The Post Where I Admit I'm A Terrible Parent

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

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

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

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?

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!

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

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

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

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

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....

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.