new black costume is made out of, he can be a swinging, hep cat again!

Cut back to the 1974 bar... my goodness... sad sack is now a happy playboy on the prowl! The hot girls are hanging all over him, he gave all of his Werther's Originals to the bartender, and life is good again! Thank goodness he got that gray hair taken care of and isn't a horrible troll any longer, despite the fact that like his favorite bar, his style hasn't changed much since he shared that apartment with Chrissy and Janet.

So, even though there is a product for men like me, men who want to go to 70s themed bars and pick up women who wear too much makeup, I think I'm going to forgo “coloring“ my hair. It seems like too much work and also seems like too much... I don't know... vanity? Effort? I'll look at my gray hair like I look at my scars, proof that I was here and didn't just spend my time sitting around looking pretty (clarification: looking pretty strange). I lived with as little fuss as I could, and damnit, I drew the line at hair gel.

So, when Denver Mom has an affair with our pool boy (once we get a pool), because I look too much like an old man, I'll reconsider. However, until that time, I remain gray and getting more gray every day. I don't know if I'll wear it with pride, but I'll wear it with genuineness. I'll wear my gray because I am, after all, gray, not old.

The question that's been bothering me since this realization: Is it just coincidence that Denver Mom and I are trying to learn how to play Bocce? Bocce?!? Maybe I am old.

Home Sweet Home

2007-05-23T15:48:00.001-06:00

We've left Red Wing and are home. My grandfather's condition has improved, his strength has returned, his wit as sharp as ever, but his prognosis isn't much better. He's stuck between a bleeding ulcer and a damaged heart, with treatment for either destined to aggrevite the other. In other words, if they treat him, it could kill him.

He has told the medical staff that he does not want to be revived, should they be faced with that decision. At 92 years old, I know he's thought a lot about death, told me stories about friends he's lost, but that must have been a difficult decision to make. Thankfully, he had the strength of will to make these decisions for himself and isn't asking his family to struggle with those questions further down the road.

I think I mentioned it before, but we drove to Minnesota, rather than fly. From Denver to my family's small town home of Red Wing, it's just a little over 900 miles, a trip that's too far for a toddler, but Chunk surprised me. He was great there and back, well behaved and agreeable, if a little nuts by “night-night time.”

There's a strange kind of peace that comes from driving long distances. I've read that there is a quasi-hypnosis that happens to people who stare at the road for too long, but what I'm talking about is more than that temporary state. When I was a kid, most of our family trips were driving trips, usually up to Minnesota, and so I know the trip very well. I can tell you stories about most of the rest stops along the way, point out the best Denny's for pie in Iowa, explain which tourist traps in Nebraska are worth seeing and which ones are okay to simply drive passed. Having made the trip countless times, as a boy and teen, it was strange to take that same trip again as a father. Strange, but natural in a way, like this wouldn't be the first or last time our little family braved the long highways of the midwest.

On the way home we drove through South Dakota and I saw Mount Rushmore for the first time. Having seen photos and the occasional scene from “North By Northwest,” I expected it to be sort of cheesy, but it was surprisingly neat and very tasteful. I can be a little cynical at times (I hope you were sitting down for that particular revelation), but it was a very moving monument and more than just a little awe-inspiring. Crazy Horse is slowly being carved into shape several miles away and should be even more impressive when it's finished.

Denver Mom and I decided that we'd plan a car trip every summer. We're planning on seeing Yellowstone, White Sands National Monument, visiting the Robert Henri museum in his home town in Nebraska, and maybe going back to our old favorite, Bandelier National Monument. Any other suggestions for places we can go?

When It Rains

2007-05-14T12:31:00.000-06:00

Last night, I spent an hour or so holding my grandfather's hand. With a variety of tubes running out of his body, electrodes hooked to his chest, he looked small, smaller than I've ever seen him, but he squeezed my hand with a strength that put me at ease, despite his situation.

On Saturday my mom called to tell us that my grandfather had suffered a heart attack. Although the doctors had been able to stabilize him, things didn't look good. His remaining kidney was failing, the heart attack was likely caused by the faulty valve he had in his chest, and there were other problems as well, but when he squeezed my hand, somehow I felt like it was going to be okay. Its funny how we're forever children before our parents.

My childhood was a complicated mess of ignored responsibilities. My biological mom really wasn't capable of being a parent, and when she dropped the ball with me, which often happened, my grandparents were always there to pick it up again. I think I lived with them more than I lived with my biological mother, until my aunt, uncle, and cousins took me in permanently.

I learned a lot about being a dad from my grandfather and I catch myself, sometimes, talking to Chunk like my grandfather spoke to me. He retired early and my summers off from school consisted mostly of he and I running errands around Minneapolis, sometimes going for short hikes, or hanging out in diners run by guys who knew my grandfather by name. At the time, it seemed like everyone knew my grandfather by name, and although he was an abrasive guy at times, everyone had a smile for him.

Every time we got in the car, I would learn something. We would drive along power lines and my grandfather would quiz me on why the birds could stand on the power lines without getting electrocuted. We would go to the hardware store and walk about how plumbing worked. Sometimes we'd just talk about the car we were driving in, have long conversations about traffic rules. That's the quality I think I mirror most from my grandfather. When Chunk points at something and asks, "What's that?" his voice more shrill, depending on his level of excitement, I never just answer, "That's a truck." I tell him its a truck, then we spend a long time talking about what it's used for, why it needs to be so big, etc. At two, he doesn't always get it, but I think he gets more than he lets on, just like I did with my grandpa.

There are strange moments that come with from dealing with our own parents, times when your perceptions are rattled and altered forever. Chunk will have these moments with me, I'm sure. I was shocked and surprised when I realized I was taller than my grandfather, a man who had been larger than life itself for my entire childhood. I was devastated when my grandmother passed away almost twenty years ago, not just because I had lost an amazing woman in my life, but because the devastation that my grandfather wore on his face was something I couldn't bare to see. Seeing how sunken my grandfather had become after the death of his daughter, my biological mother, shrunk me as well. And now, watching him lie in a hospital bed, straddling that strangely wide line between life and death, has been another moment of realization, a time when I can see very plainly that the man I idolized my entire life is just a man, like I am, not a legend made real, not a tall tale from the north like Paul Bunyon and thousands of fishing stories.

My grandfather wasn't always a good man, but he became one. He struggled with alcohol for a lot of years, but exorcised that demon and went to work helping others do the same. He wasn't always a good husband, but when my grandmother retired, he grew roses for her, big bushes of reds and pinks and whites and yellow, flowers that even I knew meant something more than just their surface beauty. He wasn't always a good father, but when given the chance to try again, became an excellent father to a boy that didn't seem to have any parents at all.

His calm in his hospital bed perhaps remakes him as the legend I've always seen him as being. When I told him he scared a lot of us, he told me, between machine assisted gulps of air, that he was scared too. Then, he smiled, like it was all a joke, like it was nothing at all, and squeezed my hand with a firmness that said he was right, that none of this was serious. After that, he turned his gaze back up to the ceiling and struggled with each and every breath, hiccuping with a strangely soft, high sound, that should come from a bird, not my grandfather.

His chances don't look very good. He lives 900 miles away and hasn't really gotten a chance to get to know my son. Like my great-grandparents, my grandpa will exist more as a story for Chunk, but there will be a lot of stories to tell. Some of those stories will be funny, others sad, some beautiful, and others inspiring.

I'm looking forward to seeing him this morning, but not because I want to say good-bye. I didn't spend two days in the car to say good-bye. I came here because I want to spend a little more time with my "bump-pa."

Shamed Out of the Shadows

2007-05-07T08:15:00.000-06:00

I've written about balance many times, because the biggest lesson I have learned as a parent is that balance is a bit like a unicorn, winning lotto numbers, and Jami Gertz, intensely desirable but elusive to the point that you're not really sure it even exists. I had thought that I was approaching something that might have looked like balance, had the same sort of smooth corners and even weight, but as soon as I got to the point where I was considering claiming victory over my schedule, work came and clobbered me with some details I predicted, but somehow wasn't anticipating.

Is that vague enough? I mean, aside from my Jami Gertz reference? I'll be a little more obvious... I work for a non-profit and we have a big fund raising breakfast coming up. Of course I wouldn't have time for blogging. We're on the downward slope, however, so things should be returning to normal for me very soon.

Have I brought any lessons from my unexpected hiatus, any new bits of shiny, packaged wisdom that I can distribute like candy at Halloween? Gosh, wouldn't that be nice? Nope. I'm sorry, but as I get back up to speed, it'll just be more of the same. Wisdom is for people with better taglines and wit.

Expect more soon! And, Lainey-Paney, p-man, and Sarah O, thank you for shaming me back into posting. If the next post is nothing but fart jokes and talk about Xbox, remember, you brought this on yourselves.

Do-det-do-do... wah-wah-waaahhh....

2007-04-12T06:08:00.001-06:00

I think I've mentioned it before, but I work in a non-profit that supports families with children that have a specific condition. I know I'm being vague, but they say that the fastest way to get fired is to blog about work, and I like my job enough that I don't want to screw it up. So, please bear with me. The important thing is that, given we work with children and families, our organization is very family friendly, to the point that I see all of my coworkers' children in the office quite frequently.

I know what you're thinking... you're thinking, "Geez, that sounds terrible! How do you get anything done?" And, if I had to answer honestly, I'd tell you that yes, it is terrible, and no, I don't get anything done. Thankfully, most of the time the kids are very well behaved and understand that they should leave the sourpuss in the corner alone, because not even Jesus likes his car and he's so clueless he can't even pull off a successful date with his wife.

The upside of this whole "children are welcome in the office" environment is that no one complains too much when I have to bring Chunk in for a couple of hours. I try not to take advantage of it, but occasionally we have staff meetings on the days when I'm working from home, so I have little choice but to bring him along and wait for the inevitable poo which happens about half-way through... every... single... meeting.

On Tuesday we all gathered around the conference table to discuss next year's budget. One of my coworkers brought along her little boy, who I will refer to as Mohawk, and the two almost instantly started the dance of the Toddler Staredown. For those of you without children, I'll explain how this works.

Basically, being a toddler, Chunk cannot go anywhere without his favorite toy. He can't take a bath without knowing Buzz Lightyear is sitting just inches from the bathtub, waiting to be retrieved once the harsh job of washing has been completed. On this particular day, Chunk had both Buzz and Woody, as well as "the big boy Legos" that I bring along to occupy him whenever I need him to sit still and keep it down.

Anyway, I was talking about the Toddler Staredown. Here's how it went down....

Chunk, clutching Woody and Buzz to his chest, stood motionless in the conference room.

Mohawk, clutching a number of cars to his chest, stood four feet away.

They were silent.

A tumbleweed blew between them and then bounced off to places unknown.

Someone nearby covered the eyes of their child and rushed them inside, stifling a panicked cry.

Chunk sort of leaned towards Mohawk for a moment, eyeing his really cool looking cars, then rocked back on his heels to his original stance. Mohawk was obviously checking out Chunk's toys, then flashed his mother a quick, nervous glance, before meeting Chunk's stoic gaze.

Minutes passed.

Literally. I'm talking actually minutes here.

Mohawk pointed at Chunk, said something I couldn't understand to his mom, then continued to stare.

Somewhere, Ennio Morricone started humming his theme from "The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly" and smiled to himself, confident he had done his job.

Then, when I wasn't looking, no doubt trying to contribute to the meeting, one of them broke their standoff and the two of them began to play together, each one a little suspicious of the other, but genuinely having a good time. There were a few panicked moments, like when Mohawk was playing with Buzz, and then when Chunk declared one of Mohawk's cars was "mine," but they did great. What was weird was that Chunk and Mohawk have hung out together several times, enough that Chunk even knows his name, and they've gotten along really well. It was just that on Tuesday, the stakes had been higher. This was Buzz and Woody we were talking about, damnit, and there are just some things you don't share!

I don't get to see Chunk dealing with other kids in this way, very often. Out of the group of guys I normally hang out with, Chunk is the youngest offspring in the bunch, by about eighteen month to three years. Both of his cousins are several years older, so what peer negotiations I've seen have mostly just been him kind of following the "big kids" around and playing what they want to play. Or, if he doesn't like what they're doing, he just goes off and does his own thing. Either way, he's generally pretty happy and hasn't had many conflicts or chances to test his will against another child. At least, not in front of his dad. I'm sure he has plenty of power struggles during his one day a week at day care.

It's kind of neat to see my little guy in action. When push came to shove, he didn't... well, shove. We have some problems with hitting at home, but when he's playing with other kids, he just doesn't seem to take things to that level when he gets frustrated. On Tuesday, it looked like he might lash out at one point. Mohawk had taken his Buzz and Chunk wanted him back. There was an impasse, but rather than slug Mohawk in the nose for taking his Buzz, he stood his ground and firmly demanded his toy back. It didn't work, of course, Mohawk was having fun and just ignored him, but Chunk was continued to be firm with him and never resorted to hitting.

I know, in the future, as my son grows and changes and continues to develop, I'll get other opportunities to see him interact with the world, time when he doesn't recognize that his dad is watching him. I'm looking forward to it. It's neat to get a glimpse of your child's character, and so far, I've been impressed with mine.

#%@*! Meme About Favorite Songs

2007-04-09T15:35:00.000-06:00

My blogging buddy Maria, at Just Eat Your Cupcake, tagged me with a meme several months ago. Okay, maybe not months ago, but it was more than a month ago and I've been dreading posting it since then.

What meme has me quaking in my blogging boots? It's the "Three favorite songs" question, which given my absolute love of music, seems like it would be an easy post to get some mileage out of, but in reality, has filled me with dread and self-doubt. How could I pick just three songs, of out so many, that are my all time favorites? It's like "Sophie's Choice," but with much fewer Nazis.

So, even with a month of thought, I'm not sure if this is really my list, but it's darn close:

1. Cuyahoga, R.E.M. -- I've loved this song for years and have never been able to figure out exactly what it is about the song that captures my attention so well. Like most R.E.M. songs the lyrics are evasive, but intriguing, and to my mind, talk about naive enthusiasm about building something new and special, while acknowledging the construction that went on before. It's one of the most patriotic songs I know of without being propaganda.

2. Got To Give It Up (pt. 1), Marvin Gaye -- This song might be the closet thing to perfection that any single piece of music has ever reached, since the first caveman started banging sticks together in the dark. If you never had soul before, this song will give it to you. If you never had rhythm, this song will help you find it. If this song doesn't get your butt moving and your toes tapping, you might want to check your pulse.

3. An Ending (Ascent), Brian Eno -- Wow. Simply beautiful. People often talk about getting a literal message behind instrumental music, as if there was a kind of invisible dialog happening in the interplay between instruments, and I've always struggled with that idea. I guess my brain is just too literal to find that sort of underlying talking, but with this song, I think I hear hope.

I'll stop with my three songs. I could do a "honorable mentions" list, but I'd be here all day and you're probably already glazing over.

And, as is tradition with these sorts of things, I'm going to pass this along to one of my newer blogging favorites Lainey-Painy at Life Is Just So Daily, my arch-nemesis Mitch McDad at Mitch McDad's World, my fellow bleeding heart The Real Mother Hen at How the Real Mother Hen sees the World, the basement runner Radioactive Girl, and the guy who's mix tapes from high school were the coolest, Vampdaddy. I'd love to hear what all five of you really shake your tail feathers to, but if you're not listed, that doesn't mean you can't play. So, play along and let me know you have them listed on your blog. Or, leave your favorites in the comments section. I'm always eager to broaden my musical horizons.

Perfect Post Award? Me? Seriously?

2007-04-06T08:24:00.000-06:00

Wow! Apparently there is this thing called the "Perfect Post Award" that is given out monthly by the charming moms at Petroville and Suburban Turmoil. And, if you can believe it, yours truly was nominated!

I didn't win of course... probably far too many references to farting in my posts... but just like at the Oscars, it's a honor to simply have been nominated. Thank you, Mother-Woman, for taking the time to offer up my name and thank you for thinking so highly of one of my posts. I really appreciate it. For your efforts, you're my official Blog-Crush of the Month!

Denver Dad Reveals The Mysteries Of The World!, Pt. 2

2007-04-05T14:48:00.000-06:00

Little did I know that my tongue-in-cheek question and answer section would result in a number of actual questions. Geez. You guys are a tough crowd. So, here are my answers to the questions you (yes, you... sitting right there!) left for me in the comments section.

Remember, the advice you receive is about worth what you paid for it.

Lainey-Paney at Life Is Just So Daily asks...

Q.Dear Denver Dad,

Our son is 18 months old, and is now starting this AMAZING fit throwing. A single fit may involve one or all of the following: kicking, screaming, crying, pinching of Mommy, pulling on Mommy's clothes, throwing himself to the ground, rearing his head back to the point of almost falling out of Mommy's arms.
It's TONS OF FUN for me.

I understand that he's frustrated due to his limited vocabulary & speech skills...but I also know that the fits often occur not when he can't communicate his wants, but rather when he does not get what he wants.

So...the question is---WHAT DO I DO ABOUT IT??? My pediatrician says to ignore it. Guess how well that works!!?? Not well at all. And really, how easy is it to ignore anyway when he's dangling from my pants & screaming at the top of his lungs? My husband says to spank him.

That seems to break my heart, and I'm afraid that it is teaching my child to hit (a nasty little habit that he picked up shortly after the introduction of the "spanking").

Is there a boarding school anywhere for toddlers????

A. Sadly, there isn't a boarding school for toddlers, but if you have some extra money laying around, boy do I have a franchise idea for you!

We have been blessed with a child that would rather just ignore you than throw fits, but he has had more than a few moments of drama, so I'll offer whatever wisdom I can. Your pediatrician is right. You're supposed to ignore it, but no one sane can ignore that kind of behavior. So, here's what you need to do:

1. Stay calm. Your toddler is screaming and clinging to get your attention. At some point, it worked, so now you only have yourself to blame. Don't take it so hard, because if you didn't react at some point, you'd be a robot and probably plotting to take over the world. That's bad. So, reacting to your child's needs is a good thing. It's just that it got weird somehow and isn't working the way it's supposed to work.

2. Stay calm. This is like those repeating Fight Club rules. Toddlers, like animals, can smell fear. So, they'll know when they have you. You've got to keep your wits about you and stay rational, because someone has to be the rational person and it's not going to be your toddler.

3. Negotiate! In a calm voice, explain that your child can either get a hold of themselves or go to their rooms and throw their fit. I know, I know, it sounds silly, but it works with Chunk. The first few times you give him the choice, he's going to ignore you, so you take him to time out. Eventually, he'll understand that if he wants attention, he's going to have to get it with rational behavior, as opposed to psychotic behavior. Or, he won't, but at least he'll be in his room screaming, instead of hanging off your leg.

4. Explain. I know you're supposed to let stuff go, but I like to talk to my little guy after the big blow-ups and have a debriefing. I say stuff like, "I know you're frustrated because I can't understand you, but that just means we both have to try harder next time." Or, "If you do that at the grocery store again, no one will ever find your body." You know, reassuring stuff like that. Your child will probably tune you out when you have this conversation, but it makes me feel better, so maybe it'll work for you too.

5. Be consistent. If you're going to do this, you've got to keep doing it. The second you break any of these rules, they (our demon spawn) know they have us wrapped around their fingers, and its that much harder to lay down the law later. That's actually true for any wonky "system" you find. If you're consistent, no matter what your system of behavior management may be, it should eventually work.

The thing is, our kids are whip smart. I mean that. Chunk terrifies me with how much he already knows and understands. So, I try to treat him like the independent person he's fighting so hard to become. It's not an easy process, but it's slowly getting better. Hopefully, it'll get better for you too.

Maria at Just Eat Your Cupcake asks...

Q.Dear Denver Dad,

My daughter is seven. She often pretends to be a dog (a golden retriever named Zippy to be exact). My question is: should I just go ahead and buy her a leash or give her free run of the yard? And when I take her for walks, what should I say to rude people who stop and laugh?

I work hard to accept her for herself and hey, if she is having a Zippy day, I'm supportive. My problem is that other people simply don't get it. Why won't they allow my child to explore her dog identity and how can I help her?

A. If I had a nickel every time I heard the "my daughter wants to be a golden retriever" story, I'd have a whole nickel!

Look, kids are creative and nicknames eventually fade, especially when you're old enough to move away. I say, get her the leash she wants, maybe even a fancy dish, and let her indulge. Assuming her psychological scars heal, and there will be scars, she'll grow up to be a fine, upstanding citizen who can fetch a tennis ball like you wouldn't believe.

The Real Mother Hen at How the Real Mother Hen sees the World asks...

Q.Dear Denver Dad,

My husband refuses to grow up - any advice?

A. Maturity is like kryptonite for most men. It saps their strength and makes them mere shadows of the vibrant, fun, beer-guzzling men they were before. I've seen it happen to many of my friends, and although they're still good guys, they've lost their spark and have become kind of dull.

Unfortunately, maturity is also kind of important. Maturity is what gets a guy to buy diapers instead of a box of frozen White Castle cheeseburgers when he hits the local warehouse store. Maturity is what gets a guy to stop playing his Level 60 World of Warcraft character and actually get a job that requires shaving and khakis. The real trick is not to force maturity, but teach your spouse how to be mature at appropriate times, letting them resort to childish fart jokes and goofing off when you have them safely locked in their "nerd cave."

I'm being serious here. You wouldn't want your husband to grow up. You wouldn't like him, because when he grows up, he becomes dull. The guy you fell in love with? The one that makes you laugh? He'll leave, for good, if your husband actually grows up. So, instead of forcing him to become mature, you just need to teach him when he can be a dumb-ass and when he's supposed to pretend to be responsible.

So, how do you do that? Remind him of stuff. "Honey, we're having brunch with my parents on Sunday." Or, "Dearest, khaki does go with everything, but that shirt is still ugly." Or, "Sweet Cakes, I know you need the Complete Wizards rulebook to play your illusionist character in your Tuesday night D&D game, but I'm tired of eating Top Ramen and day old bread, so we're spending our money on food and utilities, rather than dice and books with bimbos and swords on them." Don't nag. Nagging instantly turns whatever you say into white noise and he won't hear a bit of it, so you have to say it like you're having a conversation.

You know when your husband explains the two point conversions rules to you? Or, how a facemask can be either a 5 yard or 15 yard penalty? Remember that? No, of course you don't. If you nag, it'll be like that. Just remind him, gently, and after a while he'll start thinking it's his idea.

mo-wo at Mother-Woman asks...

Q.Dear Denver Dad,

I need Dad advice... At what age should I Ferberize my spouse?

A. When I first read your question, mo-wo, I thought you were asking when you should Frebreeze your spouse. Normally, I would recommend you Frebreeze your spouse as soon after marriage as possible, with periodic updates as needed. You should bring it up gently, though, because men are so sensitive and take offense easily. I would recommend saying something like, "Honey, now that you're married, you have to stink less. Lift up your arms and breath through your nose," then spray like you're trying to kill a wasp's nest.

But Ferberizing your spouse? That's a little trickier than spraying them with deodorizer. My wife and I practice "co-sleeping" with each other. We have since we were married ten years ago, and even before that, when we were just godless heathens cohabitating in sinfulness. It works for us. If sleeping with your spouse doesn't work, tell him, "Honey, it's not you... it's me, but get the hell out if you want to live through the night!" It's subtle, but will save his feelings.

Want something more subtle? My wife gets cold in 90 degree weather, so we got a heated mattress pad, at her request. We splurged and got the fancy one that has two controls, one for each side of the bed. When we go to sleep my wife sets her side to "broil." If I dare cross the barrier into her side of the bed, my flesh literally catches on fire and I run around the room screaming and trying to put out the flames. Like I said, it's a little more subtle, but if your husband has the jimmy legs, nothing fixes that quite as quickly as the threat of melting flesh.

Suburban Kamikaze at, shockingly enough, Suburban Kamikaze didn't really have a question, but seemed to suggest I needed to see a dominatrix for some issues that might be troubling me. It was either a dominatrix or Super Nanny. I'm not sure, but it was someone with boots. I know that much.

More About Dating Your Spouse

2007-03-30T09:15:00.001-06:00

Another weekend is nearly here and that means I get to go out on another date. And yes, I still mean a date with my wife.

Dating your spouse definitely has its advantages. For example, while picking out a restaurant, you pretty much know how a "genre" of food is going to go over. The level of "polite" in a ten year old marriage pretty much guarantees that no one is going to keep quiet while pulling into the parking lot of a lame choice. For example, if you suffered a blow to the head and followed it up by picking "Billy Bob's Barbequed Beans Emporium" for your romantic night out, that mistake will be corrected much earlier than when the waiter drops by and asks if everything tastes okay.

The level of hygiene and grooming required for a date with your spouse is also a little different. Yes, you should try to look nice for your spouse. I'm not saying you can be a slob, but if you have a little funk from playing hide and seek with your youngin' before your date, it's still going to be okay, so long as you let your wife sit upwind. Ladies, you probably don't have to worry about shaving your legs either. Remember when you were eight months pregnant and couldn't bend over enough to shave? Yeah, we remember that time too, and it wasn't an issue then, so it's not an issue now.

And, unless you really do something stupid, you are pretty much guaranteed that you'll get to sleep with your date. Maybe not sleep together sleep together, but there will probably be room for you in the bed and maybe a little cuddling. If you play your cards right, who knows? Maybe you might want to shave your legs after all or shower off some of that funk.

Of course, nothing in life is perfect and so even with all of the advantages of dating your spouse, its not exactly a picnic. For one, there's no getting out of a date, if you don't feel up to it. You can't call and say, with that dramatic voice you use when you call into the office, "I think I picked up this bug at work and I'm just not feeling up to going out." Your wife can see you, sitting there in your underwear, playing Xbox. She knows you feel just fine and you'd rather spend your time with the Master Chief than her.

And then there is the problem of what to do. When you're dating, you'll do anything with that special someone and it'll still be fun. You want me to help you with your taxes? Awesome! Clean your cat's litter box? I'll be right over! When you're married, spending time together is still fun, but an evening out sort of has to be special, since they're so few and far between. There is nothing more painful than setting up a sitter, washing off the funk, and spending $40 to go to a movie, only to realize that you could have had just as lousy of a time at home with your DVD player and the couch, all with half the effort and none of the money.

Our biggest problem, I think, is that we're out of practice. We've been dedicated, hands-on parents for two years and we've kind of lost touch with what we found fun, as a couple. When we were childless "dating" just sort of happened, but now that we're parents, it... has... to... count... every... dang... time. Dates are about as rare as leprechauns and three times as valuable. There's pressure in a date, not necessarily pressure to impress her enough that maybe you'll be invited back for another date, but there's another kind of tension. There is the pressure to find a way to sit across the table from your spouse while the waiter gets you more bread, and see the woman who fascinated you for so long, not the mom who just suddenly appeared one day in her place. It's not that I don't like the mom, I do, but I also want to hear stories from the woman who, despite being a mom, is still trying to paint and be creative and maybe even read a book.

So, what do you do? My wife and I used to be huge movie buffs, but our various excursions to the theater have been lackluster. Even when the movie has been good, the experience of going has been kind of blah. We used to love to ski, but we just can't imagine putting anyone through a full day with Chunk. That leaves things like museums, dinner, and maybe the theater. Museums are fun, but Denver is slow to change, so their novelty wears off quickly when you just keep seeing the same things over and over. Dinner is nice. I like to eat, but again, novelty is a fleeting thing. And, as much as we both want to go to the theater, throwing tickets into the kind of planning required to secure a sitter, just seems like too much for us right now.

Internet, what do you recommend? I've read your blog posts, so I know you're far more creative than I am. If you had the chance for a hot date with a person you adored, what would you do to make it a rousing success? The less you have to plan ahead, the better. Leave your suggestions in the comments! Who knows... if your suggestion works, you might even get a special prize.

Coming up next... Denver Dad answers some real questions! And, I finally respond to a meme that Maria at Just Eat Your Cupcake hit me with weeks ago!

Denver Dad Reveals The Mysteries Of The World!

2007-03-26T20:05:00.000-06:00

Okay, I've finally figured it out... bloggers are a bunch of lazy liars! Don't believe me? Go check out Metro Dad's latest mailbag post. Or, go over to Suburban Kamikaze's site and read her "Ask Amy" segment.

This doesn't happen! I've been blogging for more than a year now and the only advice I've been asked to share is how potty training has been going with my little guy (answer: wonderfully, if you're a shareholder with Pampers). That's it! I know MetroDad is something like a demigod among bloggers, a living titan that walks among us mere mortals, and Suburban Kamikaze is hilarious, so funny in fact that I don't even understand half of her posts, even when mouthing the big words out loud, but do people really write in for advice? I have a hard time believing it. I mean, I'm not calling either MetroDad or Suburban Kamikaze liars, but I do wonder if their noses haven't grown just a tad.

So, in that spirit, I'm starting my own blogging advice column, complete with fictious questions by imaginary people. Here goes....

Q. Dear Denver Dad, My child keeps putting her hands in her mouth. Do you think she's teething? -- Heather in Sacramento, CA

A. Yes. It's either teeth or dry skin. Babies have an innate but powerful understanding of exfoliating and moisture control. Check her hands for patches of dry skin. If there's no cracking or flaking, she has teeth coming in. Or, bees are about to attack. Its one of those three things.

Q. Dear Denver Dad, My baby isn't sleeping and our entire family is about to go crazy. Do you have any tips for dealing with a uncooperative baby? -- Anton in Pittsburg, PA

A. A baby that won't sleep is a difficult thing to deal with, as the problem really stems from an inability to communicate needs between the child and the parent. I would recommend moving and not leaving a forwarding address with your baby. I mean, sure, even if you left the forwarding address the baby probably couldn't read it, but you never know when one of those pesky "concerned neighbors" or "police" will come along and read your note. When the time is right, your baby will find you again during a segment on the Maury Povich show, as God intended. And, with any luck, he'll be sleeping through the night by then. Good luck!

Q. Dear Denver Dad, I keep hearing about the "Mile High Club." Since you live in the Mile High City, I thought you'd be the best person to explain it to me. -- Tim in Little Rock, AR

A. This is one of those things where, if you have to ask, you're just not meant to know. However, in an effort to write an entertaining and informative blog post, I'll tell you anyway. The "Mile High Club" is a sandwich. Like most club sandwiches it has a variety of lunch meats and cheeses, but is stacked very high, often threatening to fall over due to its incredible heights of sandwichese. That is where the "Mile High" part comes in. They're very good and worth two punches in your frequent eaters club card, but only if you go on Tuesdays.

Q. Dear Denver Dad, My son is always hitting things. He's two years old, so is that the problem? Or, is it something more serious? -- John Jacob Jiggleheimer Smith in Tempe, AZ

A. It's something more serious. Probably Le Pétomane Syndrome.

That's all. So, join us next time for Denver Dad Reveals The Mysteries Of The World! And, if you're feeling brave, leave your questions in the comments section. I promise I'll answer them, but I can't promise the answers will be very useful.

Daddy Owwie?

2007-03-22T13:01:00.000-06:00

Last year, around this same time, I had this this crazy thirst. Every night, from dinner time until bedtime, I drank glass after glass of water, but nothing seemed to help. I just couldn't get enough water in me.

A friend of mine with diabetes suggested I get tested, so I went in and had some blood tests done. I didn't have a sitter, so Chunk accompanied me, and surprised me with a very well developed bedside manner for a one year old (at the time).

The same thing happened again. I've been completely parched, night after night, so the doctor had me come in again to give more blood. Everything looks fine. Strangely, the doctor thinks it might be allergies, but after seeing the doc I went to pick up Chunk from grandma's place.

"Daddy owwie?" he asked, very seriously, as he pointed at my bandage. It was practically the first thing he said to me, when I walked in the door.

"Yep, daddy has an owwie, but it's a little one. It'll be okay."

He leaned over and kissed my arm.

I love my son.

Momma do et!

2007-03-21T13:24:00.001-06:00

My son is going through an interesting phase. Actually, he's been going through this phase for months now, but his vocabulary has finally caught up with him and he's now able to articulate this phase, much to my dismay.

"Momma do et!" he proclaims, pretty much whenever I'm trying to help him. Tying his shoes. Changing his diaper. Reading him a book. Getting him more milk while we're having dinner. Giving him his nightly beating. Whatever the task, his dad is no longer allowed to help. It's all up to momma now and failure to adhere to this new set of rules results in a strange sort of squirming fit that might catch on as a dance in future years, but now just looks like a seizure.

I've been an "involved dad" since the beginning. When Chunk was born, I took a month off to stay home with him and Denver Mom, as we slowly started creating a new life as a family, instead of just a couple. I've been working from home with him since then, so I get five full days of Chunk time a week, minimum, if you include the weekends. It's not like I haven't had the time needed to prove that I'm not a complete novice at this whole parenthood thing. I mean, it took him months before he started calling me "daddy." Before that, I was "momma," just like Denver Mom. But, now? Regardless of my skills, or regardless of my lack of skills, which I assume is at least entertaining, I can't do a thing for the child.

I'm conflicted. If I were smart, I would just go along with it, letting my wife do everything for our son. Getting him dressed and ready to go outside takes approximately four days, an act of congress, and prayers from many prominent clerics, pastors, and cardinals. Sadly, although I'm prone to exaggeration, in this particular case, I'm not exaggerating. It really does take that long, so I should just get back to my napping and let Denver Mom take care of everything.

And yet, on the other hand, I still want to be involved. Whether he wants my help or not, I want to provide it. When he falls, I want to scoop him up in my arms.

Someone told me that once he's four, it'll all shift back to me. At that point, he'll be a daddy's boy. I'm pretty sure that's going to be kind of annoying too.

Actual Statement Made By Chunk*

2007-03-13T20:44:00.000-06:00

* Okay, okay, so it was wasn't actually said out loud, but one look in that kid's eyes and you can see he's working on his master plan. The good news is that there are likely going to be some awesome perks being the father of Emperor Chunk.

Loss

2007-03-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

We like to think that what makes us such a wondrous species is that we experience a wide range of emotions, a spectrum that covers everything from whimsy and joy to despair and regret. We empathize with animals that we think can also feel these things, but I think the depth of our memory is what makes our emotions unique. And, it is that depth that makes us creatures that can truly be hurt.

Earlier this week, Rob at How About Two? lost his son. The outpouring of sympathy in his post comments is beautiful. In many ways, it is the perfect example of the goodness that is possible on the internet, a form of communication usually just saddled with suspicion and fear. Even more, I can't help but think that for every post left for his family, there were three or four other people who stopped in and were simply too speechless or to broken up to leave their warmest thoughts and wishes for Rob's family.

I have a story about loss I also want to share. I don't intend to take away from Rob and his difficult time, he needs all the support he can get right now, but since learning the news of the passing of young Doss earlier in the week, I've spent a lot of time thinking about my own experiences several years ago. It feels like an appropriate time to share it.

My wife and I, after years of being childish ourselves, decided we wanted a child in our lives. Or, more to the point, we decided that we would just stop using birth control and see what would happen.

Almost immediately, she was pregnant. We couldn't be happier. For days, it was all we could talk about with each other, plans we were making, names we liked, ideas for how we would care for the child while we kept working. We couldn't believe it, how easy it was, how lucky we were to get our wish so quickly, when so many other couples struggled for months and years.

Only a few days after learning she was pregnant, she woke up in terrible pain, discovered she had been bleeding. Shaken, we quickly got dressed and rushed to the emergency room in the early morning hours.

The medical staff ran several tests. One of the last tests was an ultrasound and so I was able to see the small, dark circle that was going to be my child, before they told us that the pregnancy was ectopic and it would have to be terminated. Matters quickly got worse when we learned that my wife would need surgery to remove the "fetal material." It was too large to be treated with medication and if it was left, it would eventually rupture inside of my wife, causing internal bleeding and risking her life as well. The surgery was scheduled for later in the day and we had a few hours to wait, before she would have to be prepped.

We came home. We took a shower. We cried. We packed a few things for her surgery. In less than a week I learned that I would be a father, only to have that unrealized dream of our child about to be taken away. I desperately wished for something, some undiscussed procedure to save our child and my wife, but there wasn't anything to be done, other than what the medical staff had already decided on.

While sitting in the waiting room, I called my parents. I explained what had happened to my dad, who I later heard from my sister, was so upset he couldn't tell anyone else the news. All he could do was cry. I called my wife's mother. This was the first time anyone had heard we were expecting, but all they really heard was that something had gone horribly wrong. I called my boss and told him I need to take some time off. This all happened on a Sunday, so the waiting room was completely empty, dark, and I sat alone for what felt like days while I waited for the surgeons to save my wife by killing my child.

My mother-in-law came and sat with me.

My parents came and cried with me.

After several hours, it was done. My child was gone and my wife lost one of her fallopian tubes, but she would be okay.

Only, it wasn't finished. A week later they checked my wife's hormone levels and found out that they had been rising, despite the surgery. Her body still thought she was pregnant. I formulated a number of wild theories, desperate hopes that somehow we still had a child nestled safely inside of her, but the doctors explained that some of the material had broken lose during the surgery and was stuck inside of her. It would have to be destroyed with a shot of a chemotherapy medication, a shot which would make my already exhausted and physically weak wife, even more exhausted and even more weak.

The shot worked, but it took weeks. Every week we would go in, my wife would have her blood drawn, and we would later get a telephone call telling us her new hormone levels. It was the toughest time of my life, having to endure those tests, having to be strong for my wife when all I wanted to do was scream at the doctors and their winks, their accusations that we had been trying to get pregnant again, immediately after her surgery, even when we were told it would be dangerous for her. One of the doctors refused to believe us when we told her we had been abstaining, as we were instructed to do. Surely, we were lying to her.

After several months, it was finally over. People said a lot of stupid things, trying to comfort us.

I was told that it was no big deal.

I was told that what we experienced was easier than a miscarriage and I should consider myself lucky.

I was told that I would do anything to get out of work for a couple of weeks.

I was told that we could just try again.

But, I didn't want to try again. We lost our child, even if it wasn't yet a true child, and all I wanted was that baby.

We went to a memorial for unborn children who had been lost. I couldn't believe how many people were there with us, mourning, as confused as I was about how such a thing was possible. I hoped it would make me feel better, but it only made me more angry. All of my friends were having children and I couldn't stand to be around them. I was so bitter about what we had lost, that I couldn't congratulate them for what they had gained. One of our cats got sick and we had to put it down, and as silly as it is, it stirred everything up again.

We talked. My wife wanted to know if I was ready to start trying again. I told her I wasn't ready and that I wasn't sure if I would ever be ready. She said she felt the same way. Months later, despite neither one of us being "ready," my wife was pregnant with Chunk and I spent nine months expecting nothing but the worst, grieving still for our lost pregnancy, and hoping that this one would be alright. When he was finally born, I think I cried more from relief that he was fine, that he was perfect, than I did from the joy a new father is supposed to feel.

Even with him in our lives, I wonder what that other child would have been like. It wouldn't have been Chunk. It would have been its own person, maybe a baby girl, maybe an older brother for our son. I don't know. I still think about that child, wonder about that life we weren't able to experience. It still bothers me, but it has gotten easier.

I'm not sharing this story to serve as advice for Rob. Our situations, like all situations, are completely different. I would imagine that what he's going through is much harder than what my wife and I endured. Or, maybe its easier, given that they had time with their son, time to hold him, time they can cherish. I'll never know. Grief, as I learned, is a very personal, unpredictable thing.

Instead, I offer my story as advice for the people around Rob, or people who are facing a similar situation, left speechless with their own throbbing empathy. Understand that nothing you say will make someone feel better. Understand that grief can't be tossed aside with best wishes and hopes for the future. Understand that your simply being there will be enough, maybe not at first, but eventually. Understand that grief can take a long time and that there is nothing selfish in it. Understand that having another child doesn't erase the pain, but it does bring some joy.

Rob, you and your family have my most sincere, deepest sympathies.

Coming soon...

2007-03-08T19:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry to have been so absent, both here and reading and commenting on other blogs! I've been a little swamped at work and have a sick little boy at home. I'm hoping to get a new post up tomorrow or Saturday... which should be a big relief for all of you tired of reading about my vascetomy.

In the meantime, check out some of the blogs on my blogroll. They wouldn't be there if they weren't good. And, check out my latest blog-crush, Lainey-Paney's Life Is Just So Daily.

Squimish?

2007-02-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

I am nothing if not a follower of the latest trends. Remember when all the parent-bloggers (and the Today Show) were obsessed with drunken debauchery at play dates? I wasn't above cashing in on... err... I mean, I felt it was important for me to add my own well researched and carefully constructed opinion to the debate. Remember when all the daddy blogs were either posting from Blogher or whining about not being invited? Yeah, I remember that too. I didn't post, but I remember it. Remember when parachute pants were all the rage and everyone was poppin' and snappin'? Yeah, okay, so I sat that one out too, but in my heart, I knew I wanted to spin around on flattened cardboard like the rest of them.

The latest trend seems to be daddy-bloggers talking about their vasectomies. Mitch McDad certainly wins the prize for the most wincingly funny post. P-man at Mother-Woman also writes a hilarious account of his preparations for his adventures in seedlessness. Do a search on "blog" and "vasectomy" and you're liable to end up with thousands of stories, each one more horrific and more hilarious than the last.

I, too, have my own story. Yes, like millions of men so depressed from their sudden burst of responsibility following the birth of their child, I have had myself "fixed." I'll spare you a play-by-play, because frankly, there are some things that we shouldn't be sharing with each other. You know, like when you tried to tell me about that time you got really drunk and your neighbor tried to kiss you? Yeah. This is just like that, except this time, we're talking about my testicles.

Instead of writing a fully formed post on the topic, discussing the moral and emotional issues that went into the decision to have the procedure done, I'll share a few of the highlights. If my vasectomy had a blooper reel, this would be it...

In the "pre-op" interview...

"Are you sure you want to do this?" the doctor asked, turning to my wife.

While actually having the procedure done...

"Hey, doc, what's that smell?"

"I'm cauterizing your vas deferens."

"So, basically, that smell is my own burning flesh?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Okay. Thanks."

Comment made by a coworker when I returned to work after taking some "personal time" and only telling my boss what was going on...

"So, how are they hanging?"

Dropping off a package at the lab...

"Can I help you?"

"I need to drop off a sample."

Holds up paper bag.

"Okay. What is it?"

"A sample."

"A sample of what?"

"I was told I needed to drop this off following my... procedure."

Taps bag for effect.

"What kind of sample is it, sir?"

Looks around the waiting room, sheepishly making eye contact with at least half of the old ladies in the city.

"Oh, crap, it's SEMEN... okay? Everybody hear that? What about you, over there? Turn up your hearing aid, lady! I'm dropping off some SEMEN here! My semen! And, I'll give you all three guesses as to how, exactly, it ended up in this bag!"

Opens the bag and holds up the specimen cup for everyone to see.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you lower your voice."

"She started it! Why does a clinic have security anyway? That's stupid. Hey... let me go! Stop it! Oww, that hurts!"

Sigh.

The thing that shocked me the most about the procedure was how long I was still of the baby-makin' persuasion. The doctor explained that it would be a month or two and forty ejaculations before everything was okay to use with wild abandon. FORTY?!? That'll take us about seven or eight years, doctor! We're parents! It was literally five months and many sample deliveries later before my sperm count dropped into the single digits. Although I was sternly lectured that I was still fertile, my wife and I threw caution to the wind and called it "done."

I was also surprised by how wildly different everyone's vasectomies seemed to be. Mitch McDad claims he got a valium. I just got a shot of Novocain to the dangly bits. My brother-in-law was sent home with this very complicated set of instructions on how to build up to having sex again, instructions with included, of all things, cuddling, then nothing but manual manipulation a week after the cuddling phase, and then... eww. That stuff is with my sister, dude. I don't want to hear any more. Most of the guys telling their stories mentioned getting shaved during the ordeal. I was asked to show up ready for the event, having done the shearing on my own.

All in all, the experience of getting the vasectomy wasn't too bad. The pain was much easier to take than the two days of laying around with my la-las elevated to help with the swelling. The monthly deposits to the lab were probably the worst part, so if you're a guy and you're considering having this done, it's really not as horrible as it sounds. Sure, there are complications that get mentioned during the whole "planning phase," but I've never known anyone who would admit to suffering from any of them.

I haven't returned to posting my "Better Daddying" pieces since returning to blogging, but if I can get on my soapbox for a moment, guys... this is your duty. Getting a vasectomy isn't exactly a ride on Space Mountain, but your wife GAVE BIRTH. Suck it up and do this for her. If you're done having kids, this is the obvious solution to the issue of birth control. Chances are it has been your wife's responsibility for years, so its time to return the favor.

More New To The Blogroll

2007-02-24T07:41:00.000-07:00

I'm adding a couple of blogs, new to me, to my blogroll. They are my official new blog-crushes. Yes, it's appropriate to send them condolences notes and offer a supportive shoulder.

Mother-Woman
Bradstein Household
How About Two?
Just Eat Your Cupcake
Radioactive girl
Suburban Kamikaze

The more you blog, the more blogs you find, it seems. People wander in, post a comment, and suddenly you've found three new blogs that you love. So, for everyone that's dropped in and offered up their opinions about my ramblings, I appreciate it. Thanks for the paths into new ideas, thoughts, and other touchy-feely stuff us manly guys aren't supposed to care about (but secretly do).

There are a few people who've wandered in with comments that might not be on the blogroll. Don't be offended. Since this is a parenting blog, I try to limit my blogroll to parenting blogs. When/if I start that Denver Dork blog and start posting about e-mail message filters, DIY audio equipment, and videogames, you'll be on that blogroll! I still care. I'm just trying to be careful to avoid that whole Seinfeld gang/Bizarro World Seinfeld gang awkwardness.

When Does Daddyblogging End?

2007-02-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

I haven't been parent-blogging for very long. I'm more of a bandwagon-er than a pioneer in that respect, so I'm still learning the ropes about this strange phenomenon and community. So far, I've learned a lot, and I've also laughed a lot. If Dateline would do stories about "Internet Awesomeness" instead of just "Internet Prediators" I think I'd watch their show a lot more often. Plus, I think it would be a more accurate look at what goes on at all of the rest stops along the Information Superhighway. There really is a lot of awesomeness out there.

What's interesting about the parent-blogging phenomenon is the ages of the kids enshrined on all of these various blogs are pretty close. Using a very scientific polling method (i.e. pulling wild guesses out of my butt), most children discussed on parent blogs are between one and three years of age. In multiple children families, there is usually at least one child within that age range, with others being as old as... let's say twelve... and others sometimes being brand spankin' new infants. Most of the bloggers, like most people, live in major cities, and none of them are happy with the weirdos that live in their neighborhoods or attend their playgroups. Please don't try to debate my research. As I said, it's all very scientific (again, its been pulled straight outta my rear).

What I've been thinking about lately is when does this all end? At what age does daddy-blogging stop being cute and start getting creepy? When my son is in junior high school? College? Starting his own family? Not returning my calls any longer? When will I finally stop blogging about being a parent?

I present to you Blogs From The Future (insert Flash Gordon music here). Yes, I will be sharing a few of the blog posts you'll find on Denver Dad in a few decades....

Monday, February 5, 2018

Like most of you, Chunk and I watched Superbowl XLIX yesterday. Man, those Oklahoma City Ethnically and Politically Neutrals sure owned the field. Denver Mom is still pissed about that new ball and the rotating goal posts, but I think it makes the game more interesting. It's too bad I lost all that money betting on the Dallas Cowpersons.

How many more years am I going to have to wait for the Minnesota People-Of-Northern-Decent make it into another Superbowl?

Saturday, June 12, 2032

Chunk is getting married today. I know! I can't believe it either! I'll be the first to admit, I wasn't really sure about P'llla'bop and her family, but it's just like we were taught in school, color is only skin deep... and purple is just like any other color. I mean, a lot of people have problems with Alpha Centurians, but if Chunk loves her, that's all I need to welcome her into our family. I'm still not sure I understand the ins-and-outs of the "Centurian Gill Ceremony" they'll be doing during their vows, but I hear its beautiful. I'll give you all a detailed report tomorrow!

Oh... one last thing... if the father of your future daughter-in-law asks you to play Centurian golf, say no. Talk about boring! And, I don't care how advanced your civilization is, that's still no way to treat a potato.

Wednesday, December 23, 2037

Well, Hurricane Home Depot wasn't nearly as bad as they predicted it would be, but it seems like hurricane season just keeps getting longer and longer! I hope we still have time to get all of our Christmas shopping done! It must be nice to live in a doomed city like Miami or Des Moines. I mean, sure, they're a mile underwater and don't get a lot of natural sunlight, but at least they don't have to worry about super hurricanes or ion particle storms.

I know they've been doing it for a while now, but I'm still not crazy about corporations buying naming rights for hurricanes. Its especially tacky for a home maintenance store to do it. Still, you can't bet their prices on insta-wall foam.

Friday, December 25, 2037

Well, it's official. I'm going to have to change the name of this blog to Denver GrandDad. Chunk and P'llla'bop are pregnant and in just seven months, they will have a bouncing baby omnipod. They announced it during Christmas dinner. P'llla'bop is just glowing. Literally. You could read in the dark with her around, but I have no doubts she'll be a great mom.

According to Centurian tradition, I'm supposed to cut the tentacle when the little pod emerges from the egg sack, but I feel like that's something Chunk should do. I know Chunk is supposed to step up when the tail falls off during the tadpole phase, but he should be there to enjoy all of those little parts of fatherhood, tradition be damned.

Kerpday, August 1, 2040

What the hell was wrong with the old days of the week? Yeah, the leap year thing got a little confusing sometimes, but adding Kerpday into the calendar isn't going to make things any easier. We should have just called it Saturday and a Half. People could at least understand that. Those snotty Mayans and their new calendar. Just because they have a time machine doesn't mean they're smarter than the rest of us!

Tuesday, February 12, 2088

This new robot body is great! I feel like I'm twenty again! You should have heard Denver Mom whistle at me when I came out of surgery. She was shouting, "Hey, baby, nice pistons!" It was hilarious! Even the doctor laughed, and I have to say, my new pistons are kind of nice.

I'm Not Weird... You Just Don't Understand Me

2007-02-15T08:02:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, Rob at How About Two? asked that I tell the world five odd things about me. Here's my list:

1. When I was a child, I lived on a tiny island in the south Pacific called Kwajalein, located in the Kwajalein Atoll of the Marshall Islands. When I say the island was small, I mean it was really small. It was usually possible to see both lagoon-side and ocean-side water at all times, just by turning your head. It was cool. I wouldn't want to go back, though. Despite the amazing weather and unlimited access to some of the most beautiful water on the planet, Kwajalein was a little too small.

2. I am very distantly related to a former pro-wrestler. He's like a cousin's uncle or something. Like I said, it's a very distant relation and technically doesn't even count as an actual relation, but I've seen him at enough family events that I feel like that's official enough for me. Despite what you might think, Sgt. Slaughter is actually a kind, very soft spoken guy, who should have a blog of his own. He's a heck of a dad. Or, at least, he was... I haven't seen him in years. Oh... and for the record... pro wrestling is completely real. Completely real.

3. I create ambient music on my laptop. You know that kind of music that makes you think, "Who the hell listens to this garbage? It sounds like a seashell in coma, for cryin' out loud?!" Yeah, that's the stuff I do. Please, I beg of you, think more Tangerine Dream than Josh Tesh. That's "new age" and a totally different thing. I am not a Yanni of the mountains. As much as I'd like to be, I'm not a Brian Eno of the foothills either. It's just a hobby.

4. My nickname in high school was "Friar," thanks to a cult that a friend of mine and I dreamt up in study hall. Cults, we decided, was where the money was, but I never got paid for my duties as high priest, just an odd nickname.

5. I was adopted... sort of. My aunt and uncle took me in when my biological mother (my uncle's sister) was going through a rough time and the rough time never really ended until she died of cancer last year. So, my mom and dad are really my aunt and uncle, my sisters are really my cousins, and I was the only kid in my kindergarten class who knew how to roll a joint. Most of my extended family assume I'm the family Jim Morrison, thanks to some guilt by biological association, but I'm actually pretty well adjusted and haven't had much need for a stay in a treatment center. I don't even own any cool leather pants.

Unofficial 6th Item: Like a lot of people who've been doing these lists, I make it a point to be on-time. If we're having a meeting, I'm usually there early and have to wait around until its time for the meeting to start. If we're just getting together to have a friendly meal, I'm usually in the car, listening to my iPod for a while, until the agreed upon time rolls around. I don't really consider this strange. I consider it POLITE. Being punctual isn't a character flaw, people. Honest! Stop feeling bad about it!

I think I'm supposed to "tag" other people. Most of the blogs I read pretty faithfully have already done this, so I'm going to pick on a fellow Denver dad, Mitch at Mitch McDad's World, and one of my new blog crushes... Maria at just eat your cupcake, you're up!

On The Mend and Over The Bend

2007-02-15T06:24:00.000-07:00

I feel like I just won the lotto, went on a date with Salma Hayek, and came up with a solution for global warming, all on the same day! Yes, my friends, the fevers are gone, the snot river has stopped flowing, and I have my charming little boy back. Plus, as an added bonus, which I guess would be the "date with Salma" part, he slept through the night for the first time in weeks.

How am I? Well, I was awoken by a sneezing fit, have my own snot river to deal with, and have had a weird, obnoxiously unpleasant taste in my throat for two days now... but who cares? My son is feeling better and all is right with the world.

Its strange how the powerlessness of being the parent of a sick child can completely level you, but being sick yourself is nothing at all when you put the two in comparison. And, this was only after off-and-on again three weeks, hardly even worth mentioning to parents who are struggling with children who are truly sick, but there it is. Like I said, my son is feeling better and all is right with the world.

Or, is it?

I heard on the radio the other day that a mom bit her infant on the cheek, because it wouldn't stop crying. Then, she just dropped the baby off at the hospital, saying she couldn't handle it any more, and left. The news story was just a small piece of a drive-time news update, so there weren't many more details reported. I don't know if this happened in Denver or some other city, but I think the story says a lot.

Clearly, the mom was overwhelmed. She may have been dealing with some postpartum depression. She might be very young and inexperienced with children. Or, maybe it was just an unfortunate alignment of planets and foul backstory that led up to a tragic, unbearable day with a toddler. We could sit around and devise thousands of possible situations that lead to the biting and abandonment.

I can certainly understand her frustration. A crying baby is hard to deal with on a number of levels. Although I haven't chewed on my son, aside from the occasional "monster chomp" on his ears during a wrestling session, I understand that the line between irritated and irrational can be a fuzzy one, especially when you're alone and help is hours away. Thankfully, I've been able to muster the sense needed to put him in his crib and give myself a time out when I've been really frustrated. Just a few minutes is all it takes to get your bearings again and you can approach things a little better.

This woman who bit her child? Did she lack that sense? Or, was she simply pushed too hard, too fast? Can any of us truly say that we haven't also been pushed, once or twice, beyond where we feel truly in control?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that we're all just five seconds from flesh-eating monsters, but I do think that the cheek-chewing is closer than most of us would feel comfortable admitting. Being a parent is stressful. It's hard work. And, yes, sometimes its ugly.

When I heard this story on the radio I was shocked. The more I thought about it, I was saddened. In this woman's darkest time, no one was there for her. I don't condone her behavior, but I see how its possible. A lot of parents don't get the support they need, and yet this damn moms-pulling-out-the-wine-glasses story won't go away. What's worse? A woman having a drink at a social gathering of parents? Or, a woman who feels so alone and unsupported that she has to resort to biting and abandoning her child?

Up Next: Something far less serious! Rob from How About Two? tagged me with a "5 odd things about you" assignment. I'll try to keep it to just five things, but honestly, I could rename this blog "Odd Things About Denver Dad" and have up a new post every day for years.

Da-Daaaa-Daaah!

2007-02-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of tangible milestones that your child reaches as they grow. First steps. First words. First visit with a probation officer. You could build a scrapbook around just these things and have a wonderful document of your child's early years. But, what about the less tangible things? The things that kind of sneak up on you when you're not looking and just become a part of who your child is?

I might have mentioned it before, but Chunk is the world's greatest Superman fan. His little plastic Superman, which is carried with him everywhere, is so "loved" that Chunk has managed to wear off the paint on his head, giving Superman something like male pattern baldness, as well as a disturbing amount of wear on his elbows, knees and chest, that make him look more Man of Leprosy than Man of Steel. Of course, in that great way that children are, Chunk doesn't mind a bit. All he cares about is that he has his Superman with him and he has parents that are willing to listen to his explanations that Superman can "fly fast!" over and over again, complete with "sonic-boom" style sound effects.

His status as a Superfan is just one of those things that have snuck up on us. It's just one of those things that you accept, because it just becomes a part of your child's personality.

Another thing that has just become a part of Chunk, coincidentally related to his love of Superman, is his constant use of self-generated theme music. I should explain that one. Every time Chunk takes off his coat, and I mean every time, he rips it off like he has a big, yellow S on underneath it. And, with an equally dramatic flourish, he yells "da-daaaa-daaah!" And, any spare scrap of fabric he can find is instantly labeled a cape, which he then uses to fly around the room, "fast!"

What about your child? What little things have they started to do that have just become a part of their personality?

Jesus Doesn't Like Your Automobile Choices

2007-02-08T12:31:00.000-07:00

While leaving the office early this morning, I passed one of the scientists who works in the building, who was on his way in.

"You know that the Reverend Billy Graham says when the Rapture comes, no one who drives a Subaru gets to come along, right?" he asked me, scowling at the Denvermobile, while simultaneously smirking at me.

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but although I work for a non-profit organization, our office is in a medical research building/lab, because of the nature of the condition that affects the families we serve. There are mice in the basement, building security about on par with NORAD, and I'm one of the few people who works in the building that cannot accurately be called "doctor." It's a strange place and the people in our building are even stranger. This particular scientist chastising me about our vehicle choices, is one of my favorites and one of the strangest.

"Wait, I don't get included in the Rapture?" I ask. I'm a little confused.

"It's even worse if you drive one of those ridiculous wagons," he argues. "Subarus are the new Volvos, you know. Remember in the 80s when everyone who was an uptight, leftist snob drove a Volvo? Those same people are driving Subarus now."

"So, what you're telling me is that our Subaru* is a first class ticket to Yuppie Hell?" I ask.

He laughs, nods, and continues on his way, shouting "Later, Rabbi**!"

A lot of my days are like this, but usually he doesn't start in on me until he's stealing candy out of my office and lecturing me about the evils of science.

* It should also be pointed out that Subarus are basically standard issue in Colorado. There are more of them sold here than any other place in the world. As a matter of fact, the Subaru love is so extreme here that if you are caught driving another type of car, they take away your fleece, your lift ticket, and make you cheer for the Chiefs during home games.

** This same scientist, who loves The Rocky Horror Pictures Show enough that he dressed up as Janet for Halloween, has taken to calling me "Rabbi." If I explained why, it probably still wouldn't make much sense.

It's an all update post!

2007-02-02T06:11:00.000-07:00

All updates, all the time! Get 'em while they're hot!

• Crouton Boy (of Cheeky's Hideaway) was right about the contacts. They (the doctor and his evil henchmen... er... women... henchpersons) switched me to a set that is more gas permeable and contains less water... at least, I think that's what they said. Anyway, the difference is night and day... or oil and water... or paper and plastic... or salt n' pepa. Something like that. The point is that they're much better, and ironically, now that my contacts are the most comfortable they've been since I started wearing them two months ago, I've been wearing my glasses more than ever. My theory is that I'm just lazy, except in cases where I am able to complain, in which case I'll jump over tanks filled with piranhas and electric eels, on a moped, and on fire, if it means I can whine about it later.

• I got a Wii! I wasn't going to tell anyone, because even after posting a Photoshopped picture of my son holding a lightsaber (it was actually a small branch when I took the picture), I thought some of you might still believe I was vaguely cool, in that fleece-wearing, granola-eating, ski-bumming, birkenstocks-buying Colorado way, but... dude... I GOT A WII! Yes, I had to wait in line, in the snow, with thirty or so other people who desperately want the rest of the world to think they're cool when they really aren't, but I got one. The motion-sensing controller is a lot more precise than I thought it would be and if I can drop into true nerd speak for a moment, makes it much less of a gimmick and more a legitimate new way to play. It's very neat. I can't really speak on what games are good, because I haven't played any beyond Wii Sports (included with the Wii), but I'm excited about the future. I like twelve-button controllers as much as the next guy (I'm looking at you, Xbox 360), but sometimes its fun just to play. As an added bonus, my son loves it. He's lousy, but loves it.

• The dark shadow of RSV is shrinking, destined to soon become a period of time that is referred to in the same way you talk about particularly nasty blizzards, storms, and afternoons with extended family. "Remember back during the RSV of 2007?" That sort of thing. Chunk and I are doing better, even though his version has transformed into a croup-like cough in the mornings and mine has gone all germy chrysalis and become a runny nose. I consider this good news, however, as any time I don't feel like trying to figure out a way to run myself over with the car is a good thing.

• Speaking of blizzards, Denver is setting new records for low temperatures. According to my little weather widget, it is currently -15 degrees outside. I can't wait to go out into it and go to work today. It'll be just like my youth spent in Minnesota, minus all the Nina tapes, Flocks of Seagulls, and moon boots. You know, as dorky as they were, moon boots were warm.

• Chunk has figured out how to work Photo-Booth on my computer and takes picture after picture of himself. The picture above is one of his masterpiece self-portraits. He's planning on having a one-man show later in the year, but is concerned about the age old problem of selling art versus selling out. That kid. He sure gets lofty and philosophical at times. The worst part is that damn soul patch he's trying to grow.

Update Update:

I'm not crazy about this new, Google-flavored Blogger. The software I've been using to write and publish my posts (the excellent Journeler) doesn't work any longer and the "shortcuts" don't work either, since they trigger Safari shortcuts, instead of Blogger shortcuts. Oh well. As mentioned numerous times in this blog, I am a nerd, so I know enough html to get by, it's just a pain.

RSV and Merlot-swilling Irresponsibles

2007-01-30T07:59:00.000-07:00

As much as I love my son, I'm going to have to start refusing his gifts. For example, his generosity in sharing his RSV ("Respiratory Syncytial Virus") with me, while very noble, is just too much. I'm embarrassed to accept such unexpected and extravagant gifts.

How do you know you have RSV? The signs plastered all over your son's day care that the HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS virus has been confirmed in two, no... scratch that... literally scratch it out with a pen and write over it in blue ink, FOUR cases... then scratch that out and write MANY above where you wrote FOUR... was our first clue that the week wasn't going to go as smoothly as we had hoped. A quick check on the symptoms of RSV on WebMD only confirmed our fears as we nodded solemnly while checking off each bullet point, one after another, while comparing them to Chunk's recent behavior and levels of streaming goop.

But, RSV is just for kids, right? I would have thought so, but here I sit, aching, wrapped in the shaky throes of a fever, trying to see how long I can go without swallowing to avoid the brutal pain of my sore throat. Its possible that its not actually RSV, but some other nameless, also icky bug that's going around, but for now, RSV gets blamed for everything.

My inability to sleep?

RSV.

Chunk's unrelenting whining?

RSV.

Global warming?

RSV.

The situation in Iraq?

RSV... and the Bush administration.

Melissa Summer's interview on the Today Show on Friday?

RSV and some Production Assistant named Alicia Ybarbo, apparently.

Yes, since its all the vogue to talk about women and their drinking habits around their children, I'm going to chime in with my thoughts as well. Simply put, I'm 100% behind Meredith and their psychologist guest. Women should not be drinking around their children... ever. Mothers have a responsibility to serve as pristine, even virginal examples to their children and if they're carousing around like sailors on a 48-hour leave, they're not doing their jobs. Melissa and all of the other Chianti-sipping irresponsibles out there should be ashamed of themselves, and at the very least, investigated by Social Services.

Had you going for a minute there, didn't I?

Considering my blog crush on Melissa (and many others), it's no surprise that I'm siding with common sense on this one, and not the ever-reliable and irrefutable science of psychology. I think Melissa is right and the people who look down their noses at those who drink socially are just looking for another example of irresponsible parenting. If it isn't there already, there seem to be a group of people who need to create new rules or guidelines for all to be judged by, reaffirming that they were right and even righteous, all along.

While discussing this with Denver Mom, she quickly jumped in with, "What about BBQs? Is it not okay to drink at a BBQ if kids are present?" It's a good argument and one I've seen echoed in the parent blogs following Friday's show, but I think the problem goes even deeper than that. It's not just about drinking, it's about controlling other people and how they parent. California is considering a bill that would make it illegal to spank your children, and while Denver Mom and I have decided that spankings aren't going to happen in our house, I can't really see how our decision should in any way impact another family's decision for how to discipline their child.

The same goes for any number of hot button topics that our country continues to debate, over and over again, if you call shouting and holding up grotesque signs a "debate." I promised myself I wouldn't get political on this blog. I created "Denver Dad" to talk about my son and the unexpected surprises of fatherhood, but parenting and politics sometimes collide. Whether you mean for it to happen or not, sometimes they do intersect. So, for those of you who are sensitive to personal opinion, you should probably click on another link and ignore the rest of my post.

Mind your own business.

Everyone.

Don't tell people that their decisions, because they are contrary to your own, are wrong.

Don't foul up our legal system with added legislation that isn't needed.

Don't assume that your way of doing things is right, not just for you, but everyone.

Don't believe, for an instant, that the choices families or individuals make are easy and irresponsible and that you know what is best for every situation.

Just don't do it.

If a law is being broken, prosecute, but otherwise, just mind your own business.

I'm very serious about that last one. If moms are leaving play groups, completely loaded, and are driving their children home in their speeding death-mobiles, arrest that mother. The same goes for dads. If it makes you happy, tighten the handcuffs more than you should and maybe even bump their head into the door while you're pushing them into your squad car. I don't have a problem with that. Drunk driving and child endangerment are crimes and they should be dealt with appropriately. Beating a child is also a crime, so if a spanking goes beyond a swat on the butt, deal with that appropriately. But, don't tell anyone that what they are doing is "wrong," because its different than how you do things. Don't be so quick to judge. Don't find excuses to put yourself and your thoughts above another person.

There.

I could go on and on, but for now, my rant is over. If you have a problem with it, blame RSV. I know I am.

Alone Time For Mommy and Daddy

2007-01-24T16:16:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen sometime. I mean, we could only avoid it for so long. Yes, my friends, Denver Mom and I have started dating again. No, no, I mean we've started dating each other again. I wasn't sure I was ready for a relationship so soon after becoming a dad, but it turns out that the "marriage contract" I signed was an actual, legal document. So, ready or not,we're kind of an exclusive thing.

It's a weird experience, going out on dates with your spouse. Without constantly shoveling yogurt into a waiting, demanding mouth, or fetching ever growing amounts of milk, you actually have time to chat. I'd go so far as to say we've even had entire conversations... conversations that didn't center around "poopy" or Superman. I was as shocked as you are, believe me.

As some of you may remember, Denver Mom went to France last summer, leaving Chunk and I at home alone and completely unsupervised. It was a rousing success for all involved, but Denver Mom had such a great time that she wants to go back. Only this time, she thought that it would be nice if we could join her. I mentioned this to an acquaintance who immediately urged us to leave Chunk at home, while I starred at him, jaw hanging open. Granted, I can see how a twelve hour flight wouldn't be much fun with a two year old, but on the other hand, I can't really see leaving him at home with Grandma for two weeks either. As I explained to this acquaintance, we had Chunk because we actually want to spend time with him. However, having said all of that, I'm learning to appreciate time away from him. I'm learning that a cup of coffee and a roll at the local coffee shop, while he's at home with mom, is a necessity for good mental health and even improves my enjoyment of him. I've said it before on this site, but better people make better parents, and part of being a better person is getting time for yourself.

Time for your marriage, on the other hand, hasn't gotten the same attention from us. Denver Mom gets away to paint and draw. I get time away to worship the dark lord, as he demands, and occasionally get a cup of coffee, but we don't often get time away together. And, now that we are taking the time, it's a little weird. Weird, but great. Denver Mom talks about her art, about some of the blocks she's feeling and trying to overcome with the whole oils vs. watercolors thing. I tell her about Mario Bros. and the blocks I hit with my head, when I push "A" again and again. So, as you can tell, it's all very mature conversation.

This has all been going on at various restaurants throughout the city, restaurants that have been on the "we should go there sometime" list since before we became parents. Some of the restaurants have been great, some kind of disappointing, and one so pompous and irritating that it was the most fun I've had in months.

I usually like to end posts like this with some twist, some sarcastic turn on the previous paragraphs, but I've got nothing. Like I said, it's just weird to suddenly be dating your spouse. Why is that so weird? And, how long before she figures out I really am a massive doofus?

Fresh Blogrolls, Coming Right Up

2007-01-17T05:48:00.000-07:00

Having been away for a while, I thought it would be a good idea to refresh my blogroll. Geez, that sounds dirty, but you know what I mean. So, listed below are some of the blogs you'll find in my blogroll, a few you won't find, and some rambling thoughts about why.

. . . and then there was pickle.: Pickle's Papa seems to have fallen off the face of the planet. When he gets back to blogging, his site will be back on the list.

The Blogfathers - Dads You Can't Refuse: A collection of daddy bloggers that would probably be out robbing trains and saloons, if this were the old west instead of the information age. Since there are so many people writing for the page, there's always something there to fit your mood. For example, there's usually a sizable amount of cranky, which suits me just fine.

Cheeky's Hideaway: Yet another daddy blogger. I don't read CroutonBoy regularly, but when I do visit his page, I read it compulsively until I'm completely caught up. He's hilarious and has great taste in music, a subject I could go on and on about, but have decided not to, for fear of boring you. That and for fear of confirming all your suspicions about how lame I am for still listening to all the bands I loved in high school.

Creative-Type Dad: New to the blogroll, Creative-Type Dad is a must read. He wrote about his adventures trying to get a Wii, my most coveted, yet unrealized purchase of 2006. "A" for effort, my good man. I salute you.

DadCentric: I don't read this one as often as I should, which is a shame, because its a hilarious site. Hilarious.

finslippy: Finslippy is one of the first parenting blogs I've ever read and I continue to go back to it. Worth checking out.

Fussy: The John Lennon to Finslippy's Paul McCartney, Fussy is another one of the first parenting blogs I read and I keep going back. Fussy is filled with the kind of sarcastic wit that makes me feel all inadequate and awkward. You can see the smirk while you read it. I also find the turtle updates and yoga practicing G.I. Joes oddly entrancing.

Genuine: A heck of a nice guy. There was a blogging meeting last summer that he invited me to, despite the fact that I had all of four posts under my belt at the time. I missed the meeting, but would have liked to raise a glass or two with him. Plus, he's always posting. You can't open his site without seeing something new.

Kiddley: Kiddley is a site that concentrates on crafts you can do for and with children. Whenever I read it, I think, "Man, I wonder if I can get Denver Mom to do that for Chunk."

MetroDad: Another daddy blogger cooler than me. No, really. This guy hangs out at bars in New York, seems to work in some creative, yet well-paying field, and has that wicked cool iPod-esque icon on his page. Oh, yeah, and he gets me to laugh out loud with nearly every post. If I ever get trapped somewhere (plane crash in the Andes, desert island, Iowa, etc.), I want this guy around. I suspect he'd always know what to do and would always keep you laughing.

Mitch McDad’s World: Another brand new addition to the blogroll, I will go on record and say that there is no finer blog about a man's testicles. And, I'll stand by that statement. Mitch posts a great deal about his junk, but also about his adventures being a dad, and I'm glad he stopped in so I could learn about his blog. Good stuff.

Mom-101: This mommy blogger rocks. There's no better way to put it. Well, okay, yeah, there's loads of ways to put it that are better or more literary, but saying she rocks sums it up nicely. She demanded once that I refer to her as sexy, so she's sexy too.

parent hacks: a collaborative weblog of practical parenting wisdom: I absolutely love the site Lifehacker, so of course I'd like a site about hacking up your baby. Er... I mean, "practical parenting wisdom." There are some very clever ideas to be found on this site. Some are useful, some aren't very useful at all, but they're all well-meaning and... like I said... clever.

peterstephanie.com: I've resisted putting these two on my blogroll for a while, because they don't post very often, but they're practically neighbors and post some adorable photos of their youngin. Worth checking out.

Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word: Probably my favorite parent blogger ever, Melissa is funny as hell and human enough that she can inspire me. Does that sound corny? It's true. Its one thing to have a few insecurities. Its another thing entirely to post them to the world with such humor, honesty, and zing that you keep coming back for more. Plus, she's a fellow Mac user and us elitist, commie computer snobs have to stick together.

Vampdaddy: I don't even know what to say. If you've read even a little of his page, you'd know how much grace and strength is possessed by both he and his wife. This isn't a blog about caring for a sick child. It's a blog about being the best parent you can be, despite what you have to face.

Want to be listed in the official Denver Dad blogroll? Let me know about your site!

Chunk and the Amazing Expanded Vocabulary

2007-01-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

Chunk learns things in a strange series of starts and stops. He'll use the same, limited vocabulary for weeks at a time, usually just endlessly repeating "cooooo-key?" and "no!" then the very next day say five new words, even using them in a short sentence, as if it's no big deal at all. As if he's known these new words the entire time. As if he's just nailed his verbal dismount and couldn't care less what the judges give him, passing them only a look of cold distain, because he knows he's just that good.

We're fairly certain that some of his new words and phrases came from day care. "No mas!" continues to be an important daily utterance and "sit down!" is a new addition we've all grown to love. Who wouldn't love it when a toddler orders you to sit down, so he can climb on you and punch you in the face? Oh, yeah, he's hitting now. This is the glamorous part of parenthood that I've been looking forward to since his birth.

What I find truly amusing is not just the words, but how he uses them. Take the previously mentioned "cooooo-key." Whenever I'm making a meal for him, I make the mistake of asking him something harmless, like, "Do you want some polluted water with your stale bread crusts?" and because I've opened the door with a question, even a rhetorical one, he chimes in with his demands for cookies. When he burps, he follows it up with "kimmie!" ("excuse me" for those of you who don't speak toddler). When I burp, he also says, "kimmie" like the yard tall, Ms. Manners inspired tyrant that he is. My favorite bit of recent vocabulary is his use of the word, "Nice!" whenever he approves of something. It's not just that he says it, but its that he performs it, by letting it slide from his mouth in a quasi-drawl, while nodding his head, and flashing a cheesy smile. Denver Mom assures me that he learned this at home and it wasn't something he picked up from her. I'm still trying to figure out what she means.

Another thing that amazes and amuses me is how some words are perfectly formed, enunciated with precision and care, and so many others a garbled mess of sounds that only just barely recognizable. I would estimate that over seventy percent of his vocabulary is still in that jumbled mess of sounds that includes "kimmie," and I'd go so far as to estimate that only half of that number are words that other people can understand. We're constantly translating for him, even for people who are around him a lot (family, coworkers, the whino we sometimes hire to watch him when we get that persistent eyelid twitch that usually accompanies a stress headache, etc.).

In some ways, I feel like he isn't speaking as well or clearly as I expected, but then other days, he just blows me away with his understanding of language and the ease by which he's willing to try it out himself. Sometimes the results are jaw dropping. Other times, they take a little coaxing and patience before they really shine.

For real fun, ask him to say, "Truck." That'll make the grandparents blush every time.

I'm Not Back

2007-01-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

The problem with announcing your return from a long break is that you're actually expected to, well, return. If you say, "That's right, I'm back, baby! I'm back!" then you have to take the time to put up a few posts. Reliably. More than once a month. If you think you know pressure, try writing a weekly post for the two or three people that visit your blog once per month! Yeah, that's right, you couldn't handle that kind of stress. It's rough, man, really rough.

So, I'm not going to say I'm back. I'm not going to tell you that I've returned, newly invigorated, and filled with parenting wisdom and adventures that will have you either nodding your head in agreement or frantically calling Social Services. No, I'm not going to anything of the sort. I'm just going to see how this plays out and try not to miss too many of my own deadlines.

I hope all three of you enjoyed your break from me. I was kind of cranky, so it was good that we spent this time apart. It wasn't you, it was me. No, really. I just needed my space... a little time to figure out me. Don't cry. I got you these flowers. Aren't they nice? Hey, remember that time when I posted about potty training and....

Yeah, okay, I'll stop. Sorry about that. I was just getting a little emotional.

Glasses vs. contacts, in a no-holds-barred cage match!

2007-01-11T06:06:00.000-07:00

I decided to get contacts. After twenty years of glasses, in various shapes and clunky 80s styles, it seemed clear to me that it was finally time to get over my squeamishness regarding jabbing curved plastic bowls into my eyes.

My vision isn't terrible and it hasn't been all that bad since my first pair of spectacles. For example, I can ski pretty confidently without my glasses, but driving seems just a tad too risky (and illegal). I have no trouble getting through my day without glasses, but don't want to pay to see a movie without them, and so on.

The problem is my son. My son loves glasses and loves grabbing them, whether they are on my face or not, so as creeped out as I was by the idea of putting foreign objects in my eyes, it seemed less bothersome than cleaning toddler fingerprints off my glasses six to eight times per day.

How has it gone, so far? Well, I'm in that stage where my eye doctor and I are "evaluating," which is a fancy way of saying I'm forking over a copay every two weeks for a five minute session of "Did I tell you that you have an astigmatism? I did? Oh, okay."

This week hasn't gone very well. I've been waking up to goop and my right eye has been hurting for several days now. Both eyes have also been bloodshot for a month, making me look less "athletic and carefree" and more "trapped in a month long bender." I have another copay this afternoon, ummm... I mean, appointment, and I'm expecting to be told that I'm really not a good candidate for contacts after all, that'll be another $35 please.

I'm not one of those people that believes in fate. I've seen some mighty convenient coincidences in my lifetime, but it's hard to swallow the concept of some invisible force guiding me through my life. However, I do like to think that you can learn from coincidence, that although events in your life aren't preordained, you can still come away from them with a bit of wisdom. So, what did this experience teach me? What was my lesson? I have no idea. I think it has something to do with the fact that spending twenty minutes in the bathroom, swearing at what looks like a piece of round, expensive cellophane, really isn't for me. So, its back to the glasses, the pocket protector, and getting bullied for my lunch money.

A Thanks Giving Dad

2006-11-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

It's Thanksgiving morning and I'm sitting in our darkened kitchen, watching the sky turn from dark gray to pinks and oranges and wispy stretches of blue, and everyone else in the house is sleeping. We rarely get mornings like this, because Chunk is an early riser, and fairly vocal about his 5 a.m. needs, regardless of the hopes and desires of his exhausted parents in the next room.

It's customary, I suppose, to talk about the things we're thankful for on Thanksgiving. At the same time, I think it's also kind of cheesy, more like something you'd do on a sitcom, sitting between Lenny and Squiggy, waiting for the gravy boat that never seems to make it to your cramped spot at the table. But, since becoming a dad, I have learned I'm all about the cheese and if I can take it up another notch into full-fledged cheesy, darnit, that's what I'm going to do.

So, on this Thanksgiving morning, after a little reflection and no coffee, I have to say that what I am most thankful for is getting the holidays back.

I can be a pretty cynical guy. My raving orations about the pollution of the holidays, their loss of meaning, and the unnecessary expenses of ritual, are all legendary. And, like several of my Grandfather's stories, repeated a little too often, but I've noticed that fatherhood has taken a little of the air out of my cynical tires. And, as much as I'm still disturbed by seeing Christmas lights going up the day after Halloween, a part of me can't help but get excited about the coming holiday season.

Chunk is an inquisitive kid. The phrase he repeats most often is "Whassthat?" as he points, his voice getting more high pitched as his excitement rises. It's not just spectacle that insights this kind of reaction. Mini pumpkins do it. Unusual cars. Foods that he hasn't seen or eaten before. And, Superman. He knows full well who Superman is, Chunk might be his biggest fan, but our little guy gets so excited when he sees anything with a big "S" on it that he can't help himself. Frankly, it can get a little annoying at times, but its also a constant reminder of how new the world is, how there are so many things that his young eyes have never seen before, that he has never contemplated.

In a lot of ways, the holidays are all about newness. Yes, I know there are some important religious and cultural reasons for them and those reasons are the core of why we celebrate, but I also think that embedded within all of our different faith-based celebrations, our social customs, and even our calendar, the last few weeks of December are also about the hope of what is to come, along with our celebrations about what we already have. I have forgotten a lot of that, so outraged by the way our culture has turned family tradition into commerce, but with Chunk, I'm reminded of the more simple aspects. This year, it's not the about mall crowds, the Black Friday sales, or finding the perfect wrapping paper. It's about the anticipation of laying on the floor with my son, Christmas morning, and playing with the new trains that Santa has assured me that Chunk will begetting this year.

As much as I love Thanksgiving, and I do love it, I always thought rattling off the things you're thankful for was kind of goofy. This year, if someone asks me, I have an answer. I'm thankful for how my son has made the holidays new again for me.

Enjoy the holidays, everyone! Denver Dad is back!

Denver Dad Is Officially On Hold

2006-10-24T07:15:00.000-06:00

If you've been dropping by over the last month, looking for a new post, I apologize for not having one up for you. Things at work and home have really gobbled up my time and I just haven't been able to keep up the blog. So, as of today, Denver Dad is officially on hold. It's coming back. I promise. I just don't have the time I need to make it happen now.

While you're waiting, I encourage you to read some of the blogs listed on the right side of this page. They are all written by funny, thoughtful people and I enjoy reading them myself. In many cases, some of them are blogs that inspired me to start Denver Dad.

I'll see you all very soon! Until then, play nice, wipe your nose, and share!

Update: Spouse Abuse, the Sequel

2006-09-20T10:20:00.000-06:00

The threat of violence in my wife's workplace seems to have meandered leisurely from Defcon "BOINGINGING" to Defcon "Ho hum." Apparently the abuser and the coworker are back together again. At least, that's the rumor. Incredibly, and in spite of their mutual legal restraints against each other, the two have reconciled and he has even purchased a ring for her. So, the abuser is currently far too busy being romantic to sneak into my wife's office and massacre everyone there.

Hah ha ha... yeah. It's not funny, is it?

I guess I always saw abuse as an issue between two people, sometimes more if there are children involved, but its a bigger issue than that.

I have lost a lot of respect for my wife's coworker. She's a smart woman and knows, somewhere inside of her, that unless this guy takes serious steps, he's going to hit her again. She knows this because it's happened before... with the same guy. So, what does she plan to do then? Does she vow to leave him again? Does she find a new apartment again? Does she stand before a judge and explain that the restraining order is really necessary... this time... again? Do we get more weeks of vague, but serious threats about the safety of the people in my wife's office?

Like I said, I've lost a lot of respect for my wife's coworker. The heart may want what the heart wants, but the brain knows better than to step in front of a speeding bus. As much as I hate to admit it, in addition to my lack of respect for her, I've also learned to despise the coworker. It's one thing to be stupid. It's another thing to endanger the people around you, because of your poor judgement.

If you're being abused, and according to statistics, some of you are... then get help. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for the people around you and their families.

Better Dadding: Blame the Day-Care

2006-09-15T09:35:00.000-06:00

I have a hate/despise relationship with our son's day care. I know, I know, my expectations are all out of whack. I should try to remember the positive things, the good times.

Like, for example, on Monday when I picked up Chunk after lunch. I grabbed his "daily report" from his cubby and it was completely blank, except for the stuff I had written on it when I dropped him off. His room teacher informed me that they don't really write on it until nap time, because that's the only moment they can squeeze all of that in.

Now, I don't doubt her claim. There's fifteen or twenty maniacs in there and I'm sure it would be hard to keep up with all of the paperwork they have to do for all of the obsessive-compulsive, panic-prone parents (of which I am the president, now on my second term). But, they track everything on those forms. And, I mean everything! Here's the data I get every Monday:

1. Diaper changes and what they find in the diapers
2. How much the kids eat at snack and lunch and other snack
3. How long each child sleeps, down to the five minute mark
4. Shifting political views and how those changes relate to current events

If you don't write anything down until nap time, how do you remember what each kid did that morning? I don't remember how many times I used the potty in a day and I guarantee there's no way I could keep track of the habits and outcomes of twenty other people. How much did I eat during my morning snack yesterday? I don't know. Was it a cookie? Pretzels? For some reason I remember having pickle breath. Did I have a pickle? Where would I have gotten a pickle?

So, how do they remember all this stuff? Oh, I know... they make it up! That's right, it's all a lie. It's busy work they have to do, that they don't see as important, but parents come to rely on it. It's stupid. I don't really care if Chunk had fun with the water table. I know he has fun there, but I do want to know if he's eating. If he didn't poo on Sunday, I want to know if he went on Monday. They're minor things, but they're also minor things that can actually mean something. And, if you're going to do them, please do them right.

So, day care, until you stop slacking, I'm going to start blaming you for everything. Chunk's hitting and foot stomping phase? You got the blame for that. Yelling at me in Spanish? Yep, that's you too. Crazy obsession with the bathroom? You, day care, all you, baby! 101.3 degree temperature and open-water-main strength running nose? That's you, just like it's always you, every Wednesday night.

Oh, did I forget to mention the sickness? Yeah, once again, he's a germ-filled ooze factory. How do I know? Waking up every four hours to hear Chunk loudly tell me the Tylenol has worn off was one clue. Toddler vocabulary, being a bit limited, has a specific word for this issue and it sounds a lot like, "WAAAHHHH!"

So, day care, you get the blame. For everything. And, I'm recommending all other parents do the same. Is that this week's lesson? Actually, no, this is all a long-winded way for me to get to a more serious "Better Dadding" lesson. It's laying down the law.

I'm not a confrontational person. I'm easy going. I let things slide. But, this is about my son and the care he's receiving. I'll let the little things slide, but my limit for that is a lot smaller than my limit for other things. I'm not good at confrontation, but it might be time to talk to someone at the day care. The sicknesses? We've had that discussion and there's no solution, aside from maybe a plastic bubble. But, the daily forms and their inaccuracies are kind of important to me and something I should tackle. This week's lesson is aimed at me.

Get these mother-fing kids out of my mother-fing movie theater!

2006-09-14T06:37:00.000-06:00

Dear Fellow Denver Parents,

I apologize for communicating with you like this, in a letter. I didn't get a chance to speak with you at the movie theater and I don't have your home number.

It was very nice seeing your family last Sunday. You seemed like very caring parents and your two boys, who looked to be about five years old and six years old, were very well-behaved and polite. If you've read my blog at all, you know how much Denver Mom and I enjoy going to the movies and how seldom we get to see them, so I appreciate your children being quiet during the film.

Unfortunately, I did have one problem with your appearance in the theater. You see, we all know that the plot of "Snakes On A Plane" is fairly preposterous. Actually, that was why Denver Mom and I went to see it. Tired from a long, hard weekend with Chunk, when we got a chance to get away for a while, we wanted to do something that didn't require much thought and "Snakes On A Plane" seemed perfect in that role. I suspect that it was some of the draw for you and your family, as well. However, in buying our tickets, we did notice that the rating of the film was "R," which given the scares in the movie, seemed pretty appropriate.

Please understand, I'm not telling you how to parent. I just want to remind you that your five and six year old boys are at an impressionable age. I'm not sure if seeing passenger jets filled with snakes and bloated, grey corpses is the best entertainment for your boys. Bite wounds? Puss-filled sores? Harsh language about snakes? It was entertaining, yes, but not what I'd normally use to replace Thomas and Friends.

Maybe they get it. Maybe they have a keen understanding of what is reality and what is fantasy, and this sort of thing doesn't bother them, but I'm 35 years old and some of the imagery and situations, as wimpy as it makes me sound, gave me the creeps. Remember the little boy, about the age of your boys, facing his own morality? I remember it. It was the hardest part of the film for me. I suspect your boys remember it too.

I hope you had fun at the movie. I hope your sons also had fun and didn't wake up all week, crying from nightmares. I've met some great, well-adjusted kids who could see a movie like this one and just shrug it off. I've also met some kids who couldn't. Which type are your kids? I hope, for their sake, you considered that before you bought your tickets.

Again, keep in mind, I'm not trying to tell you how to parent. When our toilet was being replaced, I took Chunk (about 9 months old at the time) to see "Flightplan," but had him wrapped up and sleeping during the film, with the exit close in case he woke up. So, is this a case of the pot calling the kettle black? Frankly, I don't know. Our pot is silver and our kettle is white with flowers on it, so while that particular saying doesn't work for us, I do understand how easy it is to be a hypocrite. I just want to remind you that being a parent is about making choices. And, some of those choice are important. If you knew that going in, I applaud you for being so thoughtful and taking your job as a parent so seriously. I also applaud you for knowing your children so well that you knew how they'd react to a movie like this. If you didn't, I hope you had a chance to reflect on the responsibilities of parenting when that one snake was chewing on that guy's wang in the bathroom.

Signed,

An Irritating, Know-It-All Fellow Dad In Denver

To the Readers: So, how was "Snakes On A Plane?" It really dumb, but Denver Mom and I had a great time seeing it. Keep in mind our last movie outing was to see "Silent Hill," so our standards are pretty low.

September 11th

2006-09-11T13:31:00.000-06:00

September 11th is a strange day for a lot of people. I've read a few posts from a couple of parent-bloggers that reflected on some of their personal experiences of the terrorist attacks five years ago and its shocking how close to the surface so much of that emotion still is, even years later. There were many people who were deeply wounded on that day.

There isn't much I can add to the many remembrances being recounted on the internet. I've never been to New York or Washington, D.C. or the plains outside of Pittsburgh. I didn't know anyone who was injured or lost five years ago, and like a lot of Americans, most of my memories of the attack came to me via the television, not from first-hand experience. But, I can say, as terrible as that day was for a lot of Americans, I experienced it in an incredible way.

I was at a training conference in the mountains. There were just a few of us from Colorado with the rest of the participants were from all over the country. The conference was a team-building/history/brain-washing session for the organization I was with at the time and we were scheduled to be in the mountains for a week, learning about ourselves, each other, and how we could all make the world better. It was every bit as dull and shallow as it sounds. Then, one morning during breakfast, someone came into the cafeteria and announced that a plane had hit the World Trade Center buildings. I asked which one. He said both of them. I asked him what happened. He didn't know, thought maybe a pilot got drunk or went crazy or something.

We all had to hike a mile down the road to a small snack shop to find a television. About a hundred of us crammed inside that tiny, cheesy shop and watched as the buildings collapsed, silently, some of the people crying, others trying to make phone calls, most of us just confused and overwhelmed by what we were seeing.

Our trainers didn't know what to do. They eventually decided to keep going with the training, but cancelled some sessions that first day and found us a television we could watch. No one knew what happened. When the training sessions started up again, a lot of us skipped them and just watched the news, obsessively, from six in the morning until midnight, sometimes staying up a lot later.

Before the attack, there was a party every night, afterward, the drinking was hushed and somber. There was a lot of crying that week. There was a lot of anger. There were a lot of questions about how people were going to get home from the training.

No one could have predicted what was going to happen when the training was being planned, and at the same time, no one could predict what it would be like to have two hundred strangers from all over the country experiencing these unimaginable attacks, holding hands, hugging, helping each other handle the emotions. It was amazing. I wish I could articulate why, but being surrounded by people from all over the country, every one of them as confused and concerned as the person standing next to them, was very profound and very powerful. Our last night together, we all stood up and sang the national anthem. The hugs afterward felt real, even from people whose names were just barely in focus.

A lot of people lost family on September 11, 2001. A lot of people lost friends. There were even some that lost hope. It sounds sacrilegious and uncaring when I say this, but in some ways, September 11th brought me hope. It was a difficult time, hard to be away from my wife when it seemed like the world was disintegrating, but I saw more strength and compassion in that crowd of strangers than I've ever seen before or since. It is still humbling to know, truly know, the character of my fellow Americans and their seemingly limitless bravery. Its such a tragedy that we can only catch glimpses of it in such horrible times. Or, maybe it is what makes those times more bearable.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Waiting With An Update...

2006-09-07T07:53:00.000-06:00

Yes, I'm still here. No, I haven't been posting. We've got a big special event coming up this Sunday and it's been nonstop work for a while now, as we all get prepared. I'm hoping to be back and posting some time next week.

Until that time, do I have any wisdom to pass on? I've said it before, both here and on other blogs, but my job involves fundraising for a non-profit in Denver. I have some very strong opinions regarding the ethical responsibilities of accepting a gift from a person or organization and some very strong opinions about when and how you should support an organization.

In that capacity, I can only offer this advice... give to organizations that are important to you. Give to organizations that are doing, in your eyes, work that is important and necessary in your community. Don't give to groups that send you mailing labels, just because you feel guilty. Don't give to groups that are aggressive about asking for your support, just because you want them to leave you alone. Support the organizations that you believe in and want to succeed.

It should be said, "giving" isn't just writing a check. Not everyone can afford to give their hard-earned money to a non-profit, but time can be every bit as helpful and powerful to an organization that can use volunteers. If you can't write a check, or even if you can, volunteer a few hours. You may not get stuck with work that you find interesting, but the karma rewards are amazing.

I'll be back. If you've been dropping by, looking for a new post, I apologize for not having anything here for you. I hope to change that within a week.

Want to help me get started up again? How about suggesting a topic for posts in the comments section!

No mas!

2006-08-24T09:21:00.000-06:00

Pickle's Papa accused me of glossing over the potty details mentioned in my post the other day. And, in my haste to complain about my son's new career as the heir-apparent to Houdini's legacy, I'll admit that I did move a little quickly over an aspect of the story that might be interesting for parents with children a little younger than Chunk, who like us, are trying to wrap their brains around the entire potty training issue.

So, how does one get a child ready and excited to use the potty, after twenty months of gleefully filling diapers? Do you have your pen and paper handy to jot this wisdom down? You do? Ready for it? Here goes....

I have no idea.

There, I said it. I have no clue how to get a child interested in using their potty. The truth is, this is something the day care did for us, somehow squeezing it into Chunk's once-per-week schedule.

Actually, the day care manages to teach Chunk a lot of things in his limited time there. For example, he's been telling us "No mas!" all week. Saying "No mas!" (Spanish for "No more," if you didn't know) isn't really all that strange, even for a toddler, but you can be fairly certain he didn't pick that up from his Norwegian/German dad and his Italian/Irish mother. He has also developed some weird table manners that must have been learned at day care, as we don't believe in table manners in the Denver household. I'm fairly certain he's also picked up hitting people at day care, but that's not what I'm trying to get at right now.

What wisdom have I bestowed upon my trusting son, the new, gentle human who needs guidance in how the world works? So far, that belching and farting is funny, croutons can be a meal, and Starbucks will split a green tea frappacino into two servings (for dad and child), even when you go through the drive through, if you ask nicely enough.

I hate day care. He gets sick at day care. He cries when we drop him off and pick him up. They have this weird system of filing, so that whenever our son paints a picture or works on some sort of craft, it just gets filed away somewhere and we never get to see it. And, its expensive.

On the other hand, we need day care. We simply couldn't survive without it. And, despite all of my frustrations with it, they are teaching him amazing things. His vocabulary is better, thanks to day care. He has better social skills with his peers, thanks to day care. He has a mountain of artwork we'll never see, thanks to day care. You can't argue with results, can you?

So, back to our little guy using the potty. It's simple. We take off his pants and diaper and his sits on the pot, literally. The only real problem we've found is that he's a little impatient and expects something to happen right away, so with even just a few potty experiences under our belt, we've already developed some bathroom rituals. I will present those rituals below, in screenplay format, should you want to film this and submit it to the Academy for consideration as "Best Short Film Regarding A Potty."

INT. BATHROOM -- BRIGHT AND CHEERFUL, BUT THE TUB NEEDS TO BE SCRUBBED

Two people enter the bathroom, one blurry-eyed and yawning, another considerably shorter and more enthusiastic about the day. The adult, grumbling about how early it is, despite it being the afternoon, helps the toddler out of his shorts and diaper. Then, holding a near naked boy in his arms, lowers the child onto his training potty.

Toddler: Do ta da da ra rey!

Denver Dad: That's right! That's what I usually say when I use the bathroom too.

The toddler jumps up from the seat, peering into the spotless bowl where he was sitting. He tries to stick his hand in the bowl, but is stopped by Denver Dad.

Denver Dad: Buddy, you need to keep your hand out of there. Icky!

Toddler: (pointing at bowl) Rurhooobs!

Denver Dad: Right.

Denver Dad lifts Toddler and puts him back on the potty. He sits down across from him on the adult "potty."

Denver Dad: Now, you need to relax. Take a deep breath. Are you ready?

Toddler nods.

Denver Dad: Okay, take a deep breath. Now, let it go.

Denver Dad starts taking deep breaths and letting them go, trying to show Toddler how to relax. After a while, he starts getting light-headed and has to grab the wall to keep from passing out and falling off the toilet. Toddler eventually follows Denver Dad's breathing example and during one of the breaths out, starts to "go."

There is much celebration and more attempts to touch it all once he is finished.

Fade to black.

Next step... baby straight-jacket

2006-08-21T08:13:00.000-06:00

There are times when a man is tested. His skill, his resolve, and sometimes even his sanity are pressed by the forces of fate marshaling against him, plotting, even teasing him with the possible assaults, the schemes devised but not unleashed, the well crafted moves and countermoves being leveraged against him. How a man handles those threats, those taunts from fate, says a lot about him. If character is what you are in the dark, adversary is what you are when you're too stressed to check to see if anyone is looking.

What? What am I babbling about? We had one of those days on Sunday.

It started well enough. Chunk slept in a little and when he woke up, he and I went to the market, then came home and make a traditional, if indulgent breakfast for the family. After some spirited hide-and-go-seek games with my son, which resulted in lots of giggling and full body tackles (mostly from him), we went out and bought him a "potty."

A potty? For a twenty month old? Well, in a word, yes. His day care has all of the kids in Toddler 2 getting some potty training time, whether they're really ready or not, so we thought we'd back up these early habits at home.

How did it go? The kid is obsessed. He spent, literally, an hour in the bathroom, sitting, lifting the lid, carrying around the "deflector shield," opening and shutting the door to either get some privacy or announce that he still had the deflector shield if we were looking for it. He even used his new potty, twice, both times very proud of his... umm... production.

It's strange, because I didn't really expect him to be interested in the potty. We bought it thinking that it would sit, unused, until he decided that he wanted to check it out. We weren't going to pressure him. Potty training was going to be up to him and we were prepared to wait until that day, sometime in the future, when he would start expressing an interest. We thought it would be months. We were wrong. He's very interested, and with the few sessions at day care under his belt (so to speak), he seems to know the drill pretty well. I would never have anticipated that the stress of potty training would come from not being able to keep up with him, but there you go.

So far, a pretty positive day, eh?

Wait for it.

So, nap time rolls around after lunch, like it usually does, and we put him in his crib. As usual, he starts screaming and crying, a ritual which usually only lasts for a few minutes (think of it as the toddler equivalent of fluffing one's pillows). This particular screaming lasted a good fifteen minutes, going on twenty, with his desperation growing louder and more frantic. Something was wrong. Since I was busy loafing on the couch, Denver Mom went in to check on him and... he opened the door for her.

That was weird. We had a long conversation about the probability that he learned how to get out of his crib. More likely, I didn't know what I was doing when I put him down for nap and I actually laid him on the floor. It's crazy, but it was the only explanation I could come up with. So, we calmed him down, put him back in his crib, then continued scratching our heads. He was out in the living room within five minutes.

Stunned, we both checked his room, looking for some obvious route of escape. We devised several intriguing theories, most of which required removing various toys and stuffed animals from Chunk's crib. We checked for a rope, fashioned from torn crib sheets, under his pillow and found nothing. So, finally, we decided we had to see what was going on.

Chunk was placed in his crib and we huddled across the room, snickering to ourselves, in the dark. He yelled at us, called out to us, then tired of waiting for his uncooperative parents, walked to the corner of his crib and climbed over the bar, slowly and carefully lowering himself first to the mattress, then the frame, and then the floor, with all the grace and precision of a practiced mountain climber. I was speechless. I was in awe. And, most of all, I was scared to death. If Chunk could get out of his crib, it meant that the precarious order of things we had developed over the last twenty months had been smashed to pieces. It meant that no where was safe from the wraith of our cranky, hates-to-sleep toddler.

We discussed our options. Do we get him a "big boy" bed? Going from the most toddly of toddlers to potty training and big boy beds in just one day was too much for me. And, after confirming with Denver Mom that I wasn't underestimating our son, we decided he just wasn't really for a toddler bed. With his continued sleep issues it would be too much of a battle. Our only other option was to get a crib tent, which is just a nice way to say, crib-sized straight-jacket.

Have you seen these things? They look nice and reassuring on the package, but once its set up in your child's crib, it resembles exactly what it is... a prison.

His first reaction was overwhelmingly positive. He kept asking, "Wassthis?" and saying, "Wow!" as he explored it with his eyes and outstretched fingers. He demanded to be put in his crib so he could see it from the inside. We nearly had a meltdown when I had to take him out, so we could have dinner. Come bedtime, however, the new crib prison went from being intriguing to conjuring the kind of reaction I expect people have when they wake up and discover they've been buried alive. His usual, several minute long crying fit erupted into the kind of display that summons Social Services and neighborhood gossip. When I finally went into his room, he took at least a half an hour of calming, mixed with his "Sleepy Baby" CD and some slow, soothing iTunes visualizer on his computer to get him to finally calm down enough to sleep.

The crib prison? He made it clear that he didn't want it zipped up. I left it unzipped. It was either the strange shape of his new, tiny cage that kept him inside or the knowledge that his parents didn't love him any longer. I don't know which but it worked. He stayed in his crib.

Denver Mom and I made a few jokes about wanting to take up heavy drinking. Then, we started going through the bottles in our kitchen looking for something, anything, to make those jokes a reality. We found a six year old bottle of green apple "Pucker," some Red Wine vinegar, and a can of wasabi peas we didn't know we had. So much for that plan.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just the drinking plan that was thwarted Sunday night. With the excitement of a new thing in his crib, the stress of missing a nap that day, and what I can only assume is post-potty elation, Chunk woke up every two hours... all... night... long.

We'll try again tonight. This morning when we got up, he was still excited about his new crib/solitary confinement cage. Maybe it was a mix of other things that had him on edge.

I forgot to mention the best part! The crib penitentiary cost me $70, plus tax, and a little extra for some new sippy-tumblers he simply had to have. A lot of money? I thought so. For a little more, we'd almost have enough for a toddler bed, but it didn't seem like we had much choice, so I paid it and we left. When we got home and I tried to set it up, it became clear that the crib tent we bought had been returned and simply put back up on the shelf.

Now, I'm not one of those snobs that needs everything to be virgin and pure before I touch it. If I knew a place where I could buy a used crib tent on a Sunday, I probably would have gone there, but I don't like paying full price for something that is torn and filled with crumbs.

I called the manager at Babies 'R Us and explained what happened, knowing that I'd be told to bring it back (impossible, as bedtime was fast approaching and he was already skipping gleefully past psychotic into frothing, rabid, jungle animal). The manager, much to my surprise, said we could bring it back any time that week to exchange it for a new one, plus she would give us a discount for our trouble.

It's easy to pick on the "big box" stores, like Babies 'R Us, but we seldom say something nice when we're treated right by them. In this case, I have to say, I'm impressed. The staff have always been friendly and helpful and this recent situation, although still annoying, was handled better than I expected. Well done, Babies 'R Us! Well done!

The Living Bruise!

2006-08-17T12:19:00.000-06:00

Sadly, Chunk inherited his mother's lack of grace and his father's well-meaning, but notoriously unreliable coordination. So, as I'm sure you can guess, klutz plus spaz equals many, many bruises, in adorable, little boy sizes.

We used to try to keep up with what was happening and when it actually happened. We would have long, sometimes very complicated discussions about the origin of each bruise or mark on his delicate skin. It was like our own little game show... Name That Bruise!

Theme show music kicks in here.

"What round shaped bruise can currently be found just below his left knee?"

"Hmmm. That's a tough one. Umm, I'll go with... Chunk pushing his stroller on uneven concrete!"

"Right!"

Much clapping.

"Okay, I'll take, "Falling down at day care" for $200!"

Flashing lights and bleeping noises.

"That's the signal for Double Injuries! In this phase of the game, you have to name the origin of the bruise and the other day care child involved! Are you ready?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Okay... the scrape on Chunk's cheek!"

"Oh... uh... let's see... I think that was Carter's fault... and, umm, I think it involved the plastic food play-set by the book shelf!"

Now that Chunk has graduated to "running speed," otherwise known affectionately as "ramming speed," the game has become nearly impossible. His legs are a horrifying jumble of little bruises and scrapes. The outer part of his palms have permanent purple bruises, just beneath the surface of his skin. And, no matter how many times we tell him to slow down, he still charges head long into injury.

It seems that he really only ever injuries areas that aren't covered with clothing. Somehow his t-shirts and shorts manage to protect his pale flesh from any damage. So, I'm thinking about getting him a full-body Nerf suit. At this stage, it's the only thing that makes sense.

This Charming Spam

2006-08-14T08:16:00.000-06:00

When are the spammers going to give up? For YEARS I have resisted the siren call of cheap Viagra, real Rolex watches, herbal supplements that will increase either my penis or bust size or both, and as cold-hearted as it may be, the impassioned pleas of nobles from Nigeria who need to use my bank account to sneak out millions of dollars for their revolution. Or, umm... something.

The point is, I am a black hole from which no spam escapes, and yet they continue to stream in every single day. One after another after another, touting all the great things that a 0.47 second Google search would reveal to me, if I had any interest at all in what they're trying to get me to buy.

I know, I know. Just shut up about it. We all get them. Still, don't you think that you would finally reach a point where they would stop? Don't you think that, after a while, the spammers would say, "That guy? He's a tightwad and doesn't even read my misspelled missives on the #1 Online P_H_A_R_M_A_C_Y. Don't bother sending to that dude," at their Spamocon '06 sessions?

Better Dadding: Enjoying It

2006-08-11T07:28:00.000-06:00

So far, we've discussed the mystical benefits of the slow cooker, a device that can make even the most Wolfgang Puck disabled among us to take the burden off mom and still get the family a hot, healthy meal. We also talked about how important it is to step up and actually be involved as a parent and dad. This week's lesson is about something that we should be doing automatically, something that seems like a no-brainer, but often gets overlooked in our rush to do all the little things that are expected of us... enjoying it.

Yes, that's it. Just enjoy it.

I learned something while Denver Mom was in France, something that didn't make my list earlier in the week. Like cooking, time has different requirements of effort with two people, as opposed to three. Or, put another way, things are slower when there are only two of you. When you're rushing to meet all of the varying needs and interests of three people, a day can get eaten up pretty fast, but when its just two people, things don't seem to get nearly as hectic.

This isn't just true of time with a child. Remember back to those days without a baby? Remember how days seemed to stretch out as long and lazily as the whole summer? That's because there were just two of you. It's the addition of that third person, then maybe the fourth, and if you've suffered a head injury recently, fifth person, that makes things crazy.

So, while Denver Mom was away, Chunk and I got to play. And, in this slower bit of time, we really had a lot of fun. Not being rushed by anything other than nap schedules and meal and snack times, we had fun doing just about everything. Going to the bookstore? A blast. Going swimming? So much fun it was almost criminal. Our trip to the Children's Museum? Less fun, but only because we were tired. Going to the grocery store? Surprisingly fun, even in its mundane sort of way.

What I realized was that this newfound fun wasn't just due to the time-warp we were trapped in. It was also because I had made, whether I knew it or not, the decision to enjoy it all. Yes, as stupid as that sounds, sometimes you have to decide to enjoy yourself.

So, enjoy it. Enjoy your time with your child. Taking a bath can be fun. Reading a story can be fun. Walking to the park can be fun. The list is limitless, but the trick is still there. You still have to enjoy it. So, make that effort.

Public Service: Get Those Kids Insured

2006-08-09T16:14:00.000-06:00

I just read about the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and their efforts to get health insurance for kids over on the Dadcentric web site. This is important! If you don't have insurance for your child, or know someone who doesn't have insurance for their child, check it out.

And, just as Jay suggests, spread the word if you can!

Violence

2006-08-09T15:43:00.000-06:00

There's no clever way to talk about an issue like this. There is no chance for a light phrase and sideways "ho ho" to soften the blows. The topic is simply too serious.

Denver Mom works in an office with a woman who has, for the last year, been in a relationship with a man who has been hitting her. Somehow, even after early warning signs coming in the shape of fist-sized bruises, the relationship has blossomed and she had purchased a home with the man. She is no longer in a bad relationship. She has long since passed that point. Her relationship has become entangled and complicated, and in recent months, frightening and unpredictable.

Last week the situation seemed to have come to a head. The woman moved out (and moved in with another one of Denver Mom's coworkers) and has vowed that the relationship was over. Given the seriousness of the abuse and its escalation, it sounded like it might "stick" this time. She has said she's getting a restraining order and is looking for an apartment.

Unfortunately, these same situations, the proclamations that it is over, the temporary refuge with coworkers, has happened several times in the past and yet the situation has only gotten worse. Will it really stick this time? Has she finally had enough? I don't know.

The entire situation is very sad. I can't understand how anyone could lash out at someone they care for with physical violence. And, at the same time, I'm even more baffled by how someone could forgive that kind of behavior, subjecting themselves to further danger, again and again. I know this is a reality for a number of people, the status quo for many people, but its still alien to me, about as familiar as breathing underwater.

The problem is that the violence is threatening to expand. Last week, one of Denver Mom's coworkers (uninvolved in all of this, but sucked in as a sympathetic ear by the abused coworker) recommended that Denver Mom should not come into the office any more. She thought it was too dangerous. The ex-boyfriend was unstable, might have access to a gun, and given how bad things had gotten, was concerned that he might do something at the office.

Denver Mom is laughing it off, in a way. She doesn't think it's funny, but doesn't think anything will happen either. On the other hand, we're not independently wealthy. What could she do, even if she thought something was going to happen? She needs her job as much as I need mine and just not showing up to work isn't an option. Unlike the building I work in, her office is completely insecure. Anyone could wander in off the street.

Do I think that something will happen? I don't. But, there's still that fear. That sneaky panic that comes in when Denver Mom is running late or doesn't pick up her phone.

I'll admit. I'm angry about this. I'm angry that this is even an issue. I'm angry with my wife's coworker for letting things get to this point. I'm angry with the change in society that allows this kind of behavior and these kinds of threats, with repercussions coming only after the fact, when it's too late, when the smoke has cleared.

Last year, a friend of mine witnessed an attempted murder at the library where she worked. Despite an eye-witness, the man got off and has gone on to threaten and attack others in and around Denver. Yesterday a 5 year old boy was taken hostage by his father, only to be killed in a murder-suicide when the police SWAT teams moved in to end their twelve hour stand-off.

Denver is a beautiful place. The people here are good, kind, healthy people. And yet this stuff happens. I'm sure this is true in a lot of cities. How did it get so bad, so fast? What kind of world will my son inherent from me and my generation?

The Lessons of Temporary Single-Parenthood

2006-08-07T09:07:00.000-06:00

You know that type of busy where you always seem to be running at top speed, but when you stop and reflect on your time spent, can't really think of a single thing you did? There might be a blur of grocery store isles and maybe a family member or two, but it doesn't really add up to anything concrete. That's the kind of week we've had since Denver Mom came home from France.

Yes, Denver Mom is home. It’s great to have her home again. Here is a list of the things I learned while Denver Mom was away and I was home alone with Chunk for nearly two weeks:

1. There is a surprising difference in the effort needed to feed two people, as opposed to three people, especially when only one of them needs to eat a balanced meal
2. Toddlers can get stressed out, just like everyone else
3. Potato bread is just white bread, only more expensive
4. After five days of skipping shaving, even the new electric razor I got for Father's Day has a tough time
5. I am no plumber. As a matter of fact, I'll admit that I am not, in any way, what you would consider "handy." And no, repeating "How hard can it be?" to myself, over and over again, didn't help.
6. Chunk loves his dad, but as strong as that love is, it's thrown aside the second momma climbs off her airplane
7. "Roaming" minutes are just as expensive as they are convenient
8. No matter how many people tell you they'll be available to help out before you're left alone, you'll have exactly zero real offers once you're actually left alone with a cranky toddler
9. There's simply no way to get your hair cut when you're a single parent, unless someone actually does step forward and offer to help
10. Running through fountains, hand in hand with your son, is a great way to spend a hot summer day
11. I have even less control at the store when I'm home alone with Chunk than I do when his mother is home. Chunk made out like a bandit and has a pile of new toys
12. Netflix is my new best friend -- if I wasn't already married, I would ask Netflix to be my best man
13. "Halo" can be beaten in one week, even if it is just played during naptimes, and after bedtime
14. Cheese sticks make a good snack some of the time and excellent projectiles the rest of the time
15. When a toddler can't sleep and wants to sleep in bed with you, there is a 98% chance that actually getting the toddler to sleep will involve having either his arm or leg lying across your face. Removing either extremity from its place on your face will cause the toddler to instantly wake up and scream

There are more lessons, of course, but those are the ones I thought were worth mentioning.

Thanks for coming back! I'm hoping to get back on a more regular schedule now.

Day Twelve: Too Much Affection?

2006-07-26T20:07:00.000-06:00

When is it too much? When is the affection your child gets from someone that isn't a blood relative stepping over the line and how do you deal with it?

I work in an office that is extremely "family friendly." I think that much of this is due to the fact that our organization deals primarily with families and with children who suffer a specific type of disability -- a disability common in most of the families that make up our staff. This family focused environment is a big part of the reason I am able to work from home for half the week and it is also the reason why there is usually a child of a coworker in our office several times a week, for one reason or another.

With my own work schedule being what it is, especially during this two weeks without Denver Mom, Chunk has also spent some time in the office, running around, peeking in on people in their offices, and generally charming everyone within range of his batting eyes and quick smile. It has worked wonders, because he has brightened a lot of days and made a lot of friends, but one particular coworker has gotten a little weird with him. No, not weird in a Michael Jackson way, just overly affectionate. There are demands for kisses, plenty of hugs, and enough "goo-goo" talk to give you cavities.

Chunk is an affectionate kid, but only to a select few people and only at a select few times. At best, he tolerates the attention. He does that "smile and stiffen" thing that we all tend to do when we're uncomfortable, but playing along to be nice. It seems pretty obvious, at least to me, but she just doesn't get it.

So, where is the line? Where is the border drawn between a friendly show of kindness and an invasion of personal space? Am I teaching Chunk a valuable lesson about people by letting this go on or am I failing my son by not coming to his aid when he needs me?

Day Eight

2006-07-22T21:01:00.000-06:00

I love my son. He wears me out, but I love my son.

Actually, it's not so much my son that wears me out, but the dangerous combination of having no sensible supervision (i.e. Denver Mom) and a son that seems completely incapable of sleeping past 4:30 a.m.

Last night, for some reason that still doesn't make much sense in the clear, warm light of day, I decided to stay up until twelve o'clock watching "Nashville." Now, I know a lot of people who consider twelve a perfectly reasonable time to crawl into bed. Once, when I was younger and childless, I also felt that twelve was a workable bed time, but now that I'm old, rapidly graying, and have a nineteen month old boy, twelve may as well be an "all-nighter" or "next Friday" or "to Pluto and back, backwards." If my fingers are to be believed, I count only four hours of sleep, maybe five depending on when I really did doze off, and it's just not enough when your day consists of running after a cackling child.

Running after a cackling child? Yes. That's what I did all day. One of my wife's coworkers invited Chunk and I to join her, her goofy husband who is about as nerdy as I am, and their charming daughter for a walk through the Cherry Creek Farmer's Market. Why was I invited? Well, Denver Mom set up a network of women from her office who's job it is to check up on me while she's gone and it was this particular coworker's turn in the barrel... er... time to call me. Regardless of the reasons, it was nice to get out, talk to some adults a bit, and watch Chunk play with their little girl.

The Farmer's Market was actually kind of disappointing. I don't know why, but I have this unrealistic expectation for these things. I always imagine huge baskets filled with food so good and healthy that it practically glows with goodness, manned by old farmers in overalls, and I'm always disappointed when I find yuppies in Banana Republic clothes, sitting in booths with everything stamped "organic," and none of it looking all that appetizing.

Thankfully, the disappointing meander through the Farmer's Market quickly became a trip to City Park. And, what was in City Park that was so exciting? It was the twenty or so water jets that are hidden behind the Museum of Nature and Science, shooting cold water six feet into the air at random intervals. The best part? The tiled area where this is all set up is so kid friendly that the stone they used is textured enough that even a nineteen month old can run on it, water shooting everywhere, and not slip and fall. Even better? The big kid that knocked Chunk over while they were running and giggling through the water jets not only stopped to make sure my little guy was okay, but he also apologized.

We had a blast. Then, after a nap that was entirely too short, went to a BBQ at a friend's house, where Chunk was the life of the party, the guests were all really nice, and there was cheese dip.

Frankly, I'm worried that I might have hit my head sometime today and just don't remember it. When your day is this good, you immediately have to suspect a head injury.

Sesame Street, As Directed By Luc Besson

2006-07-20T09:23:00.000-06:00

Natalie Portman is filling in for Alan at the store on Sesame Street. Although I find the way she's flirting with the bear both amusing and slightly creepy, I can't help but think this is all a clip that was originally cut from "The Professional." Natalie "cleans" Sesame Street! Mathilda tosses a grenade down Oscar's trash can, feeds Cookie Monster a cookie full of lead, and plays "Journey to Ernie" with a sniper rifle!

Okay... it's official. It's WAY too hot in Denver today. I think I need to lay down for a while.

Day Six... We're Still Here

2006-07-20T09:03:00.000-06:00

Denver Mom continues to have a good time in France. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. The last time I talked to her, she seemed to be having a great time, practically bubbling over with her discoveries, both big and small. She seems to be having every bit of the trip of a lifetime I had hoped she would have.

Chunk and I? We're doing okay. We haven't had as much time as I thought we would. Although my intention was to take some time off and just spend it goofing off with my son, I've been putting in eight hours days all week to make sure I get everything off my desk in a timely manner.

We did manage to make it to the Apex Center for swimming on Tuesday. We went early in the morning, as we usually do, because it's a better fit for Chunk and his particular personality quirks.

He's an odd kid. He's not really afraid of anything, as a matter of fact, he's completely fearless, but he is a little shy, especially around other kids. In a public place like the swimming pool, he'll just hover around a parent and watch the other kids, rather than jump in the water and have fun himself. So, if we go early in the morning, we usually get the pool to ourselves and he gains a little confidence. And, as an added bonus, the water is usually a little warmer for the senior water aerobics class that starts at 7:00.

Did I mention fearless? He's fearless. He has no problem leaping off the side of the pool and into the water. He charges for the deep end of the pool, not once considering that the water might be too deep for him. He demands to be "put down" even when the water is deep enough to come up to his dad's armpits.

So, the question is, when do we develop fear? When do we suddenly find ourselves afraid of what could happen once we spring from the diving board? When do we suddenly start dreading trips abroad or weeks alone with our children, too consumed with the "what ifs" to rev ourselves up to enjoy it, the anticipation of it?

I wasn't afraid of these weeks alone with Chunk, but I know that I wasn't looking forward to them either. I depend on Denver Mom a lot. She depends on me. And, frankly, a lot of things become more difficult when you're alone with a child. Doing the dishes takes more effort. Making the bed. Getting dinner ready. It all takes just a little bit more, because your attention is divided, your "third eye" constantly searching for dangers and potential dangers, while you're trying to tackle your task.

But, the thing is, it hasn't been bad. Even when Chunk has been at his worst, cranky after a night of tossing and turning, it's all been surprisingly manageable. Like the diving board, once you're airborne you just have to toss caution aside and enjoy it. There's not much you can do about it anyway, so why worry?

I'm hoping that after the meeting I have in the office in an hour, I can stop working so much and get to the goofing off that Chunk and I had planned for this week. Tomorrow... maybe we'll hit the Children's Museum or the Aquarium.

Day Three

2006-07-17T10:08:00.000-06:00

Mondays are never easy. They never have been. It's the only day that all of us are in the "office," with both Denver Mom and I going to work, and Chunk getting dropped off at day care.

When we first started taking him to day care, we thought we were very clever in putting together this particular schedule. Mondays he would get the socialization benefits of being in day care and the rest of the week he'd be home with either mom or dad, spoiling him with attention. It made things much more affordable and we thought we were getting the best of both worlds, but we didn't anticipate the separation freak out whenever we drop him off.

When he was a baby, he didn't care. We could sneak away without so much as a glance up from whatever toy he found. As he's gotten older, he's started clinging more, crying more, desperate for us not to leave him. When we go to pick him up, it starts all over again, with big, fat tears and strong, needy hugs.

The part that makes it so hard is that he has a good time when he's there. Occasionally I can sneak in while he's playing and watch him having a good time. He's no different than when he's at home, every bit as busy, every bit as engaged in whatever task he has set for himself. But, when he sees me, the dam breaks and the tears come fast and hot. With Denver Mom gone, he was especially desperate not to be left at day care this morning. And, given his fragile state, I felt especially bad about abandoning him.

Speaking of fragile, we had a minor emergency last night, that basically boils down to his father being almost criminally stupid. My little guy got a little too hot and not enough fluids, which resulted in some vomiting. The on-call nurse at Children's Hospital thought it was a virus that has been going around, instead of a little heat exhaustion, but the result was the same.

The great thing about a child's vomit is that it’s a great communicator. With Chunk, it comes fast and often, just to drive the point home.

For example, we had a few terrible, wildly arcing "sessions" last night. Kicking and cursing myself for being so stupid (I didn't realize the pulp in his juice had clogged his sippy cup holes), I cleaned him and the carpet up, then after I was sure we were out of the worst of it, ran to the store to get him some Pedialyte.

I don't know about you, but I find the Pedialyte section of the store a little nerve-wracking. There are a hundred different flavors, various ways to give it to him (liquid, popsicles, etc), and then there's the issue of official Pedialyte versus the cheaper store brand. While I was standing there, studying the different paths towards hydration and trying to figure out what we should get, I was holding Chunk in my arms. He had his little arms wrapped around my neck and then let out a little whimper.

"Are you okay, buddy?" I asked.

He nodded, but wore an expression that told otherwise.

"It's okay, buddy, we're going home right after this."

Then, it came. A torrent of juice-colored vomit, like some horrific geyser of warm, frothy gross. Since I was holding my young son to me, trying to keep him comforted and happy, there was only one place for the vomit to go and that was on me. Hadn't we already done this vomiting thing? Where the heck did all of this liquid come from?

So, not knowing what else to do, I grabbed a bottle of Pedialyte and wandered over to the check-out counter, covered in toddler ooze.

Chunk was on the verge of tears.

"It's okay, buddy, it's daddy's fault. You're fine. You don't have to feel bad."

That seemed to cheer him up. He liked being able to vomit on his father and have his father feel bad about it.

There was a long line at the express check-out and no one in line with me seemed to care or notice that I was covered in vomit. I was wearing a white t-shirt that was now pink and frothy, so it's not like it was subtle. Chunk was blubbering a little. That should have been a clue that something was up, but it was business as usual as far as everyone else was concerned.

The good news is that he's back to normal. We had several drinks of water throughout the night and some much needed sleep, and now he's back to his typical, happy self. The Pedialyte I bought? He refused to drink it.

Day Two

2006-07-16T08:06:00.000-06:00

At 4:30 this morning when Chunk started to whine and moan in his crib, I rolled over thinking, "It's her turn. I was up with him at 10:30." That's the undeniable luxury of being one of two parents. I've been a "single parent" for one day, and although it hasn't been bad, I just don't know how other people do it full time.

Chunk is doing really well, so far. At the 10:30 waking I mentioned, he insisted I let him out of his crib, then ran around calling, "Momma?" searching for her in the dark. Just as I had done several other times yesterday, I explained she was far away, but that she misses him, loves him, and can't wait to come home to see him. As smart as our little guy is, I think some of those concepts are still a little bit beyond him, especially when he's already on the verge of tears. All he really knows is that for the first time, momma is gone.

His fever broken and his fighting spirit returned, we decided to go to the bird sanctuary out in Wheat Ridge this morning and walk around the lake.

It's a neat little park, but it's strange. Depending on the angle of your head, where your eyes are pointed, you could almost believe that you're out in nature, miles away from traffic, Starbucks, and 7-11, but if you move your head just an inch or shift your eyes a bit to the right, there it all is, just as you remembered. The entire bird sanctuary is surrounded by road, so you literally have nature on one side of the street and sprawl on the other.

Chunk had a blast. When I have a little free time from work, we like to get out in the morning and walk at various places. The great thing about most of the places we end up is that the other people there sincerely like being out. Like us, it's how they like to start their day. So, everyone is very friendly and happy and appreciative of the enthusiastic waves that Chunk provides to everyone we pass.

Denver Mom called this morning at 5:30 and she made it across the Atlantic just fine. She was calling from her hotel in Paris and finally sounded really excited to be there. I'm glad she decided to go. On the express bus one night (my mobile group therapy), I was asked if I wished Chunk and I could go and meet her for the last half of her trip, but the truth is, this is her time. Yes, I'd love to be in France with her, but it would defeat the entire reason for her going.

One thing I found kind of funny... people always make such a big deal about the light in Paris. It's supposed to be this magical, clean, even sparkling light that brightens everything without being harsh or glaring. Watch any film with a painter in it and they'll probably talk about how they have to get to Paris because of the amazing light (it's in the "generic screenplay dictionary" for painter, apparently). Denver Mom says it looks just like Colorado.

Day One

2006-07-15T11:27:00.000-06:00

We dropped off Denver Mom at the airport without much turmoil. Was there any crying? Yes. Both Denver Mom and Chunk shed a few tears. I merely got dust in my eye, which should explain the redness and irritation.

I suspect that this is going to be easier than I originally thought. I've been bracing myself for the worst, for crying fits and frustration and sorrowful cries for a momma that is thousands of miles away. And, every one of those things and more will probably happen, but Chunk and I make a good team, so I'm starting to think we'll get through this just fine. What's bothering me is that Denver Mom is gone.

See... I didn't just marry Denver Mom because I think she's smart, talented, and because she gets more and more attractive every day I've known her. I married her because I genuinely enjoy spending time with her. I married her because she's the first person I want to tell my stories to and the last person I want to see at night. I married her because she's my best friend.

She's coming back. I know I'm making this sound melodramatic and a little bit corny, but it'll be lonely without her for the next couple of weeks. Neither one of has to travel much for work and the few solo vacations we've taken (me to visit family in the midwest, her to go hiking in Wyoming) have been short trips, little more than extended weekends. It's only been a few hours and I miss being able to talk to her. I helps having a new best buddy, even if he can't debate modern art with me.

Thank you for all of the great suggestions you provided several weeks ago when I first talked about this trip. Chunk and I are hoping to be able to do everything mentioned and more, but Chunk was up all night with a fever, so we'll be taking it easy today and making sure that everyone gets caught up on sleep.

Better Dadding: Just Show Up

2006-07-14T10:36:00.000-06:00

Several weeks ago, I was riding the express bus home from work, and as is typical, was chatting with some of the regulars about the general sorts of chit-chat you usually exchange on the bus. Chunk is a favorite subject of conversation, likely because I usually have a picture or two to show off, and one of my fellow bus riders turned towards me and asked, wrinkling up her face, "Denver Mom isn't still going to France, is she?"

It seemed pretty clear to me that what she was really asking was, "Your wife isn't so heartless that she'd leave your innocent, sweet son with... with... with... YOU for two whole weeks, is she?

I know it's a generational thing and I shouldn't take it personally. And, I know that this particular lady is a bit weird. After all, when I bumped into her at Blockbuster last year, she accused me of getting a "naughty movie" when she saw I was trying to buy a copy of "The House of Flying Daggers." Yes, because it makes perfect sense that I would shop for porn at Blockbuster Video. Buying porn is just one of those many bonding moments a father and six month old boy can share.

Mom-101 had a post a little while back about how, yes, even a dad can be a responsible, attentive parent. It was a shocking revelation and the comments ranged from disbelief to jealousy of Mom-101 and her trained chimp of a husband. "Ho ho ho, boy, men sure are dumb!" was the tone of many of the posts.

Why is that? Why are men considered so helpless and stupid? And, why is it even acceptable to make these kinds of comments? If I put up a post that said women were unreliable and clueless, I'd be chased around the internet by angry villagers with pitchforks and torches. Yet, it's okay and even funny to point out how dumb men are, especially as parents.

Whether this attitude about men is fair or not, it exists. So, my advice this week about how to be a better dad, is just to show up. You don't have to know everything, standing proudly over your adoring children with your teeth gleaming in the sunlight, cape flapping dramatically behind you, but you do have to be involved. That's really all it takes. Show up. Be there. Don't allow this stereotype to torpedo your role as a dad. For all dads, be involved and change this stupid mindset that men are automatically idiots in the parenting department.

A bit of clarification: I just want to state that I don't believe Mom-101 was saying that men are stupid. I think she was, with tongue placed firmly in cheek, making fun of the sitcom dad stereotype and his inability to do anything without help.

Media Time For Youngins

2006-07-12T09:51:00.000-06:00

A remote control for a toddler?

A cell phone just for junior?

Are they serious?

On the one hand, I'm encouraged by these sorts of gadgets. I genuinely think the idea of a dedicated "kid" cell phone that has easy to use and understand buttons, with mom and dad on speed dial, is a good thing. Our television and remote control setup is so complicated that even I can't work it on some days, so having something simple with a button that automatically switches to "PBS Kids" is a great idea. At the moment, Chunk is too young for gadgets like these, but what about one year from now? Two years? Should a child of the 21st century have a cell phone and his own remote?

We limit Chunk to one hour of "media time" a day and I suspect even that is too much. That includes time in front of the TV or sitting at the computer playing with his "Dr. Seuss's ABC" program. I'll admit, there are days when I'm facing a pretty strict deadline at work that his media hour sometimes stretches to an hour and a half or two hours, but we also go a lot of days without any media time at all, just fresh air, some errand running, and plenty of games of "hide and go boo."

According to some recent reports I've read, we've already destroyed Chunk's brain with this minimal exposure and he'll be a drooling idiot by the time he's ten years old (sort of like his dad), but I believe in moderation. A little Elmo or Baby Einstein won't kill him. He thinks Elmo is hilarious and loves Thomas the Train Engine with a passion usually only reserved for first crushes and sports teams, so a little goes a long way with him. Yes, sometimes he grabs my hand, drags me to the television and signs for "more," a somewhat creepy display of how much he enjoys the television, but he is easy to redirect.

But, what happens when he can turn on the television himself? What happens when, with the push of a button, he has instant access to the shows he wants to watch? What happens when parenting gets replaced by an intelligent remote control, designed to respond to toddler needs and clumsy fingers?

Again, I think these kinds of devices are neat. I don't think there is anything wrong with modifying our world to make it friendly for smaller hands and less proficient technical skills. I'm just concerned about that new ease of use taking parents out of the process. Supervision and good decision making are the keys to good parenting. That's true of everything, but when something like a remote control gives your child the power to make decisions that aren't good for them, before they're old enough to really understand more than just the want/get cycle, suddenly the dynamics of a situation change. Suddenly, parents are taking television away from a toddler, rather than just directing them to a different task before the "idiot box" is on and streaming colored, flashing goodness into your child's brain. It's subtle, certainly, but at certain ages, the difference between giving your child something and taking something away are massive.

So, what do you think about television and toddlers? No television at all? Some? Enough that the TV is called "Uncle Boob Tube" in your house?

As an aside, I noticed that Weemote has a "senior" model for senior citizens. They tout the Sr. as being "Ideal for users with memory problems or vision impairments." I can also see how it might be useful for people with arthritis, depending on the size of the buttons. Again, a really cool idea, but the less my dad wanders in to watch TV, the better.

Special Weekend Update: Chunk Likes Rocky Road

2006-07-08T19:26:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, even when you know better, you have to do the wrong thing with your child. Things like... oh, I don't know... sharing your rocky road ice cream with your nineteen month old son, just minutes before his bed time.

Does my nineteen month old son like chocolate ice cream with marshmallows and almonds? Well, he likes the ice cream part just fine. The almonds go down easily, thanks to swimming in cool, gooey ice cream. The marshmallows? He makes a face like I'm actually slipping him turpentine and fishes them out of his mouth, dropping them into my hand. Ahh... yes... our new game. If he doesn't like it, it goes in my hand. We could be at the table, with a whole flat span of space before him where he could put whatever horror I've inflicted on him, but somehow it's always better if its in daddy's hand.

What follows the ice cream is screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. Screaming for more ice cream. Screaming momma's hand. Screaming because he doesn't want help with his toothbrush. Screaming for the sake of screaming.

I'm starting another cluster headache, so each shriek vibrates through my skull like it was punctuated with a rusty hammer, but it's still worth it. Seeing Chunk's face light up with his first taste of chocolate is pretty great, no matter what the price.

Better Dadding: Finding Balance

2006-07-07T06:18:00.000-06:00

My first post on the Denver Dad blog was about my struggle to find balance between the demands of work and the demands of family. In many ways, I think that this balance of time and attention is even more difficult because I work from home and the trade between "work" and "home" time is so fuzzy and immediate.

I still don't have answers for that particular puzzle. It's something I struggle with every day. Clearly, I'm not working when I step away from the computer to change a diaper. But, what about when I take a minute to talk to my son, to give him a hug when he toddles over for one. What about when I change a diaper while trying to work through a particular phrasing issue I'm having with a grant proposal? When is something work and something personal? But, my post today isn't about that particular balance. Today, we're going to talk about a balance that I think might be even more elusive... the balance between being a good dad and being an individual.

When was the last time you went to the bookstore? Just you? No diaper bag over your shoulder, no stroller to push between the aisles, no little hands pulling on your ears or pointing at books nearby, announcing "lello!"

Or, if the bookstore isn't your thing, when was the last time you went to the movies? When was the last time you watched a baseball game, from start to finish, wearing your favorite team jersey? When was the last time you put the smack-down on your rivals in an online computer game? Or, more to the point, when was the last time you indulged in your hobbies, really indulged?

I'm not saying the two are unconnected. I think there is a lot of overlap between being a good dad and a well-rounded, happy individual, but I also think that because the demands of being a dad outweigh the demands of... say... being able to shoot par on hole 4, golf typically loses out when you're strapped for time. The issue is, as focused as good dads are on their children, we do have to take time for ourselves.

I take a lot of joy from my time with Chunk. He's a great kid and we genuinely enjoy hanging out together, but as he's gotten a little older, I've gotten a little more time, here and there, that I could fill with my own interests. And, you know what I found? Those first few times when Denver Mom took him shopping without me, I had no idea what to do with myself. I was clueless about what I should do to fill my time. And, while that probably gave me extra points in the "dedicated dad" tournament, it didn't do me much good in the "happy person" department.

So, please, take some time for yourself. Don't forget that before you became a dad, you used to read, take guitar lessons, play pick-up games with the guys, whatever. Whatever it was that you did, make sure you still take some time to do it. Don't go overboard. I'm not giving you permission to give up being a dad to pursue your dream of racing in the Tour de France, but you should take some time for you. You need to find a balance.

It'll make you a happier person. And, happier people are inevitably better parents.

It Takes a Village

2006-07-05T15:43:00.000-06:00

It's becoming more and more clear to me that the whole "it takes a village" thing isn't utter crap. Remember the village metaphors that were so big in the 90s? I don't recall the precise quote, but it went something like: "It takes a whole village of idiots to make sure your child is miserable and maladjusted, just like the rest of us." It's so heartwarming and so true, all at the same time!

Before Denver Mom and I had Chunk, I always assumed the quote ("It takes a village to raise a child") was a gentle nudge for the village to step up and get involved. It was a reminder to the village that it takes more than just parents to raise a child, and that everyone, at varying levels, should be responsible for the guidance and protection a child needs as they grow. Now that we have Chunk, I'm seeing the saying as more of a threat. It's not a reminder for the village, it's a warning for the parents.

We had a recent snafu with some babysitting. The situation, like so many others, was born of good intentions, but resulted in our nineteen month old boy not getting much nap time under his belt, when he desperately needed some sleep. The next day, Chunk went off to day care, where the "sleep" written on his daily report is actually just time spent on his mat, and so, our poor son went two days without a nap. Different kids respond differently to these kinds of situations, but in Chunk's case, he responded a lot like Mount St. Helens after a bad day at the DMV.

As parents, we try. We clearly outlined our expectations to the person watching Chunk on Sunday. We have had numerous conversations with the day care about how concerned we are about Chunk not getting any sleep while he's there. And yet, what seems like a simple thing gets trampled under the weight of other concerns, desires, and realities, none of which have anything to do with our son's wellbeing.

The fallout was terrible. Even after getting a decent nap yesterday afternoon, Chunk was out of control most of the day, bordering on tears and tantrums the entire time. Despite many threats of bodily harm, whispered when Chunk was out of earshot, Denver Mom and I were understanding and supportive, doing what we could to comfort him. Then, obviously not learning our lesson, decided that the best thing to do with a cranky, sleep-deprived child was to take him to a family barbecue, keeping him out way past his usual bedtime.

Yeah. I don't know what we were thinking either.

Considering his mood the entire day and his lack of rest, Chunk did great and was having a good time showing off for the assorted adults who found his every garbled word and spastic gesture completely enthralling. He was transformed, from the cranky kid who cried at us all day, to a graceful, charming social butterfly and life of the party.

I was on the patio, sitting next to my wife, while Chunk was in the other room with some family. Clearly, fate stepped in, because I somehow overheard one of our family members explaining to Chunk that he'd be filling up on strawberries in no time. Chunk is allergic to strawberries, to the point that if he gets strawberry juice on his skin, it swells up in large, blotchy pink sores.

So, I leapt from my chair and rushed into the other room, shouting like an idiot the entire way. We were lucky. None of them had made it into his mouth.

These are people we know and trust. These are people that, whether due to interest or payment, want what is best for our son, and yet the level of risk for him feels so overwhelming. Missing a couple of naps is hard on him and hard on us. Eating a food that makes him sick is dangerous and potentially catastrophic.

It takes a village. It takes a village to endanger your child's health and happiness.

Every parent has faced this and survived. Most children survive it too. I know that we will get through it, but I can't shake the feeling that I can't leave my son with anyone. It's a strange sensation, especially considering that he's been in day care for well over a year now, but there it is.

Denver Dads Of The World Unite And Take Over

2006-06-30T14:12:00.000-06:00

It turns out I am not the only Denver Dad. Fear us, for we are legion, the Denver Dads of the world, spreading our wraith and oddities like beads at a Mardi Gras parade. Yeah, that's right, show us your URLs baby!

I finally succumb to the ego-maniacal step of "googling your funky self." I did it twice, once looking for "denver dad" and another time looking for "denverdad," because I was curious if my blog would pop up. It didn't, but I learned a few things about the army of clones out there all using the code-name "Denver Dad."

1. There is a Denver Dad out there that knows a lot about scanners. And, when I say a lot, I mean a LOT. If I ever have any problems with my scanner, I'm going to that guy. Seriously. He's pretty dang smart.

2. There is a Denver Dad looking for love and has several profiles up on a number of dating sites. The love he seems to be looking for runs the gambit from "a little lovin' before lunch, please, I'm kind of bored" to "someone to spend my life with" and I wish that particular Denver Dad luck in finding happiness.

3. There is a Denver Dad who was apparently a guest on the Dr. Phil show and has a complicated relationship with his wife, who in turn has an even more complicated relationship with their children, and I wish that guy a lot of luck too. It sounds like he needs it.

4. There is also a Denver Dad that is a stay-at-home dad and has organized a playgroup, a mailing list, and an extensive "Dad's night out" calendar. Whew! I wish I had his energy. He might also be the Denver Dad who has triplets, in which case his energy seems more the result of chemicals or alien technology, than simple drive and ambition.

5. Oh, and there is a Denver Dad that apparently has a brother-in-law who has left "racist" behind a long time ago and has entered into that overtly creepy stage that is so ick that it doesn't even have a name yet. In Latin it would be something like Racistius Maximius. In English it's just ass, I believe, but my dictionary doesn't really back that up. That Denver Dad? I wish him the most luck.

6. Lastly, there is a Denver Dad that writes a lot of restaurant reviews. I'd kind of like to know that guy, because I like to eat. I would say I like to eat as much as the next guy, but that next guy is an amateur. I really like to eat. Even then, I think this particular Denver Dad could teach me a thing or two.

That really isn't "lastly," there are more, but those were the first ones that came up in my search. Oh, and I did show up, but it was mostly my comments on other people's blogs. You know... the cool ones. I'm looking at you, Melissa!

The part that I find weird is that any of these Denver Dads might be one or more of the other Denver Dads, but I'm just me. For example, the Denver Dad that knows his way around a scanner could be the same Denver Dad that eats out and also dates a lot. If that were true, he'd pretty much be a superhero. Me? I'm just the Denver Dad that posts here and offers the occasional dim-witted comment on a variety of other mommy and daddy blogs. What about the Denver Dad with the racist brother and frequent appearances on Dr. Phil? That's not me either. I just post here, and given the alternative, I suppose I'm pretty glad that's the case.

It's not the first time I've been surprised by the multi-identity issue. In the real world, where I work, vote, and try to recycle, I have a fairly distinctive name and I just assumed I would be taken for me. But, it turns out there is another me, a doctor who orders magazine subscriptions and never pays for them, running around our fair city, inviting patients to call him at (my) home if they have any questions about their upcoming procedures.

I wonder if the other me has a goatee, like the evil Spock in that Star Trek episode. Or, maybe I'm the one that's supposed to have the goatee and evil plans for the Enterprise. Like I said, it's pretty confusing.

Final Score: Real Life 4, Blogging 0

2006-06-30T08:15:00.000-06:00

Contrary to how it may seem, Chunk and I, along with the ever wonderful Denver Mom, are still very much alive. I've just been swamped with work and a cranky child and haven't been able to find much time to get a post up. I did, however, write a guest post up over on And Then There Was Pickle. If you're desperate for a little Denver Dad, you can check out my post about the grooviness of the internet and the parent blogging community, and then you can get yourself looked at by a professional. Desperate for a little Denver Dad? There's something wrong with you.

I hope to be back soon!

Better Dadding: Buy a Crockpot

2006-06-23T06:42:00.000-06:00

I'm starting a new weekly series that I'm going to call, "Better Dadding," in which I'm going to share some of my own wisdom about tricks and tactics for how you can be a better dad. I was originally going to call the series, "Hair-Better-Than-Mediocre Dadding," but it didn't seem to have quite the same punch. If I can, I'll make this a weekly Friday thing.

My first topic? The magical benefits of the humble crockpot, sometimes known as a "slow cooker."

Here's what makes a crockpot so great: you fill it with stuff and hours later that stuff has become something tasty. And, if it somehow isn't tasty (rarely the case), it's at least cooked enough that the food inside of it won't give you botulism. I know! We do live in an age of wonder!

But, how does that make you a better dad? I'm glad you asked.

No matter how involved you are as a father, your child's mother is always more involved. It was a hard lesson for me to learn. As much as I wanted to split parenting with Denver Mom, right down the middle, there were just some things I couldn't do.

For example, take breast feeding. Setting aside the obvious reasons why I couldn't take over that task, our plans for me getting up in the middle of the night to feed Chunk with a bottle didn't really work out. Sure, I was getting up at 2:00 a.m. to feed our son, but Denver Mom was still getting up at the same time to pump, since she was getting uncomfortable. So, why should we both get out of bed when she could just feed our son and be done with it? It didn't make sense, so she quickly became the "nighttime feeding" go-to person, while I became the "Man, I slept GREAT!" go-to person.

See what happened there? We talked about a problem and together we came up with a solution. And, at the same time, we created an imbalance. So, to take up some of the slack, I started being the one to get Chunk up in the mornings, letting Denver Mom sleep in. I started doing a lot of little things to make things easier for Denver Mom, because she was doing so much to care for our son. The best thing I could do as a dad was to make things easier for her as a mom.

So, how exactly does the crockpot fit into all of this? It's easy to use and there are very few things quite as convenient that don't involve tipping the delivery guy. You get supper ready in the morning and then in the afternoon, when you don't feel like cooking and the baby is crying, dinner is still ready to go. The only preparation needed at that point is getting down plates to serve it on.

You can modify this tip, of course. Right now we're using the grill in place of the crockpot, because summer isn't really the best season for stews, but the concepts are basically the same. Sometimes being a good dad isn't about being the star player on the team. Sometimes it’s about just making the assist, so mom can "take it downtown and score."

Umm, okay, that sounds a little weird. Now you know why I don't use many sports metaphors.

Clean Up In Aisle Five...

2006-06-20T21:01:00.000-06:00

So, I'm wandering the aisles at Safeway with Chunk in tow, looking in vain for the soy sauce, when one of the Safeway guys waddles up to me, pushing a utility cart that's carrying soda bottles and rapidly melting ice cream.

"Want to buy a root beer float?" he asks. "The proceeds go towards Prostate Cancer."

So, suddenly Prostate Cancer is hard up and needs the cash? Okay, okay, I understood what he meant.

"No, thanks," I answer. "We're getting ready for dinner, but thanks!"

I aim my cart down the aisle and get ready to shove off, but he's persistent and steps in front of me. He shoves a flyer into my hand.

"We're having a free screening for men your age," he continues. "Next Friday. It's a great deal, because getting tested can be kind of expensive."

Cancer is unfortunately fairly common in my family, so I appreciate the gesture. I can think of plenty of places I'd rather have my prostate checked than my local grocery store. It makes for some terrifying PA system announcements, for one, and frankly I'm not sure the teenager that bags my groceries is qualified for that kind of work, but as I said, I really do appreciate any company stepping forward with cancer awareness programs. So, to be nice, I look over the glossy flyer he has given me and pretend that I'd actually consider getting an exam in the same place I buy cheese. You know what it says?

"Prostate exams are recommended for men over the age of 50...."

Yeah, fifty. A free screening for men my age, huh? Men who, like me, are over the age of fifty years old. Is that it?

Look, grocery store guy, I know I'm getting gray. As a matter of fact, I'm even aware of the fact that I'm getting rapidly gray, enough that my wife tells me, "Geez, you're REALLY getting gray" at least once per week. I know all of that and I'm not even denying that I have left my twenties behind quite a while ago, but fifty is still fifteen years away, pal. Fifteen years. So, next time you come at me with melted ice cream and offers for getting a finger stuck up my rear in the ethnic food aisle, at least call me "sir" and stand up straight. You whippersnappers don't know how good you have it, daggumit!

A Reminder Of The Good Things

2006-06-17T18:31:00.000-06:00

You know those friends who only seem to call when their cat has died? Or, their car has broken down? Or, they're getting divorced, moving to Idaho, and starting a militia group? I think I might be becoming that friend.

Every once in a while, I go back and read what I have written here. Taken one post at a time, my blog is okay, I guess. It's like a lot of other blogs, only less interesting or witty. This morning, I read five of my most recent posts in a row, and... great Cesear's ghost! I am I one depressing guy. I seem to do way too much complaining about being Denver Dad and don't do nearly enough talking about the job's many perks.

So, in an effort to even the scales a bit, here are some things that make being Chunk's dad truly great:

1. I love music. Whether by choice or brainwashing, so does my son. There is nothing better, and I mean NOTHING better, than watching him dance. I'm serious. It would put a smile on anyone's face. He didn't get his moves from me. I don't know where he got them from, but that kid can shake it, and he has been shaking it since he was a baby.

2. What could feel better than walking with your son, his tiny hand wrapped around your finger, as you stroll through wherever you happen to find yourself? That question was rhetorical. I have an answer and it is "Nothing."

3. There is a strange sense of calm that comes from driving around town and having a sleeping eighteen month old in the back seat. The easy punch line is, "Well, yeah, he's sleeping!" but there's something more to it than that. I wish I could explain it, but when he's taking a short nap while we're out, I feel like I'm doing something profoundly right, even if it does mess up his nap schedule.

4. My son wakes up ridiculously early. So do I. When I can convince him to let Denver Mom sleep and we play quietly as the sun slowly comes up and through the windows... it's great.

5. His excitement is contagious. His excitement about seeing a dog, getting a cup of juice, touching snow, or any number of other things instantly melts my inner cynic. It's a gift that I think only children can give.

6. Chunk cackles when he swings. He doesn't laugh, chuckle or even guffaw. He cackles. It's hilarious.

7. Chunk kisses what he loves. His parents. His teddy bear. On more than one occasion, he's run up to the television and laid a big smack on the screen when the Teletubbies have been on. There's a lesson to be learned in that. We should kiss what we love. Although, I don't know if making out with your iPod in public is such a good idea.

Is that it? No. There is plenty more, but this post is already giving me cavities. I'll stop here... for now.

Father's Day

2006-06-16T20:09:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure if anyone out on the internet heard about it, but apparently there is a holiday this weekend called Father's Day. I know, I know, I thought it was just an internet hoax too, but it really exists. There are greeting cards and everything!

Now, being one of a million Daddy-bloggers, I suppose I have a duty to say something profound. I should speak about the traditions of fatherhood, the power of the bond between a dad and his child, or what is the appropriate age for a father to teach his child how to burp the alphabet or how to make farting noises with his armpit. You know, the important stuff. But, instead of touching on those sentimental things, those lists of items you can find on the greeting cards, I thought I'd propose a question, instead.

So, for the father's out there, preparing for their big day of indulgence... do you deserve it? Do you deserve a day celebrating your contributions to your child's life?

If you had asked me that question last year, I'm not sure what my answer would have been. I was probably still too shell-shocked about actually being a father to really come up with anything coherent. I can say that this year, unlike last year, I know I deserve my day. I know that when the going got tough, I didn't always just hand Chunk off to his mom. I know that even when I was tired and cranky and overwhelmed, I still hugged that kid, told him him I loved him, and meant it every time. And, yes, I know that I took the time to be a part of the fun moments too.

I spent a lot of time with my grandpa when I was a kid, especially during the summers. We did a lot of fishing. We took hikes through the local nature preserves. We went to countless hardware stores so my grandpa could tell the various managers we cornered how to run their business better. Years later, after my grandma died and I was staying with him, my grandpa told me that he felt like I gave him a second chance at being a dad. He confessed that he missed so much of my dad's childhood dealing with his own problems with alcohol addiction, he was glad to get another chance by being a father to me.

Although my dad didn't have those same issues with alcohol, in a lot of ways he was the same way. As a father, he was distant, uninvolved, detached. And now, as a grandfather, he's everything I thought I wanted in a dad. Chunk, just like his two older cousins, is my dad's second chance and he makes an outstanding grandpa.

Fatherhood, it seems, skips a generation in my family.

I'm not a perfect dad. Frankly, I don't think such a thing as a perfect dad even exists. I know that I have my days when I do detach, escape to the internet and just let Denver Mom handle Chunk's tantrums while I click through whatever pages give me a break. I'm trying to get better. I'm trying to break that cycle of absentee fatherhood that my family has "enjoyed" and be present for my son, let him drag me away from what I'm doing to play, to read, to wrestle and run and swing and giggle.

Is that enough to deserve a special day? Maybe it is. Maybe the best we can do as fathers is try. Maybe the most important lessons we can take from our own childhoods is to see the disappointments we had in the men we looked up to and try to do better. Not all father-son relationships are like the one I shared with my dad, of course, but every child has been disappointed, at one time or another, when they didn't get the hug they needed or the time that they expected. Like I said, there's no such thing as a perfect dad, except in 50s television.

I love my dad. I know that he loves me. It took a lot of years of frustration and strife for us to finally figure that out and I'm glad we got the chance to find a kind of peace and understanding between us. Maybe I'm naive, but I think that with some work, I can keep that from happening between me and my son.

So, do you think you deserve a special day? If not, why not make Father's Day the day where all of that changes?

Ah France, my arch-nemesis...

2006-06-11T21:09:00.000-06:00

This isn't one of those oh-so-clever posts about French bravery or "freedom fries," oh-so-side-splittingly-funny in the red states and on talk radio. Given the situation in Iraq, it's really not very funny anymore anyway. No, this post is about what France is doing to me personally. Yeah, that's right, France... I hear you calling me out! What's that, France? What's that? You want me to bring it? Is that it? You think you can handle a little of the double deuce action of Denver Dad? Is that it? Huh? Huh? Is it?

Well... okay... the truth is, I got nothin'. Nothin' but bitterness and resentment for France.

Why all the hostility? Well, simply put, France is stealing my wife for two weeks. In just a month, Denver Mom will be flying off to France for a two week painting retreat. I should include some back-story here:

1. Denver Mom paints. She has for as long as I have known her, plus many more years. She's pretty good. I know you're thinking that's just me being biased, but she's won some awards and gotten into some fairly prestigious juried shows.

2. Denver Mom hasn't done a lot of painting since Chunk showed up, despite my pushing and prodding for her to escape off to the studio, while the little guy and I find things to do on our own.

3. One of her former professors called a few months ago and invited her to join some of her current students on this two week trip. They're going to spend one week in Paris, then another in Giverny (hanging out in Monet's gardens).

4. This trip is expensive. Very expensive. Like 72 boxes of diapers expensive, plus miscellaneous expenses.

5. Chunk and I are staying in Denver, because dangit, someone needs to water the plants!

Now, I want to be clear. I'm not looking forward to Denver Mom leaving Chunk and I all alone. But, I want to be equally clear that she both deserves and needs this trip. In the past few weeks, just getting ready, she's done more painting than she has in the past few years. Most of it has been watercolor sketches, which is what she'll be limited to while in France, but she's putting paint down on paper. This will be the trip of a lifetime for her and I'm glad she decided to go.

On the other hand, she'll be missed. She's Chunk's main attraction. The first person he wants to see in the morning is Momma. And the last person who gets to cuddle with him before he goes to sleep is, once again, Momma. I feel like I do my fair share around the house and I feel like I do my fair share when it comes to parenting, but at the same time I'd be lying if I said that Denver Mom wasn't doing the majority of the "heavy lifting" with our son.

Can I handle it? Of course I can. In some ways, I'm even looking forward to it, but it’s also a little intimidating. Chunk is a great kid, but we have our moments when we're both getting on each other’s nerves. Its always nice to have someone else that can step in and provide a much needed break. That opportunity for a break will be gone, so I expect a lot of frustrated tears.

What are Chunk and I going to do with our time? Well, probably a lot of what we do already. I'm going to take a little time off work and so Chunk and I will probably be spending some more time at the pool and nearby parks. I'm thinking we'll also take our first camping trip together. Any other suggestions? Leave me a comment and tell me what two strapping guys should do during their two weeks of bachelorhood.

(Picture inspired by the comic book image on Metro Dad's page.)

Diplomatic Talks Have Broken Down

2006-06-06T07:16:00.000-06:00

We have a new game. It seems simple enough, but by this time, it's starting to resemble international diplomacy talks with North Korea.

Chunk is in his highchair, a tray of food and drink before him, and I know we're in for it when grabs something without looking at it and keeps his eyes trained on me. Then, slowly, he stretches his arm over to the edge of the tray.

"Don't do it," I remind him.

He smiles. It's not a usual smile, full of cheer and happiness. No, this smile is a knowing, "Oh? You mean THIS piece of banana? Don't throw this piece of banana here? The one in my hand?" kind of look.

"Chunk, we do not throw food on the floor," I remind him again.

He withdraws the banana, then when I turn back to my own food, slowly inches it back toward the edge of the tray. He kind of dangles it over the edge, like he's just trying it out, testing the winds to make sure the banana will hit its intended target.

"Chunk! Do not throw food!" I scold.

His smile gets bigger and then the banana is airborne.

He claps, then makes his "ohhh!" face, and says, "Uh oh!"

"No, Chunk, you can't say "uh oh" when you do something on purpose," I tell him, bending over to pick up the banana. When I have retrieved the piece of fruit, I see that he has another in his hand.

Then, it all begins again, only this time he's already proven he has his nukes and isn't afraid to use them... and all of my troops are hung up in bathroom dealing with a post-shower mess and can't do anything about it.

He's eighteen months old today (and three hours) and like everything else in his eventful and exciting toddler life, such as teething, walking, swearing at neighbors, and so on, I think he's started the terrible twos early. The part that makes it difficult, aside from the temper tantrums, the throwing of toys, and the constant lectures of "no" from him is that I'm way to indulgent and he knows it. He knows that he can get away with anything if he just toddles over and gives me a hug.

So, yeah, it *is* just like diplomatic talks with North Korea. Who said kids can't teach us anything?

As If We Needed Proof That Chunk's Dad Was a Huge Nerd...

2006-06-06T06:28:00.000-06:00

The Force is strong with this one!

We're Being Haunted

2006-06-04T06:57:00.000-06:00

I had a very strained relationship with my biological mother. We tried to reconcile many times during my 34 years of bitterness, with either her or me making an effort, but never both of us at the same time. It never really worked. She died last summer.

Last July, just a couple of months before she finally lost her battle with cancer, she came out to visit and to meet her grandson for the first (and last) time. Predictably, it wasn't a very enjoyable trip due to the imminent, looming threat of death, and the years of things that probably should be said, but neither of us were strong enough to actually say.

One of the conversations we had during her visit was when she told me, tears filling her eyes, that if Chunk ever tells us that he sees her, we shouldn't scold him for making things up.

"Children can see spirits," she said, "and I'm going to check in on you guys."

(or something like that... it's not a direct quote, but pretty close)

What could I do? It was an awkward week and one of our weirder conversations, so I just nodded and mentioned that Denver Mom and I saw a Dateline that was about how some children claim to see spirits, its eventually confirmed by psychics, sometimes the children are downed World War II airmen, etc. etc. I played along, despite rolling my eyes around inside my massive, empty head.

Fast-forward a year and damnit if she's not haunting us.

No, really. I mean it. I think she's haunting us.

Do I have proof? Does anyone ever have proof they're being haunted? It's like having proof you've gone on a date with the missing link. A credit card receipt isn't very compelling, but this is what I have:

Chunk has a vast and annoying collection of toys that sing and play music and make a variety of obnoxious noises, despite all of the solomn conversations Denver Mom and I had while she was pregnant about how we weren't going to do that. These's toys occasionally just turn on, for no reason, in his room. Usually, they are the toys that my bio mom got him.

Now, I'm not an electrical engineer or anything, but I do have a decent understanding of how devices work... you have to turn them on and activate them, before they'll work. I know, I know, my technological intelligence is a marvel, but I'm not kidding about this. Periodically, Chunk and I are playing in the living room and from his bedroom comes, "Pooh and Roo! Let's play! Follow the lights!"

Huh? Who did that?

Or....

"Heheheh... that was silly!"

It's starting to freak me out. Nothing else in our place does behaves like that, and believe me, I have tons of gadgets just waiting to go off for no discernable reason. Some of them even make noise, and yet, they don't.

So, is my biological mother making good on her threat? Is she haunting us? Frankly, I don't think that's fair. You can't just DECIDE to haunt someone and tell them about it. You know, like, "Hey, did you watch Will and Grace last night? That episode was HIGH-larious! Oh... and when I finally go, I'm coming to your house."

What?!?

I guess, to a certain extent, it doesn't bother me that she's hanging out in Chunk's room. But, what if I'm sitting on the toilet? Or picking my nose? Or, worse, SINGING to my son? I don't want people, spirit or otherwise, to have to see that. How do you differientiate between "okay to haunt" and "you should go play bridge with Casper now" time?

(That's a picture of Chunk with Julie during her visit. She was pretty sick and I was worried that would frighten him, but he did just fine.)

Stumbling Toward Maturity

2006-05-24T12:56:00.000-06:00

Last night I had a vivid dream about looking for arch support inserts. Is this what I have become? A man so interested in good arch support that his nocturnal visions, a time for unchecked whimsy and self-indulgence, concern finding comfortable shoes rather than something more interesting like, say, sailing a pirate ship or dating Lili Taylor (with Denver Mom's permission, of course)?

I have a theory about aging. I don't think that you ever truly get old, but there is a list of things that only adults do. The more things on that list that you can check off, the more adult and mature you happen to be, regardless of your actual chronological age. Here are some examples:

1. Made an appointment with a doctor to have something removed

2. Gone to a funeral or wedding of someone you never actually met

3. Refused to eat something because it gives you heartburn/gas/bad breath/whatever

4. Read the instructions for a new household (television, blender, electric toothbrush, etc.) device before turning it on and just trying it out

5. Tracked your gas mileage and actually found it interesting

6. Got excited about buying new socks

7. Actually have conversations about how much you like pudding

Unfortunately, most of these items are cumulative and push your maturity level higher and higher. For example, I've gone to three funerals of people I didn't know. THREE! That puts me just a couple notches beneath the point where you watch "Murder, She Wrote" on purpose. And, I've been known to go on at length about how I think tapioca is an under-appreciated flavor of pudding. So, "Early Bird Special," here I come!

In a lot of ways, being a dad follows the same sort of list. Obviously, you *do* just suddenly become a dad. It's not something you work up to over time, like becoming more mature, but I think there are a number of choices you make that add up to being a good dad, someone who fits that label in deed and action.

1. Spending more time at the park than on the couch

2. Being able to recite two or more Dr. Suess books from memory

3. Actually knowing how to use sun-block (that includes all the little "rules" about applying it 30 minutes before you go out, knowing when to reapply, etc.)

4. Not using your custom-built subwoofer when watching movies after your son's bedtime and not really missing it all that much either

5. Cutting down on your weekend skiing/golf/football/Nascar/whatever to spend time with your family and not because you were asked

6. Buying a new car seat instead of an X-Box 360

7. Being able to make waffles/pancakes/whatever on Saturday morning

8. Knowing your child's nap and snack schedule and sticking to it when you have your child for the day

It's not a complete list. I'm just learning some of them myself.

Pop Art Chunk

2006-05-24T08:12:00.000-06:00

The Difference A Day Makes

2006-05-23T21:32:00.000-06:00

My son loves me again. Last night, he didn't want anything to do with me. Read a night-night story? Fat chance, fat man! Give me momma or prepare for me to bring the pain... THE PAIN! (insert strobe lights and dramatic echos here)

Or it was something like that. I don't know if the actual evening contained witty pro-wrestling banter, but it was close.

Tonight? Hugs. Kisses. More hugs. His toy lion? Got a kiss from him too, compliments of my boy. If melting when my boy wraps his arms around me makes me a wimpy man, then so be it.

The New Economy of Fatherhood

2006-05-23T13:01:00.000-06:00

I've acquired an annoying habit. For the last year or so, I've been gauging all of our expenses in terms of their equivalent in boxes of diapers. Being a dedicated "warehouse shopper" I get Chunk's diapers in bulk and one of his massive boxes of 120-140 diapers run around $35. So, to illustrate, here are a few examples:

Monthly internet charge: 1 box of diapers

A tank of gas: 1 box of diapers

An afternoon date with Denver Mom: 1 to 2 boxes of diapers (yes, we're *that* cheap)

A trip to the grocery store: 2 to 3 boxes of diapers

Denver Mom's trip to France this summer: 85 boxes of diapers

Our "new" used car: 285 boxes of diapers

Our national debt: So many that even Chunk couldn't fill them

It's an interesting way to view our consumer-orientated world ("interesting" is a euphemism for "sick") and has spread throughout my life into work. I just submitted a proposal for 285 boxes of diapers, for example. I'm not sure if our board would understand the significance of that, but it's a whole lot of diapers.

So what does this all mean? Well, for the past few months I've been coveting a new MacBook Pro to replace my aging and ailing iBook. They're fast, shiny, and better suit the demands I make of my computer on a daily basis (another euphemism, this time, for "just really want it"). Unfortunately, a new computer runs approximately 57 boxes of diapers plus tax (another 2 or 3 boxes). And, that's for the low-end MacBook Pro. The one I want would run a whooping 72 boxes of diapers! 72!!!

Would I benefit from a new computer? I certainly would. I could use it for work and home, but am I worth 72 boxes of diapers? Is pampering myself on that magnitude something I could justify, especially when you consider that what we're really talking about is 10 months of child care. Or, 1,250 boxes of those Goldfish crackers Chunk loves so much.

Do you see where this is going? Yes, that's correct, right into a straightjacket.

How did this happen? It's one thing to deny myself a new toy because of budgetary considerations. It's another thing altogether to do it because I can't wrap my brain around the fact that what I'm really talking about is 10,080 individual diapers.

Cranky Baby + Cranky Dad = Cranky, Lousy Time

2006-05-21T19:01:00.000-06:00

Lately, being a dad hasn't been very fun. Saying that kills me, but it's true. Having reached the stage where he's learning how to express himself more and more, especially his frustration, he's been challenging. And, he's been challenged, frustrated with being unable to express himself he's taken up hitting, which is leading to a number of problems, the most profound being some time outs.

Does that mean I love him any less? Of course not. In a lot of ways, I'm finding that as he pushes me and tests his own limits, I love him even more. His hugs are stronger now, more committed. They are also more random. Swooping down on me like some klutzy bird of prey, he wraps his arms around me and sometimes gives me a long, exaggerated, no doubt germ infested kiss, for reasons I can never seem to fathom. He just does it at weird, random intervals, and it obviously means something positive. Why question that?

But, still, I'm just not having fun.

I think a lot of it has to do with my work schedule. I set some very ambitious goals for myself when I started my new job and my ambition has paled by the flood of additional opportunities that piled on top of my own projects, nearly leveling me with their onslaught of deadlines and forms. So, I've been distracted. Even when I'm taking a break and exploring a new playground with Chunk, my mind is churning with thoughts of cover letters and proposals and follow-up telephone calls.

I need to get out of my own head for a while. I need to be Denver Dad when I'm at the playground with my son, and not "that guy who has three projects due on the 1st and plays with his son occasionally too." Maybe when it's not fun being a dad, it's not very fun having a dad like me. That's a troubling thought.

Walking Wounded

2006-05-19T13:04:00.000-06:00

No, we're not dead. Sometimes it feels like death would be a sweet release, but the Dark Lord that commands our son has even more suffering for our little family and isn't ready to abandon his favorite playthings just yet.

Chunk is a huge, walking bruise. Last weekend, he fell face first into a display at the Lego Store, giving him an incredibly macho looking black eye. Then, three days later, he managed to make an impressive bell sound by smashing his forehead into a metal pole at the playground, summoning an equally impressive black and green bump right above his shiner. Despite his best efforts, when he smashed his forehead into my computer tray this morning it only resulted in a bit of pink agitation and tears, but no swollen blemishes of bad parenting.

Ah, yes, going out in public with an obviously bruised child. No one warned me about how much fun that would be. Complete strangers offer their well wishes (which is nice), condolences (nice, but unnecessary... his eye didn't exactly fall out), and concern via what could best be described as a court deposition (annoying as hell, especially since I don't have a lawyer).

"How did that happen?"

"Was he pushed down?"

"Weren't you watching him?"

At a brunch with my family on Mother's Day, I joked that Chunk was getting "lippy" and needed to be put in his place. Har har. Yes, the family thought it was quite funny. You can't tell that joke to other people. It'll get you arrested.

There's Sick And Then There's SICK

2006-05-03T19:34:00.000-06:00

Chunk is sick again. Not that he'd notice, of course. He's blissfully unaware of the steady stream of ick that is running from his nose and onto anything unfortunate enough to get caught in his path. He's like a little mucus version of a hurricane and having experienced a typhoon first hand, I have to say, I'm more afraid of my son.

Speaking of fear, I was talking to a coworker today about some of the weirdness involved with parenthood. She confessed that her young daughter has this compulsion to watch her and her husband go to the bathroom. If they manage to sneak a trip to the loo without her, she completely freaks out. Apparently, it's gotten to the point that my coworker has to use bathrooms in remote parts of the house to get a little privacy.

Is this normal? Is this creepy? I'll admit, my first reaction wasn't a positive one, but I'm starting to think that there's a lot of strangeness that goes on between parents and their kids. I don't think I've had more than three showers alone in the last six months, because once Chunk hears the water start up, he comes running. Come to think of it, he's not very respectful of privacy in the bathroom, either.

Can I think of any strangeness that went on when I was a kid? Not really. Still, there must have been something that I thankfully outgrew before it got truly creepy.

What are your "my kid is creepy" stories?

Silent Hill = Little Thrill

2006-04-24T20:03:00.000-06:00

I must be feeling better, because I find myself wishing for the cold embrace of death less and less. I don't remember that particular item being listed with the rest of the side effects on my antibiotics bottle, so something must have worked.

Denver Mom and I got a rare treat yesterday. After begging and crying and threatening to entice a situation that could inspire a movie of the week, Chunk's grandma agreed to drop in and watch the little guy while we escaped off to the movie theater.

Have I mentioned how much I love movies? Going to the theater is the one thing I truly miss from our childless days. Everything else, from sleeping in, spending irresponsibly, and skiing every weekend were easy enough habits to break, but movies... every time I see a theater, I find myself a little heartbroken.

Why is that? I rarely have a good time at the theater. Watching movies at home on our small hi-def set (see "spending irresponsibly" in the space above) is usually a much better and more enjoyable experience, but there's something about that quick dim of the lights and the thrill of coming attractions that just gets to me.

So, Denver Mom and I went down the hill and bought a pair of tickets to see "Silent Hill." We went in knowing that it wasn't going to be "Citizen Kane," but I like horror movies and wasn't hoping for much more than a creepy time. Giddy, I waited for the movie to start, and... and... and... it was terrible. Even with my standards as low as they were, with my desperation to see something... anything... so bright and burning and irrational, it was still horrible. Our first date in months was a total failure thanks to a miserable time of loud, dumb, and dull.

And then, we came home. Chunk and his grandma were at the park, so we went out after them, walking along the path as they were walking back to meet us. Seeing the look of recognition spread over Chunk's face as he first saw, then understood, who was coming his way... that was great.

Some Days It Feels Like This...

2006-04-20T12:44:00.000-06:00

Too Tired For A Clever Title (And Not All That Clever To Begin With)

2006-04-19T19:58:00.000-06:00

Like all good plagues, this one has spread to everyone, incapacitating our entire household with fits of coughing, running noses, and strangely persistent fevers. I wish I were exaggerating, but there were a few days this week when all three of us were taking the same antibiotic.

Chunk is feeling better, having enjoyed the benefits of being on antibiotics for much longer than either of his poor, hacking parents. This should be a cause for celebration, as a happy child is much easier to handle than a crabby, miserable child, but the imbalance of sick parent and well child is a troublesome one.

Well Child wants to go outside and run in circles around the block. Well Child wants to wrestle and giggle and play hide and seek, which usually requires running and hiding and jumping out and yelling "boo!" Well Child doesn't take three hour naps that let Sick Parent work from home/recharge/do the dishes/nap himself. Well Child likes to grab you by the hand a drag you to whatever task he has for you, all the time babbling on and on about it, his expressive eyebrows reminding you that this is all very serious business and he wouldn't ordinarily bother you with this sort of thing, but after evaluating the situation, he determined that your intervention was truly necessary.

And, as all of this happens, these subtle and not so subtle requests for attention and invigorating play and whatever else, you are coughing so hard the even your tongue hurts. You are coughing with such force that your stomach muscles are sore. And, even then, he smiles and coaches you along with some spirited babbling for which you have no translation, but still somehow understand, and you play... and run... and hide... and boo... and yes... cough.

What is the point of all of this? No point. Just more surprise at the strange things that parenthood has done to me, has likely done to every parent. No matter how bad I feel, I still manage to be present for Chunk when he needs me. Its comforting, in a way, but also exhausting.

I'm going to bed early tonight.

Another happy customer... the health care experience!

2006-04-14T09:25:00.000-06:00

I was thinking about my latest post and was feeling a little down on myself for not seeing the doctor. So, I called our clinic and explained that I have been sick all week and I would like to see a doctor today. I was told, very quickly, that it wasn't possible to be seen today. My only options were to, "find another clinic that might have openings or try urgent care."

My wife is paying $400 a month for the basic health care plan for all three of us (my current employer doesn't provide health insurance). Since it's just the "basic" plan, as opposed to something much more costly, our co-pays are a bit higher than the premium plans, and medications are barely covered at all. Also, we have more limitations in terms of which health care providers we can choose.

That last bit is interesting. Our selection of doctors is smaller in the basic plan. Why is that? Is the reason I can't see a doctor when I'm sick because the basic plan doctors are overloaded by requests for appointments?

As I mentioned in an early post, "urgent care" doesn't really exist. It's just another way of saying, "Go to the emergency room." For pink eye? Sure. Not only is a huge time commitment, but it's just ridiculous to go to the emergency room for something that doesn't really qualify as an emergency. Even worse, the co-pay for an ER visit jumps from $30 to $150.

Basically, what this boils down to is this: you can see your doctor when you're healthy and have the luxury of being able to plan ahead, but don't expect to see him when you're sick. If you find your sickness to be bad enough that you still feel that you should see a doctor, your best bet is to go the emergency room and sit for several hours, feeling guilty about taking up valuable time for something so trivial. What makes this even more ludicrous is the fact that we're lucky that we even have health insurance. An alarming number of families don't. If I can't see a doctor when I'm sick, what about the people who don't have insurance? If a $150 co-pay for an ER visit is high enough that it causes a financial hardship for me, what about the people who don't even have a co-pay? Either they don't pay at all or they spend months, maybe even years, paying off a visit for their son or daughter's persistent earache.

I don't pretend to have all the answers. I don't think anyone does, but it's clear, not just from my story, but thousands of others, that there is something deeply wrong with our health care system. Other countries have figured out something a little more workable. Why is the United States, the so-called "greatest country in the world" so poor at taking care of the needs of its citizens? I have some theories, but they'll have to wait for another day and another post.

Hazmat Teams Are Camping In The Front Yard

2006-04-14T06:49:00.000-06:00

What started out as a mild case of ear infection has turned into the Black Plague. Chunk has antibiotics. He's fine. It's Denver Mom and I that are constantly chasing people in environmental protection suits off our lawn.

"I don't care what kind of doctor you are, you can't take my water glass!"

Chunk is only sixteen months old, so there's still a lot of "this is what it means to be a dad" learning going on. The latest lesson? My healthcare takes second to Chunk's every time. I will move mountains and break rivers to get him to the doctor, but I won't go myself, especially if it means upsetting his nap schedule.

Yes, it's crazy. If I'm feeling better, I can be more attentive as a dad. I can be there for him, while he's trying to feel better. I can be up when he's up, instead of locked in the bathroom trying to pry my eye open.

Yes, I have pink eye. I've never had it before, even as a kid. And yet, here it is, like some swollen, puss-filled thief in the night. How embarrassing. A man in his thirties, fighting off a serious case of pink eye. If I'm lucky, maybe people will just think I'm a drunk.

Easter Eggs and Bodyslams

2006-04-10T08:01:00.000-06:00

We ended up going to the Easter Egg Hunt on Saturday, despite all the coughing, snot, and eye puss. Chunk wasn't his usual charming self, thanks to a restless night before and an exaggerated distaste for getting his nose wiped by either parent, but he had a fun time. He even found (with a little help from Denver Mom) an Easter egg and couldn't be more happy.

It was actually kind of neat. There were a ton of kids who were carrying around plastic bags filled with ten to twenty eggs, but Chunk walked around like he had won the lotto, clutching his one, purple plastic egg. Some kids were crying about their lack of eggs. Not Chunk. He was pretty pleased with himself and having a great time just running around, egg in hand.

The highlight, in that horror-tinged "oh my god!" way, was when another little girl came over and gave Chunk an unexpected, impromptu hug. With both sets of parents standing around, oohing and aahing, it was a sweet moment that made everyone in attendance reconsider that world peace could be a reality in our time, then the little girl broke the hug and slammed Chunk down, pro wrestler style.

What's the right response to that? I scooped him up immediately, trying to calm him down, and the mother of the little girl kept trying to force the little girl to apologize, when really all she did was look very self-satisfied. Was the little girl a hoodlum? Of course not. Kids do weird stuff like that for reasons even they don't get, but it still sucked that it was my (reasonably innocent) child on the floor, skull against the tile, with tears streaming down his face.

Unfortunately for Chunk, the egg was the highlight of his day. He just kept getting more and more sick and by bedtime, we were convinced he had pink eye. So, I called the pediatricians office to talk to their on call nurse and asked if there was anything I could do to help relieve some of his discomfort. Parents who have been around the block a few more times probably know where this is going....

"He needs to be seen within 24 hours. It might not be pink eye, but might be a dangerous infection."

I may have made up the "dangerous" part. I'm not really sure. Every time I talk to a doctor about my son, these words either get used by them or my subconscious. Of course, this conversation exchange happened Saturday night, meaning we were somehow supposed to get him seen on Sunday.

Not to worry! We have a referral! We'll just zip over to the nearby hospital, as directed, and everything will be fine!

Yeah. Well, for people who don't have children (why are you reading this?!), let me explain a few things. "After Hours Pediatric Care" is medical speak for "Emergency Room." And "Urgent Care" is insurance speak for "doesn't really exist, just getting your hopes up." Oh, and "referral" is medical speak for "I'm playing minesweeper while I'm talking to you, but it sounds like I'm actually taking this information down." So, taking Chunk in to get his eyes looked at cost us a $150.00 co-pay.

Turns out it wasn't pink eye or the flu. He has a double-barreled ear infection. The medicine is slowly helping. This is day two and he's acting a lot better. When he woke up this morning, he couldn't open his eyes, but as I said, he's getting better. I guess I owe my coworker, who I affectionally called "Janey Anthraxseed" an apology.

Ultimately, I know I shouldn't get too excited about this stuff. I mean, there's controversy stirring in the "Rock, Paper, Scissors" championships and we really should concentrate on the important stuff in life.