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

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

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?

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

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

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!

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?

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!

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*

* 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

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...

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?

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

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?

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

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

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!

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

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!

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

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.