In April of 1991, after a couple of years of dedicated saving, a certain young man bought a red Jeep Wrangler. For some time he had dreamed of exploring the vast Rocky Mountain backcountry and the desert southwest. Now that dream could finally become a reality. Next to his modest townhouse, it was his most valuable possession.
The jeep had a black hard top that soon came off for the summer. And what a summer it was, full of four-wheeling, mudding, climbing and stream fording. There as also plenty of open highway cruising, for the young man soon re-learned the joys of motoring with the wind in his hair, the open sky above his head, and the endless sense of possibility.
Re-learned? Yes. This young man remembered, as a boy, riding with his father in a 1966 red Mustang convertible. He remembered the fun they had together coming home from minor-league baseball games; listen to the recap on the radio, looking up at the stars, occasionally falling asleep before arriving home. He remembered one night, in particular, when it began to rain as father and son were leaving the ballpark. Remembered his father saying, mischievously, “We could put the top up, but by the time we did, we’d be just as wet as if we drove home with it down,” and so they raced home, faster than prudent, laughing the entire way.
These memories, and others, flooded back that summer as the young man drove around the West. That summer, and the ones that followed, were full of adventure. There was the time, the Friday night before Labor Day weekend, he decided on a whim to drive all night to Moab, Utah and join up with a jeep rally over the red slickrock. Crossing a high mountain pass at midnight, top down, freezing cold, shivering like mad and singing with the tape deck at the top of his lungs. Pulling into a convenience store at the bottom of the pass an hour later, getting a hot chocolate, the clerk saying, “Hey, buddy, are you okay?”
“I –I-I’m j-j-j-ust f-f-f-fine thanks!” he replied.
Remembering sleeping upright in the jeep for two hours in a grocery store parking lot, waking up, eating dry oatmeal and granola bars for breakfast, then bashing over the slickrock all day. Driving home in the driving rain, top down. Sleeping for 14 hours the following day.
Other memories. Pulling a stranded pickup out of Salt Creek in the depths of Canyonlands National Park. Driving the Skyline trail in August, forced to turn back at 10,500 feet because of deep snow. A late September evening, accompanied by a comely young woman, both wearing t-shirts and shorts, driving from the valley floor up one of the steep canyons, trying to see who would ask to turn back first because of the cold. Getting to the top, neither one willing to give in. Both freezing cold.
One, very obviously cold.
Both, later, very warm.
There were many such adventures.
But the years rolled by. The young man changed jobs, became engaged, got married, bought a house, bought a larger, more sensible vehicle, and had kids.
In short, he grew up. And in the process, had far fewer adventures.
The Single Man became The Family Man. But two things came along for the entire journey. Old Friend, and the red Jeep Wrangler.
Yes, I still have the Jeep. And no, I don’t drive it very often. It’s not that car-seat friendly, and with the SUV it really isn’t necessary to use it.
The past few years I’ve traded the Jeep back and forth with my dad. He keeps it for the winter, so he can use it to get up the canyons to go skiing. Apparently his candy-ass import luxury SUV isn’t tough enough to get up the hill when there’s a bit of snow on the road. That, or he prefers the look of the Jeep as he pulls into the parking lot.
I get it back for the summer, so I can take the top off and Go Have Fun.
But as I’ve just old you, I haven’t done much of that the last few years. There’s never enough time, it seems, and Chris and Tommy have been too young to enjoy it. Plus my full size SUV is far safer for the boys to ride in. Yes, I care about that.
But this summer I went up to dad’s place and claimed the jeep. Took it in for some service. Three days later and $1,500 dollars lighter in the wallet, the Jeep is back and parked in my driveway.
It looks damn good.
So Saturday I told MBW I needed a few hours to myself. I took the top off the jeep and headed out on the open road once again.
After about 30 seconds it all came flooding back. The feeling of driving with the wind in your hair, the sun on your back, the open road. The freedom.
And as I drove I experienced the opposite feeling of a couple of weeks ago. I began to feel younger, more energized, more virile. I glanced in the mirror and by God, it looks like the faint streaks of gray along my temples have disappeared! The lines around my eyes are fewer, less obvious. My stomach feels flatter.
And, hey, did that young hottie just Check Me Out?
She sure as hell did!
Now I am feeling fine as I head up the canyon. I remember all over again how great it is to go up one of the gorgeous, narrow canyons near where we live and be able to truly appreciate the beauty, because you can see so much more with no roof over your head. It’s simply wonderful, in the fall, to go for a drive and soak in the splendor without having to stick your head out the window and crane your neck up.
But as I go along I find that I am reminiscing less and thinking more about the future. About taking MBW, Chris and Tommy on these rides. I find I’m not interested in blasting off overnight to Utah and re-creating those adventures. I’m thinking instead about taking the day off from work, taking my family to Moab in the big SUV and towing the jeep. Spending the night in a motel. Waking up, having a real breakfast, and taking some of those wonderful trails, soaking in the experience, having a ball watching the expressions on my boys’ faces.
Maybe it’s a sign of getting old, slowing down. Or maybe it’s a sign of growing up, thinking about others instead of myself.
Maybe it’s both.
I’m now trading places with my father, wanting to share with my boys the fun of Riding With The Top Down. I’m thinking of all the things we’ll do.
I grew up in upstate New York, far from where we live today. Back there we didn’t have the majestic Rocky Mountains as our playground, the entire West as our personal Adventure Sandbox. It’s actually a massive coincidence that my dad and I live in the same city today.
But I’m a dad now, I have two great boys and we are going to do all of what my dad and I did, and more.
Recreating memories, and making new ones.
One last Single Man moment. On one of the many Jeep safaris I went on, our group was heading over a long road of broken slickrock at the bottom of a steep canyon. Up at the top was a highway overlook, where people could park their cars, get out, walk up to the rail at the edge of the cliff and look out over the vast, scenic network of cliffs and canyons. From there, you can see the trail we were driving on.
I know, because I once stood there myself. And I wondered where that trail went.
But now I was on the trail, about to find out. Looking up, I realized that I was one of the people Doing, not one of the people Watching. Going somewhere, not standing still. Experiencing life, not watching it go by. And I knew there was someone up there thinking, “I wonder where those guys are going?”
Write your address on a piece of paper and toss it over the edge, friend. I’ll send you a postcard.
A couple of years from now I’ll take Chris, Tommy, and MBW if she’ll come, and I’ll show them where that road goes. I’ll show them the Anasazi rock art that is over 1,000 years old, the rock art most of the tourists passing through never see. I’ll show them the hidden stone arch, even more beautiful than the dozens in the National Park, that you can only see from eight miles down a rugged, rocky jeep trail.. We’ll drive up the canyons in the fall, take one of the rough side roads, and experience the leaves as you can only do in a jeep.
And we’ll come home from a baseball game, in the rain, laughing all the way.
We’ll have adventures. We’ll make memories. And we’ll have a ball.
We’ll be the people who DO, not the people who Watch.
Hang on to your hats, boys! The red Wrangler is back.
We’re goin’ Jeepin!
I can’t wait.
It’s great to be The Family Man!
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Men at Work
One of the things I enjoy most each weekday morning is the hugs I get from Chris and Tommy before I head out the door to work. Some mornings they jostle for position to be the first one to kiss me goodbye. Other times they vie to see who can give me the strongest ‘bear hug.’
Occasionally, if I have to go into the office early, they are rubbing the sleep from their eyes and all they can muster is a mumbled, “Bye, daddy.”
That is the cutest, actually.
So perhaps you can understand my disappointment when my kids raced out the door, barely acknowledging my existence, as I said goodbye to them this morning.
You see, the construction crew was working on the road two blocks from our house. And I just can’t hold a candle to the guys who drive the big trucks.
I think every father secretly hopes his kids look up to him, respect him, and are proud of him. I’m not talking hero worship or anything ridiculous like that. I just want my boys to feel good about their dad, who he is and what he does.
But I’m a suit and briefcase guy. Well, not a suit exactly – it’s ‘business casual’ these days, but you get the point. I go into an office, sit in a cubicle all day, talk on the phone, create documents, and come home. The end result of my labor can generously be described as ‘intellectual property.’
To a five year old boy, that’s mumbo jumbo.
But road building – now that’s real, something they can understand. You can ride a bike on a road. You drive on a road. Without roads, how would we get anywhere?
So I drove over to the job site on my way to work. From across the street, sitting in my car, I watched Chris and Tommy, sitting on the curb with MBW, watching these guys resurface the street. They stared in awe as these heroic men in orange vests drove the massive yellow trucks. These huge, noisy machines, belching black smoke, turning the street from a broken, uneven surface to a smooth, glistening road – all under the direction and absolute control of The Men Who Build Roads.
What’s not to love?
I get it, I really do. I was a kid once, too, and I remember the fascination with big trucks.
But a part of me is just a little bit envious that these nameless guys got the attention that, by god, was rightfully mine this morning. These are my kids, dammit. Who’s in the office every day, slaving away, putting money into their college funds and making sure they have health insurance? Who’s been saving for that new bike a certain five-year-old so desperately wants? Who took the three-year-old to Build-A-Bear the other day and delivered the brand-new, personally stuffed, voice-chip equipped stuffed Elmo?
Not the guys in the orange vests!
Nope, it was me, good old dad.
Boring old dad.
Oh, it gets better.
When I got home this evening and sat down at the dinner table, Chris, who fancies himself as quite the young adult these days, turns to me and says, “So, how was your day, Dad?”
It’s kind of cute that he asks. He’s heard MBW say this, knows it’s what adults say to each other, and wants to participate.
So I tell him. I tell him how I spent the morning building an elaborate Excel spreadsheet showing all of our company’s marketing expenses for the rest of the year. I tell him how, after some trial and error, I built formulas that calculate the percentage of Market Development Funds we will accrue with each month’s processor purchases, and how that number is automatically figured into the next month’s marketing expenditures. I see his bright green eyes glaze over as I describe in exquisite detail how we’re able to extend the reach and frequency of our advertising with optimum use of these funds. I see him start to nod off as I talk about the two hour conference call we had with our European sales office. He perks up slightly as I imitate the voice of our Italian rep, only to fall face down in his soup as I describe the 800 word e-mail I so carefully crafted later that afternoon blasting a vendor for missing a delivery date on our direct mail piece.
When I finally stop talking, he lifts his face out of his soup, wipes himself off with his napkin, and asks, “But Dad…what did you DO?”
And there it is.
I don’t build roads.
But, hopefully, I build futures. A future for him, for me, for our family.
But he doesn’t see that now, nor should he. He’s a normal five-year-old kid, and in his world, the Road Builders are King.
He likes the Big Trucks.
Maybe this weekend I’ll go buy the biggest pickup truck I can find.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Occasionally, if I have to go into the office early, they are rubbing the sleep from their eyes and all they can muster is a mumbled, “Bye, daddy.”
That is the cutest, actually.
So perhaps you can understand my disappointment when my kids raced out the door, barely acknowledging my existence, as I said goodbye to them this morning.
You see, the construction crew was working on the road two blocks from our house. And I just can’t hold a candle to the guys who drive the big trucks.
I think every father secretly hopes his kids look up to him, respect him, and are proud of him. I’m not talking hero worship or anything ridiculous like that. I just want my boys to feel good about their dad, who he is and what he does.
But I’m a suit and briefcase guy. Well, not a suit exactly – it’s ‘business casual’ these days, but you get the point. I go into an office, sit in a cubicle all day, talk on the phone, create documents, and come home. The end result of my labor can generously be described as ‘intellectual property.’
To a five year old boy, that’s mumbo jumbo.
But road building – now that’s real, something they can understand. You can ride a bike on a road. You drive on a road. Without roads, how would we get anywhere?
So I drove over to the job site on my way to work. From across the street, sitting in my car, I watched Chris and Tommy, sitting on the curb with MBW, watching these guys resurface the street. They stared in awe as these heroic men in orange vests drove the massive yellow trucks. These huge, noisy machines, belching black smoke, turning the street from a broken, uneven surface to a smooth, glistening road – all under the direction and absolute control of The Men Who Build Roads.
What’s not to love?
I get it, I really do. I was a kid once, too, and I remember the fascination with big trucks.
But a part of me is just a little bit envious that these nameless guys got the attention that, by god, was rightfully mine this morning. These are my kids, dammit. Who’s in the office every day, slaving away, putting money into their college funds and making sure they have health insurance? Who’s been saving for that new bike a certain five-year-old so desperately wants? Who took the three-year-old to Build-A-Bear the other day and delivered the brand-new, personally stuffed, voice-chip equipped stuffed Elmo?
Not the guys in the orange vests!
Nope, it was me, good old dad.
Boring old dad.
Oh, it gets better.
When I got home this evening and sat down at the dinner table, Chris, who fancies himself as quite the young adult these days, turns to me and says, “So, how was your day, Dad?”
It’s kind of cute that he asks. He’s heard MBW say this, knows it’s what adults say to each other, and wants to participate.
So I tell him. I tell him how I spent the morning building an elaborate Excel spreadsheet showing all of our company’s marketing expenses for the rest of the year. I tell him how, after some trial and error, I built formulas that calculate the percentage of Market Development Funds we will accrue with each month’s processor purchases, and how that number is automatically figured into the next month’s marketing expenditures. I see his bright green eyes glaze over as I describe in exquisite detail how we’re able to extend the reach and frequency of our advertising with optimum use of these funds. I see him start to nod off as I talk about the two hour conference call we had with our European sales office. He perks up slightly as I imitate the voice of our Italian rep, only to fall face down in his soup as I describe the 800 word e-mail I so carefully crafted later that afternoon blasting a vendor for missing a delivery date on our direct mail piece.
When I finally stop talking, he lifts his face out of his soup, wipes himself off with his napkin, and asks, “But Dad…what did you DO?”
And there it is.
I don’t build roads.
But, hopefully, I build futures. A future for him, for me, for our family.
But he doesn’t see that now, nor should he. He’s a normal five-year-old kid, and in his world, the Road Builders are King.
He likes the Big Trucks.
Maybe this weekend I’ll go buy the biggest pickup truck I can find.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Well Read
I love to read. Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved a good book
I’d like to think I’m well read, but I don’t know if the term technically applies to me, at least in terms of the standard definition. The literary classics don’t hold much interest for me. But I have stacks and stacks of books, of all different types, may of which I have read three or four times. What do I like? James Clavell’s Asian Saga. Michener, back in the day. Ludlum. Michael Crichton. Ray Bradbury. Frank Herbert (and the books Brian co wrote, but they strike me as potboilers). Many that I can’t name off the top of my head. Right now I love the Reacher novels by Lee Child and the John Rain books by Barry Eisler.
I also try to keep up with the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, B2B Marketing, and Sports Illustrated.
Not to mention your blogs. Each and every one of you.
Nerd admission – my parents bought my sister and me a set of printed encyclopedias when we were kids. I used to take a volume and read it, almost cover to cover, until I had read virtually the whole set.
As it happens, MBW also enjoys reading. We don’t share many of the same reading topics, but we both love to read. Right now on her nightstand is Janet Evanovich Eleven on Top.
Nerd admission #2 – when we were dating, MBW and I occasionally scheduled ‘reading dates’ where we’d get together at my place, build a fire, snuggle up on the couch and…read.
Well, for a little while, anyway.
And now, as parents, we understand the importance of reading to our kids. Mostly so they will be prepared when they begin school, but also with the fervent hope they, too, will grow up with the joy and love of reading.
So we read to our kids every day. Depending on the day, the weather, and what else is going on, we’ll read to them here and there throughout the day. But for sure, every night, the bedtime ritual includes climbing onto our bed, with either Mom or Dad in between Chris and Tommy, snuggled under the covers, reading.
As luck would have it, a branch of the County library is less than a mile from our home. When the weather is nice we’ll pull Chris and Tommy in the wagon over to the library to pick out some books. The limit on the number of books for any individual library card is 30. Between the two of us, we’ve had, on occasion, 60 kids’ books out at any one time.
Reading to the boys was a whole new experience for me. The only books I remember from my childhood days as a kid are the classics – Dr. Seuss and Curious George. I think I recall a book about Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. But that was about all I remembered.
Today the books for kids are, shall we say, different.
I’m guessing children’s books are Big Business. How else would you explain the ‘Counting Fish’ featuring the Pepperidge Farms Goldfish? The book, with thick cardboard pages, has little indentations where you are supposed to place the Goldfish crackers. Of course, you have to buy the Goldfish crackers separately. Each page has a space for one more goldfish, and some dopey rhyme that is nominally supposed to teach counting. The only thing it teaches Chris and Tommy is to eat what they call the ‘Fishy Crackers.’
There’s something fishy about that, all right.
There’s a book just like that for Kellogg’s Froot Loops, featuring Toucan Sam. In his book there ace little indentations for the Froot Loops cereal pieces. You’re supposed to put the cereal pieces in the indentations as you go along, again, to help you ‘learn to count.’ What a great idea – let’s see how much sugar coated cereal we can eat RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME.
Even so, that book is not as bad as the one for Nabisco Oreo Cookies. Same concept. An even better idea. If you do each page, 1 through 10, you will have eaten 55 Oreo cookies. Again, not the best choice just before bedtime. “Hey, Chris and Tommy, have sweet dreams! If you ever fall asleep, that is!”
Did you know there are approximately eighteen billion children’s books about the alphabet? I mean, how many ways do you need to learn your ABC’s? I guess the only advantage is the variety is better than reading the same book every single night. Even so, it’s the alphabet, for crying out loud. After a while I don’t care who creatively you used each letter for an animal, a piece of firefighting equipment, a kind of truck, or a monster. I’m starting to have bad dreams about hard vowels.
And don’t get me started on Elmo. If I have to read ‘Flutter by, Butterfly’ one more time, imitating his squeaky little voice, I’m going to puke.
But tonight I read the most off-the-wall children’s book I’ve ever read in my life.
My wife had done the library trip and brought home a brand new pile of 30 books. It was my night to read, and I was excited for some new material. I rifled through the stack, not really looking at the titles, grabbed a few and headed up to the bed. Chris, Tommy and I got settled under the covers as I lifted the first book.
It was called Walter the Farting Dog.
Nope, I’m not kidding. I’m staring at an actual hardbound book with the title, Walter the Farting Dog. And on the cover, in full color, is an illustration of an ugly gray dog with green gas exploding out of his butt. Floating above him, in a cloud of noxious green fumes, is a little girl.
She’s holding her nose.
You think I’m kidding, don’t you? I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want to. You can check it out for yourself. It’s published by Frog, Ltd of Berkeley, California. The ISBN number is 1-58394-053-7. The illustrious authors are William Kotzwinkle and Glenn Murray. With special thanks to Audrey Colman for the graphic illustrations of Walter farting on nearly every page.
The premise of the book, if you care, is that a family adopts this dog, Walter, from the pound. They quickly find out why no one else would take him – he farts constantly, the foulest, most awful smelling farts in the world. They try feeding him different foods, but nothing will stop the terrible farting.
Just before he’s supposed to go back to the pound, some burglars break into the family’s home one night. Walter farts them into submission, saves the day, and the family keeps the dog.
Is this your typical feel good, happy ending, kid’s book? I think not.
On the other hand, Chris, Tommy and I never laughed so hard in our lives.
The boys were laughing because they will laugh at anything that has to do with farts, poop and bodily functions. It got worse was they began to feed of my laughter, which quickly became a downward spiral of helpless giggling. I could barely read the words on the page because I was laughing so hard. Each time I turned to a new illustration of this ugly dog blowing green gas out of his ass I lost it all over again.
What should have been a five minute read took nearly 20 minutes. And I still couldn't finish the damned book. MBW had to finally come in and take over for me.
I’ll have to take another turn tomorrow.
I still break into giggles, three hours later, thinking about this book. And how stupid I felt laughing over something so, well,…stupid.
Children’s stories just aren’t what they used to be.
Where’s the Man in the Yellow Hat when you need him?
It’s great to be The Family Man.
I’d like to think I’m well read, but I don’t know if the term technically applies to me, at least in terms of the standard definition. The literary classics don’t hold much interest for me. But I have stacks and stacks of books, of all different types, may of which I have read three or four times. What do I like? James Clavell’s Asian Saga. Michener, back in the day. Ludlum. Michael Crichton. Ray Bradbury. Frank Herbert (and the books Brian co wrote, but they strike me as potboilers). Many that I can’t name off the top of my head. Right now I love the Reacher novels by Lee Child and the John Rain books by Barry Eisler.
I also try to keep up with the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, B2B Marketing, and Sports Illustrated.
Not to mention your blogs. Each and every one of you.
Nerd admission – my parents bought my sister and me a set of printed encyclopedias when we were kids. I used to take a volume and read it, almost cover to cover, until I had read virtually the whole set.
As it happens, MBW also enjoys reading. We don’t share many of the same reading topics, but we both love to read. Right now on her nightstand is Janet Evanovich Eleven on Top.
Nerd admission #2 – when we were dating, MBW and I occasionally scheduled ‘reading dates’ where we’d get together at my place, build a fire, snuggle up on the couch and…read.
Well, for a little while, anyway.
And now, as parents, we understand the importance of reading to our kids. Mostly so they will be prepared when they begin school, but also with the fervent hope they, too, will grow up with the joy and love of reading.
So we read to our kids every day. Depending on the day, the weather, and what else is going on, we’ll read to them here and there throughout the day. But for sure, every night, the bedtime ritual includes climbing onto our bed, with either Mom or Dad in between Chris and Tommy, snuggled under the covers, reading.
As luck would have it, a branch of the County library is less than a mile from our home. When the weather is nice we’ll pull Chris and Tommy in the wagon over to the library to pick out some books. The limit on the number of books for any individual library card is 30. Between the two of us, we’ve had, on occasion, 60 kids’ books out at any one time.
Reading to the boys was a whole new experience for me. The only books I remember from my childhood days as a kid are the classics – Dr. Seuss and Curious George. I think I recall a book about Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. But that was about all I remembered.
Today the books for kids are, shall we say, different.
I’m guessing children’s books are Big Business. How else would you explain the ‘Counting Fish’ featuring the Pepperidge Farms Goldfish? The book, with thick cardboard pages, has little indentations where you are supposed to place the Goldfish crackers. Of course, you have to buy the Goldfish crackers separately. Each page has a space for one more goldfish, and some dopey rhyme that is nominally supposed to teach counting. The only thing it teaches Chris and Tommy is to eat what they call the ‘Fishy Crackers.’
There’s something fishy about that, all right.
There’s a book just like that for Kellogg’s Froot Loops, featuring Toucan Sam. In his book there ace little indentations for the Froot Loops cereal pieces. You’re supposed to put the cereal pieces in the indentations as you go along, again, to help you ‘learn to count.’ What a great idea – let’s see how much sugar coated cereal we can eat RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME.
Even so, that book is not as bad as the one for Nabisco Oreo Cookies. Same concept. An even better idea. If you do each page, 1 through 10, you will have eaten 55 Oreo cookies. Again, not the best choice just before bedtime. “Hey, Chris and Tommy, have sweet dreams! If you ever fall asleep, that is!”
Did you know there are approximately eighteen billion children’s books about the alphabet? I mean, how many ways do you need to learn your ABC’s? I guess the only advantage is the variety is better than reading the same book every single night. Even so, it’s the alphabet, for crying out loud. After a while I don’t care who creatively you used each letter for an animal, a piece of firefighting equipment, a kind of truck, or a monster. I’m starting to have bad dreams about hard vowels.
And don’t get me started on Elmo. If I have to read ‘Flutter by, Butterfly’ one more time, imitating his squeaky little voice, I’m going to puke.
But tonight I read the most off-the-wall children’s book I’ve ever read in my life.
My wife had done the library trip and brought home a brand new pile of 30 books. It was my night to read, and I was excited for some new material. I rifled through the stack, not really looking at the titles, grabbed a few and headed up to the bed. Chris, Tommy and I got settled under the covers as I lifted the first book.
It was called Walter the Farting Dog.
Nope, I’m not kidding. I’m staring at an actual hardbound book with the title, Walter the Farting Dog. And on the cover, in full color, is an illustration of an ugly gray dog with green gas exploding out of his butt. Floating above him, in a cloud of noxious green fumes, is a little girl.
She’s holding her nose.
You think I’m kidding, don’t you? I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want to. You can check it out for yourself. It’s published by Frog, Ltd of Berkeley, California. The ISBN number is 1-58394-053-7. The illustrious authors are William Kotzwinkle and Glenn Murray. With special thanks to Audrey Colman for the graphic illustrations of Walter farting on nearly every page.
The premise of the book, if you care, is that a family adopts this dog, Walter, from the pound. They quickly find out why no one else would take him – he farts constantly, the foulest, most awful smelling farts in the world. They try feeding him different foods, but nothing will stop the terrible farting.
Just before he’s supposed to go back to the pound, some burglars break into the family’s home one night. Walter farts them into submission, saves the day, and the family keeps the dog.
Is this your typical feel good, happy ending, kid’s book? I think not.
On the other hand, Chris, Tommy and I never laughed so hard in our lives.
The boys were laughing because they will laugh at anything that has to do with farts, poop and bodily functions. It got worse was they began to feed of my laughter, which quickly became a downward spiral of helpless giggling. I could barely read the words on the page because I was laughing so hard. Each time I turned to a new illustration of this ugly dog blowing green gas out of his ass I lost it all over again.
What should have been a five minute read took nearly 20 minutes. And I still couldn't finish the damned book. MBW had to finally come in and take over for me.
I’ll have to take another turn tomorrow.
I still break into giggles, three hours later, thinking about this book. And how stupid I felt laughing over something so, well,…stupid.
Children’s stories just aren’t what they used to be.
Where’s the Man in the Yellow Hat when you need him?
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Golden Light
Sunday evening we went to visit MBW's sister and family for a barbeque. Even though we only live about 20 minutes apart, we haven’t spent much time with them lately. They have two kids just a bit older that Chris and Tommy, and I get along with my brother-in-law pretty well. I’m not sure why we don’t see them more often.
We’re sitting on their back patio, enjoying a cold beverage, as the amber sunlight splashes across their backyard. It is a beautiful Rocky Mountain evening. When I was a TV news photographer this is what we called ‘golden light.’ It’s the warm, special light, about an hour before sunset, that is flattering to just about everything.
We’re watching our children play. They have a large backyard and a nice swing set, and our kids are having a blast. My brother-in-law takes exceptional care of his yard. His lawn is so green and lush you could film a fertilizer commercial here.
As I watched Chris and Tommy play on this gorgeous summer evening I was struck by how special this moment was. The innocence and joy on my children’s faces was wonderful to witness. The warm sunlight highlighted their fair hair, creating what looked like bright halos as they ran around on the green grass. I enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching my kids playing outdoors in a safe, secure environment. At this exact moment in time the eight of us in this backyard had not a single care in the world.
It was a picture perfect moment.
“So what,” you say. “You’re The Family Man. All we ever hear about is how wonderful your life is. What's your point?”
Well, I’ll tell you.
Occasionally in this blog I write about how fortunate I am to have the life that I do – a fantastic wife, two wonderful kids, a great job. We have a nice home in a decent neighborhood, we’re healthy, and we’ve got a few bucks in a savings account. Life is good.
Yet it is all so fragile.
My mother passed away on Memorial Day this year. You may have read about our simple service for her. What you don’t know is that for the last 26 years of her life she was confined to a wheelchair after an accident in our home. She was 42 years old when it happened. One minute she was active, happy, normal. The next instant she was paralyzed for life.
My sister and I were in the house when it happened. It had a very profound effect on me.
One of Chris and Tommy’s cousins had a serious bout with cancer a couple of years ago. She’s cancer-free now, but it’s one of those things where you just never know. She was not even 10 years old when she was first diagnosed.
My brother-in-law, sitting right next to me, recently developed a health condition. We don’t know the extent of it and he doesn’t talk about it much. But watching the way MBW and her sister are whispering in hushed tones, I know there is some concern.
Another brother-in-law nearly lost his brother in a car accident three years ago. He suffered a serious injury that affects him to this day. He will never be able to do many of the things he once took for granted.
In the nearly ten years I was a TV news photographer, I saw many terrible things.
A small plane went down just after takeoff at a rural airport near our town. A family of five, leaving to go on vacation, perished in the fiery crash. By chance I was one of the first to arrive on the scene. Through the lens, I saw the charred bodies of the parents and their children. They were still smoldering.
At 2:00 a.m. on a frigid Saturday night I was called out to a car wreck on the freeway. Approaching the scene I saw a body under a sheet. Long, blond hair spilled out from underneath at one end; patent black leather boots stuck out the other. To me, a nameless dead girl on a lonely, icy highway. To someone else, a friend, a sister, a daughter.
I was there, and caught on tape, when a distraught mother was told by a firefighter that her only son had drowned in the river after falling from a boat less than thirty feet from shore. As long as I live I will never forget the sound of her screams and sobs.
One moment you can walk. The next, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair wracked with pain. One moment you are cancer free, the next you are not. One moment you are happily leaving for a family vacation. The next, you’re the lead story on the evening news.
So many sad stories, tragic tales. Too many.
Yet, at this moment, in this backyard, our children play without a care in the warmth of the summer sunshine.
The Golden Light.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Tonight the Golden Light shines on my family. All is well.
And I am very, very grateful.
Especially tonight, it's great to be The Family Man.
We’re sitting on their back patio, enjoying a cold beverage, as the amber sunlight splashes across their backyard. It is a beautiful Rocky Mountain evening. When I was a TV news photographer this is what we called ‘golden light.’ It’s the warm, special light, about an hour before sunset, that is flattering to just about everything.
We’re watching our children play. They have a large backyard and a nice swing set, and our kids are having a blast. My brother-in-law takes exceptional care of his yard. His lawn is so green and lush you could film a fertilizer commercial here.
As I watched Chris and Tommy play on this gorgeous summer evening I was struck by how special this moment was. The innocence and joy on my children’s faces was wonderful to witness. The warm sunlight highlighted their fair hair, creating what looked like bright halos as they ran around on the green grass. I enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching my kids playing outdoors in a safe, secure environment. At this exact moment in time the eight of us in this backyard had not a single care in the world.
It was a picture perfect moment.
“So what,” you say. “You’re The Family Man. All we ever hear about is how wonderful your life is. What's your point?”
Well, I’ll tell you.
Occasionally in this blog I write about how fortunate I am to have the life that I do – a fantastic wife, two wonderful kids, a great job. We have a nice home in a decent neighborhood, we’re healthy, and we’ve got a few bucks in a savings account. Life is good.
Yet it is all so fragile.
My mother passed away on Memorial Day this year. You may have read about our simple service for her. What you don’t know is that for the last 26 years of her life she was confined to a wheelchair after an accident in our home. She was 42 years old when it happened. One minute she was active, happy, normal. The next instant she was paralyzed for life.
My sister and I were in the house when it happened. It had a very profound effect on me.
One of Chris and Tommy’s cousins had a serious bout with cancer a couple of years ago. She’s cancer-free now, but it’s one of those things where you just never know. She was not even 10 years old when she was first diagnosed.
My brother-in-law, sitting right next to me, recently developed a health condition. We don’t know the extent of it and he doesn’t talk about it much. But watching the way MBW and her sister are whispering in hushed tones, I know there is some concern.
Another brother-in-law nearly lost his brother in a car accident three years ago. He suffered a serious injury that affects him to this day. He will never be able to do many of the things he once took for granted.
In the nearly ten years I was a TV news photographer, I saw many terrible things.
A small plane went down just after takeoff at a rural airport near our town. A family of five, leaving to go on vacation, perished in the fiery crash. By chance I was one of the first to arrive on the scene. Through the lens, I saw the charred bodies of the parents and their children. They were still smoldering.
At 2:00 a.m. on a frigid Saturday night I was called out to a car wreck on the freeway. Approaching the scene I saw a body under a sheet. Long, blond hair spilled out from underneath at one end; patent black leather boots stuck out the other. To me, a nameless dead girl on a lonely, icy highway. To someone else, a friend, a sister, a daughter.
I was there, and caught on tape, when a distraught mother was told by a firefighter that her only son had drowned in the river after falling from a boat less than thirty feet from shore. As long as I live I will never forget the sound of her screams and sobs.
One moment you can walk. The next, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair wracked with pain. One moment you are cancer free, the next you are not. One moment you are happily leaving for a family vacation. The next, you’re the lead story on the evening news.
So many sad stories, tragic tales. Too many.
Yet, at this moment, in this backyard, our children play without a care in the warmth of the summer sunshine.
The Golden Light.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Tonight the Golden Light shines on my family. All is well.
And I am very, very grateful.
Especially tonight, it's great to be The Family Man.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Time Flies
I’m old.
That’s just a fact of life.
The problem is, lately, I’ve been feeling and probably looking older than I want to. It was very apparent recently, both in my speech and in the comments of my kids.
This is happening despite my best efforts to stay in shape.
So you can imagine my shock and dismay when I woke up and found I had aged 17 years overnight.
Everything seemed normal when I woke up this morning. The alarm clock said 6:30 a.m., just like it should. I got out of bed, groped and stumbled my way to the shower, feeling about like I usually do. I stay in the shower a long time, letting the hot water ease the stiffness in what pass for my muscles. Step out gingerly, towel off, look in the mirror. Dismayed, as always, not to find a younger, more handsome me staring back. It seemed like just another Friday.
But when I went downstairs and glanced at the newspaper, the date read Friday, July 22, 2022.
2022!
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked more closely. There was no denying it. The date says Friday, July 22, 2022.
Alarmed, I looked around my kitchen. Nothing much had changed, at least as far as I could tell. What the hell is going on? Just as I was about to look outside, Chris and Tommy came running into the kitchen.
“Hello Dad!” said Tommy.
“We’ve got something exciting to show you!” Chris said.
Oh. My. God.
Instead of my cute 3 and 5-year-old boys, I was looking at two towering grown men.
One stands about 6’ 3”, tall and lean. A swimmers’ body. His hair is light brown, just a touch darker than I remember it being back when he was 5. He wears it short. His green eyes still have that sparkle I remember so well. It can only be Chris.
The other is a touch shorter, probably 6’ 1”, a bit stockier than Chris. Lean through the waist, but his shoulders and arms are more muscular. His hair is blond, very light. He still has that intensity he’s had ever since I can remember. There’s no doubt – it’s Tommy.
Or is he going by Tom now?
Stunned doesn’t begin to express how I feel, staring at the adult versions of my two sons live and in the flesh. I listen carefully for the music from the old ‘Twilight Zone’ TV show, but hear nothing. Rod Sterling, where are you?
I still don’t understand what is going on. Since I can’t figure it out, I set aside the issue of ‘how the hell did this actually happen,’ and just stare at my two grown boys. My eyes well up with tears as I look at them standing there, strong, and healthy. God, they look good. Confident, smiling, secure in themselves and who they are.
I could die right now, a happy man, knowing my boys have grown into such fine young men.
But where the hell did those 17 years go?
I’m snapped out of my reverie by Chris, gently shaking my shoulder. “Dad,” he says, “are you okay? Come on, we have something to show you!”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” says Tommy with a mischievous grin.
Suddenly the three of us are standing outdoors what appears to be the sales lot of a gigantic automobile dealership. This day is getting stranger by the second. I have no idea how we got from our kitchen to this car lot, but here we are. And this place is easily the largest car dealership I have ever seen. Acres and acres of vehicles. All kinds of vehicles.
Chris, gesturing grandly across the massive expanse of rolling thunder, says proudly, “Well, what do you think, Dad?”
I think I’ve lost my mind, that’s what I think. But of course I can’t say that. He’s clearly very proud of this. “Well, it sure looks great, Chris. But what is this place? Why are we here?”
“Dad, this is our car lot,” says Tommy proudly.
I look around, and sure enough I see the giant sign. ‘Chris and Tommy’s Cars and Trucks’ towers over the main drag in our town. In what I assume to be an astute marketing ploy, the sign appears to be written in orange crayon.
Chris puts his arm around my shoulder and directs me toward a group of cars. “Dad, we have more vehicles here than anyone in the whole state. And it’s not just cars – we have so many vehicles, you can’t believe it!”
We approach a group of sports cars. “See,” Tommy says, “here are all the race cars. We have every kind. Red ones, green ones, a white one and a blue one. They all go really fast!”
I notice a few things. The cars don’t appear all that new, and no two are the same. In fact, they look like giant Hot Wheels cars.
Plus, I notice that despite their size, Chris and Tommy are talking like they are little kids.
“And over here,” says Chris, “are the dump trucks. We have so many dump trucks. And they can all carry heavy loads. Do you want to buy a dump truck, Dad?”
No. I do sort of want to know what the hell is going on, though.
The boys lead me past the dump trucks and over to the fire trucks. There are easily 20 fire trucks of various sizes. Some have missing parts; others look sort of brand new.
I’m wondering why they are trying to sell these vehicles. I mean, they must be doing well to carry all this inventory. Maybe this is what the car business has become in 2022. But back in 2005 you didn’t buy dump trucks and fire trucks at the same place you bought your Chevy minivan. I guess things really have changed in the past 17 years.
We move on to the Military section. It’s huge. Jeeps, tanks, and all kinds of aircraft. Hey, you can have your very own F-16! Sidewinders not included, of course.
Moving right along, Tommy says to me, “We have a very nice selection of farm tractors, Dad. Can I interest you in one of those?”
“Um, no, not today, Tommy,” I said. “You know, I don’t really have a place to put it back at the house.” But then I wonder, did I buy a farm at some point in the past?
“No, dad, you didn’t,” says Tommy, reading my mind. “I always wished you had, though.”
That’s right. He loved to play with the little farm set we had.
And looking at these tractors for sale, they look suspiciously like the ones from that old set…only about 50 times bigger.
I notice that I have a pain now in my left leg. A throbbing pain, like someone is kicking me. I look down and don’t see anything. But it’s starting to hurt.
Chris says, “Why don’t you come back to the showroom and have a seat, Dad? It looks like you could sure use a rest.”
Good idea.
We start walking over to the showroom. It’s a large, grand building but it seems far, far away. Chris and Tommy are walking ahead of me, talking to each other in hushed voices. I can just hear what they’re saying.
Tommy: “Gosh, why is Dad so tired?”
Chris: “He sure looks old these days.”
All of a sudden, I’m in a soft chair in their showroom. This chair is comfortable. I think I’ll stay here awhile. Close my eyes, just for a minute. Now if only that throbbing in my leg would stop…but instead, it’s getting much worse.
And Chris and Tommy are now talking louder.
“Dad….Dad?”
“DAD, GET UP!”
Tommy, in a soft, plaintive voice, says, “Daddy, don’t you want to see the rest of my cars?”
I open my eyes, find myself back in my house. In my living room. I look around, see Chris and Tommy standing there, staring at me.
5-year-old Chris. 3-year-old Tommy.
Tommy is kicking my leg.
“Dad, we’ve lined up all of our cars, trucks, farm equipment, airplanes and army trucks. Don’t you want to see them?”
The living room floor is covered in toy vehicles, all neatly segregated by type. There are the Hot Wheels, the dump trucks, the military vehicles.
There’s the F-16.
And Tommy’s farm equipment.
“Dad, this is so great. Come over here and look at this…”
I get down on the floor and look at all the trucks. Chris and Tommy are so excited, they’re talking a mile a minute, having the best time.
I sit back and watch them play. So young, full of energy. Happy to sit on the floor and play with their vehicles. And I was missing this moment.
How many moments have I missed because I was too tired, too preoccupied, to busy to get involved with what they were doing?
How many more will I miss?
Will I wake up one day, see my tall, strapping sons standing in the kitchen, and wonder where the years went?
Or will I work hard to treasure every day, every experience, every moment with my boys, and make the most of our time together?
The answers to those questions are obvious.
I reach out, grab both of my boys, pull them close into a snuggly bear hug. “Guys,” I say, “You’ve done a great job organizing all your vehicles. And I want you to tell me all about them.”
“But don’t grow up too fast, okay?”
They look at me like I’m from outer space.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
Never mind.
Just don’t grow up too fast.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
That’s just a fact of life.
The problem is, lately, I’ve been feeling and probably looking older than I want to. It was very apparent recently, both in my speech and in the comments of my kids.
This is happening despite my best efforts to stay in shape.
So you can imagine my shock and dismay when I woke up and found I had aged 17 years overnight.
Everything seemed normal when I woke up this morning. The alarm clock said 6:30 a.m., just like it should. I got out of bed, groped and stumbled my way to the shower, feeling about like I usually do. I stay in the shower a long time, letting the hot water ease the stiffness in what pass for my muscles. Step out gingerly, towel off, look in the mirror. Dismayed, as always, not to find a younger, more handsome me staring back. It seemed like just another Friday.
But when I went downstairs and glanced at the newspaper, the date read Friday, July 22, 2022.
2022!
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked more closely. There was no denying it. The date says Friday, July 22, 2022.
Alarmed, I looked around my kitchen. Nothing much had changed, at least as far as I could tell. What the hell is going on? Just as I was about to look outside, Chris and Tommy came running into the kitchen.
“Hello Dad!” said Tommy.
“We’ve got something exciting to show you!” Chris said.
Oh. My. God.
Instead of my cute 3 and 5-year-old boys, I was looking at two towering grown men.
One stands about 6’ 3”, tall and lean. A swimmers’ body. His hair is light brown, just a touch darker than I remember it being back when he was 5. He wears it short. His green eyes still have that sparkle I remember so well. It can only be Chris.
The other is a touch shorter, probably 6’ 1”, a bit stockier than Chris. Lean through the waist, but his shoulders and arms are more muscular. His hair is blond, very light. He still has that intensity he’s had ever since I can remember. There’s no doubt – it’s Tommy.
Or is he going by Tom now?
Stunned doesn’t begin to express how I feel, staring at the adult versions of my two sons live and in the flesh. I listen carefully for the music from the old ‘Twilight Zone’ TV show, but hear nothing. Rod Sterling, where are you?
I still don’t understand what is going on. Since I can’t figure it out, I set aside the issue of ‘how the hell did this actually happen,’ and just stare at my two grown boys. My eyes well up with tears as I look at them standing there, strong, and healthy. God, they look good. Confident, smiling, secure in themselves and who they are.
I could die right now, a happy man, knowing my boys have grown into such fine young men.
But where the hell did those 17 years go?
I’m snapped out of my reverie by Chris, gently shaking my shoulder. “Dad,” he says, “are you okay? Come on, we have something to show you!”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” says Tommy with a mischievous grin.
Suddenly the three of us are standing outdoors what appears to be the sales lot of a gigantic automobile dealership. This day is getting stranger by the second. I have no idea how we got from our kitchen to this car lot, but here we are. And this place is easily the largest car dealership I have ever seen. Acres and acres of vehicles. All kinds of vehicles.
Chris, gesturing grandly across the massive expanse of rolling thunder, says proudly, “Well, what do you think, Dad?”
I think I’ve lost my mind, that’s what I think. But of course I can’t say that. He’s clearly very proud of this. “Well, it sure looks great, Chris. But what is this place? Why are we here?”
“Dad, this is our car lot,” says Tommy proudly.
I look around, and sure enough I see the giant sign. ‘Chris and Tommy’s Cars and Trucks’ towers over the main drag in our town. In what I assume to be an astute marketing ploy, the sign appears to be written in orange crayon.
Chris puts his arm around my shoulder and directs me toward a group of cars. “Dad, we have more vehicles here than anyone in the whole state. And it’s not just cars – we have so many vehicles, you can’t believe it!”
We approach a group of sports cars. “See,” Tommy says, “here are all the race cars. We have every kind. Red ones, green ones, a white one and a blue one. They all go really fast!”
I notice a few things. The cars don’t appear all that new, and no two are the same. In fact, they look like giant Hot Wheels cars.
Plus, I notice that despite their size, Chris and Tommy are talking like they are little kids.
“And over here,” says Chris, “are the dump trucks. We have so many dump trucks. And they can all carry heavy loads. Do you want to buy a dump truck, Dad?”
No. I do sort of want to know what the hell is going on, though.
The boys lead me past the dump trucks and over to the fire trucks. There are easily 20 fire trucks of various sizes. Some have missing parts; others look sort of brand new.
I’m wondering why they are trying to sell these vehicles. I mean, they must be doing well to carry all this inventory. Maybe this is what the car business has become in 2022. But back in 2005 you didn’t buy dump trucks and fire trucks at the same place you bought your Chevy minivan. I guess things really have changed in the past 17 years.
We move on to the Military section. It’s huge. Jeeps, tanks, and all kinds of aircraft. Hey, you can have your very own F-16! Sidewinders not included, of course.
Moving right along, Tommy says to me, “We have a very nice selection of farm tractors, Dad. Can I interest you in one of those?”
“Um, no, not today, Tommy,” I said. “You know, I don’t really have a place to put it back at the house.” But then I wonder, did I buy a farm at some point in the past?
“No, dad, you didn’t,” says Tommy, reading my mind. “I always wished you had, though.”
That’s right. He loved to play with the little farm set we had.
And looking at these tractors for sale, they look suspiciously like the ones from that old set…only about 50 times bigger.
I notice that I have a pain now in my left leg. A throbbing pain, like someone is kicking me. I look down and don’t see anything. But it’s starting to hurt.
Chris says, “Why don’t you come back to the showroom and have a seat, Dad? It looks like you could sure use a rest.”
Good idea.
We start walking over to the showroom. It’s a large, grand building but it seems far, far away. Chris and Tommy are walking ahead of me, talking to each other in hushed voices. I can just hear what they’re saying.
Tommy: “Gosh, why is Dad so tired?”
Chris: “He sure looks old these days.”
All of a sudden, I’m in a soft chair in their showroom. This chair is comfortable. I think I’ll stay here awhile. Close my eyes, just for a minute. Now if only that throbbing in my leg would stop…but instead, it’s getting much worse.
And Chris and Tommy are now talking louder.
“Dad….Dad?”
“DAD, GET UP!”
Tommy, in a soft, plaintive voice, says, “Daddy, don’t you want to see the rest of my cars?”
I open my eyes, find myself back in my house. In my living room. I look around, see Chris and Tommy standing there, staring at me.
5-year-old Chris. 3-year-old Tommy.
Tommy is kicking my leg.
“Dad, we’ve lined up all of our cars, trucks, farm equipment, airplanes and army trucks. Don’t you want to see them?”
The living room floor is covered in toy vehicles, all neatly segregated by type. There are the Hot Wheels, the dump trucks, the military vehicles.
There’s the F-16.
And Tommy’s farm equipment.
“Dad, this is so great. Come over here and look at this…”
I get down on the floor and look at all the trucks. Chris and Tommy are so excited, they’re talking a mile a minute, having the best time.
I sit back and watch them play. So young, full of energy. Happy to sit on the floor and play with their vehicles. And I was missing this moment.
How many moments have I missed because I was too tired, too preoccupied, to busy to get involved with what they were doing?
How many more will I miss?
Will I wake up one day, see my tall, strapping sons standing in the kitchen, and wonder where the years went?
Or will I work hard to treasure every day, every experience, every moment with my boys, and make the most of our time together?
The answers to those questions are obvious.
I reach out, grab both of my boys, pull them close into a snuggly bear hug. “Guys,” I say, “You’ve done a great job organizing all your vehicles. And I want you to tell me all about them.”
“But don’t grow up too fast, okay?”
They look at me like I’m from outer space.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
Never mind.
Just don’t grow up too fast.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
MBW
If you read my last post you were able to look back in time and read about the birth of two people. First and most obvious is Chris, my now 5-year old son. But second, you also saw the birth of The Family Man. At the risk of sounding mushy and entirely un-masculine, holding my son for the first time changed me in a profound and fundamental way. I’m not sure, even now, I can truly articulate those changes, yet I recognize them clearly. I am a much different man today than I was the day before he was born.
Yet it occurs to me, and perhaps it has occurred to some of you as well, that there is another person who played a very important role in this birthing thing. Obviously I did not give birth to Chris. And as much as I would like to complain about the sore back I had from sleeping on the floor the evening prior to Chris’s birth, it’s clear that my wife went through a much longer and more painful process to bring him into this world.
I’ll bet she didn’t know that she was giving birth to two people that morning.
Anyway this blog has mostly been about Chris and Tommy, and as the narrator I manage to give myself quite a bit of screen time as well. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m doing my wife a disservice by not describing her role more thoroughly or creatively. In many posts she isn’t mentioned at all, and when she is, it’s a minor, walk-on part.
My wife is no walk-on. She’s a leading lady.
So in this post I will formally introduce my wife. And in keeping with our recent trip down memory lane, today we’ll reach back even deeper into the mists of time, all the way back to when The Single Man met The Woman of His Dreams.
Believe it or not, it was a blind date.
If you read Hello, Old Friend you could have picked up on the fact that my previous relationships were not so great. When the last one finally ended I decided it was time to try something different. I took a 10-month sabbatical from dating and focused on getting healthy, mentally and physically. I hit the gym hard, and spent a lot of time contemplating what I wanted out of the rest of my life.
The gym work did wonders. I still, to this day, don’t think I’ve figured out the rest of my life.
Even so, at the end of that period I felt I was ready to meet some new people. But going back to the bar scene seemed like the definition of stupid – doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result. And Internet dating really hadn’t gained any traction or credibility at that time.
Instead I approached three of my male friends who were married, guys whose wives knew me. I asked them if their wives had any single friends who might be interested in meeting a guy like me. If they knew of anyone, I suggested we go out on a double date and I would pick up the tab for the group for the night. This would provide a safe, less stressful first-date environment and with two couples, there would be less of that awkward, no-conversation, “what do I say now” time.
As luck would have it, one guy came through.
We did a double date, dinner and a movie. It went pretty well. Having the other couple there made things easier for both of us, I think. We were able to fall back on them for conversation when those pauses came up. The woman I met that night was intelligent, articulate, and attractive. She was easy to talk to, fun to be around.
Believe it or not, at the end of the night she agreed to see me again.
We went out two more times. It also was a coincidence, but we belonged to the same gym, and we saw each other there one night. I suggested we go out for a quick bite to eat after our respective workouts, and she agreed.
I’ve heard people talk about what happened next, but I never believed it. Old wives tales, wishful thinking. The stuff of fairy tales and romance novels. But that night, in some no-name diner on a busy boulevard in our town in the Rocky Mountains, it happened to me.
I sat across the booth from her, nibbling on a grilled cheese sandwich, and I fell in love. Boom. Just like that, I knew this was the woman I wanted to marry. Had to marry. Would marry.
I wasn’t looking to get married, mind you. My clock wasn’t ticking. Oh, sure, something else was ticking, but that had ticked with pretty much every woman I’d ever dated. That kind of ticking got me into plenty of trouble – the kind of trouble my cat had to get me out of. What I was looking for was a fun, normal, stable relationship – not the carnival, freak-show roller-coaster affairs I’d had in the past.
But instead, I found my wife. And I found her after knowing her for all of three weeks.
It would take four more years for her to reach the same conclusion.
Back to the diner. I’m sitting there, the realization is hitting me and I’m thinking, okay, what do I do now? So I want to ask her something deep and meaningful, so she knows I’m a deep, meaningful guy. And klutz that I am, I blurt our something really stupid:
“So what do you want to do with the rest of your life?” I ask (or something like that – this was over 10 years ago, remember).
She doesn’t hesitate for one second. She doesn’t ponder, think about it or stumble through something really dumb. She looks at me, her beautiful brown eyes clear with conviction, and says, “I want to make the world a better place for children.”
Well, shit.
I knew she was an elementary school teacher. Kindergarten, in fact. I knew she had a Bachelor’s degree in Early Childhood Education and a Master’s degree in Family Studies. I knew she had a job, just like everyone else. But she had more than a job.
She had a mission.
And me? Right about now, I have a headache.
It gets worse. She then asks me, “And what about you? What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
See, this is where it’s clear that I’m an idiot. Because not only did I ask this question, I didn’t anticipate that she’d ask me the same thing. It’s only polite, after all. And I’m completely unprepared to answer, especially now that she’s come back with her answer that is so altruistic that anything I say will sound trite, materialistic and selfish in comparison.
Which pretty much accurately describes me, I admit. But that’s not going to get her father to walk her up the aisle and hand her off to me. And now that I know that is what I want, I’d better come up with something good.
Luckily, I have a knack for thinking on my feet, and I’m reasonably good at pulling words out of thin air and stringing together random ideas. I pause for just a second, and this is (something like) what I said in response:
“Well, right now I’m doing pretty much what I want to do. I think I have a great job. It’s exciting, every day is different, and I love seeing my work on TV every night,” (at this point in my life I’m a TV news cameraman).
But I know this is not going to get it done, so I continue, “…and I like to think, in some small way, I’m helping people keep up with what’s going on in the community. But long term I know I want to do more with my life, so I’m looking at going to grad school and getting an MBA. I have a lot more potential than I’m using right now. I want to make sure I can be a good provider for a family someday.”
I watch her closely as she takes this in. I actually had, once or twice, contemplated grad school. Sometime far in the future. I’m not sure I can even get in. But if she buys off on this I’ll probably have to follow through.
She nods, smiles. The conversation continues, luckily down a less serious path. I think I’ve dodged a huge bullet here. Whew.
We begin dating more often, at some point exclusively. I think we crossed a threshold one evening several months later. We’re sitting in a movie theatre before the start of the show, when she points to a couple a few rows in front of us. They are cuddling and canoodling, just carrying on, and she says, “You can sure tell they’re dating.”
“Oh, and we’re not?” I say, in mock sadness. “What are we, good buddies? Best friends? Pals?”
“No, you know what I mean!” she says.
“Actually, I don’t…maybe you’d better make it a bit more clear, PAL.”
“Okay, wise guy, I’ll show you after the movie,” she says.
And she did. It was definitely more than dating.
Still, it took four years to get to the proposal point, and another year of engagement. Finally, in the spring of 1999, the deal was sealed.
During that period of engagement we negotiated the details of the union. Where we would live, where we would not be willing to live. Number of children, timing. Financial goals. We were candid and honest with each other. Fortunately we were on the same page for most of the issues we discussed, and we reached compromises on those that didn’t match exactly the desires of one or the other. So come Wedding Day we knew, as much as any couple can, what to expect from each other and together for the next several years.
Which, with all that settled and out of the way, made for a great honeymoon.
We went to Maui. I’m told, by others who’ve been there, that the beaches are very nice.
So who is this woman, my wife? She’s smart, compassionate, and still committed to making the world a better place for children, especially ours. She’s still teaching Kindergaten. She has many friends, but not the time to see them as often as she’d like. She’s well read, but not as well read as she’d like (see previous sentence).
She’s a great mom. Chris and Tommy are two lucky guys. Patient, kind, and caring. She’s just wonderful with them.
You’ll notice I haven’t said much of anything about how she looks.
I’d be skeptical of any guy who told me he fell in love with a woman after three weeks, and the first thing he says when you ask him to describe her is how good-looking she is. That says to me he’s thinking with his small head, the one without a brain in it.
Now it just so happens that my wife is hot. But now, having read this, you already know the important qualities about my wife, the ones that made me fall in love with her in the first place. The ones that will last for the rest of our lives.
But in the interest of good journalism, you probably deserve a physical description.
My wife is tall and slender. About 5’ 8”, long legs, narrow waist. Brown eyes, brunette. Her beautiful, languid brown eyes sparkle with just a hint of mischief. Her lips are full and she has a captivating smile. Perfect teeth. It’s summertime here and she tans very nicely.
Nice tan lines.
She wears her hair fashionably short and I love it that way. When she comes home from the stylist with her brand new ‘do,’ it’s all I can do not to grab her, drag her into the bedroom and part her hair right down the middle.
Did I just say that?
Anyway, usually she makes me wait until the kids have gone to bed.
Oh, and did I mention she is six years younger than me?
So there it is. The description of my better half. She will play a more prominent role in this blog going forward, I would imagine. You can see why I love her. And why I will refer to her from here on out as My Beautiful Wife.
MBW.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. And perhaps now you’ll have a better appreciation for my closing remark.
It’s great to be The Family Man!
Yet it occurs to me, and perhaps it has occurred to some of you as well, that there is another person who played a very important role in this birthing thing. Obviously I did not give birth to Chris. And as much as I would like to complain about the sore back I had from sleeping on the floor the evening prior to Chris’s birth, it’s clear that my wife went through a much longer and more painful process to bring him into this world.
I’ll bet she didn’t know that she was giving birth to two people that morning.
Anyway this blog has mostly been about Chris and Tommy, and as the narrator I manage to give myself quite a bit of screen time as well. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m doing my wife a disservice by not describing her role more thoroughly or creatively. In many posts she isn’t mentioned at all, and when she is, it’s a minor, walk-on part.
My wife is no walk-on. She’s a leading lady.
So in this post I will formally introduce my wife. And in keeping with our recent trip down memory lane, today we’ll reach back even deeper into the mists of time, all the way back to when The Single Man met The Woman of His Dreams.
Believe it or not, it was a blind date.
If you read Hello, Old Friend you could have picked up on the fact that my previous relationships were not so great. When the last one finally ended I decided it was time to try something different. I took a 10-month sabbatical from dating and focused on getting healthy, mentally and physically. I hit the gym hard, and spent a lot of time contemplating what I wanted out of the rest of my life.
The gym work did wonders. I still, to this day, don’t think I’ve figured out the rest of my life.
Even so, at the end of that period I felt I was ready to meet some new people. But going back to the bar scene seemed like the definition of stupid – doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result. And Internet dating really hadn’t gained any traction or credibility at that time.
Instead I approached three of my male friends who were married, guys whose wives knew me. I asked them if their wives had any single friends who might be interested in meeting a guy like me. If they knew of anyone, I suggested we go out on a double date and I would pick up the tab for the group for the night. This would provide a safe, less stressful first-date environment and with two couples, there would be less of that awkward, no-conversation, “what do I say now” time.
As luck would have it, one guy came through.
We did a double date, dinner and a movie. It went pretty well. Having the other couple there made things easier for both of us, I think. We were able to fall back on them for conversation when those pauses came up. The woman I met that night was intelligent, articulate, and attractive. She was easy to talk to, fun to be around.
Believe it or not, at the end of the night she agreed to see me again.
We went out two more times. It also was a coincidence, but we belonged to the same gym, and we saw each other there one night. I suggested we go out for a quick bite to eat after our respective workouts, and she agreed.
I’ve heard people talk about what happened next, but I never believed it. Old wives tales, wishful thinking. The stuff of fairy tales and romance novels. But that night, in some no-name diner on a busy boulevard in our town in the Rocky Mountains, it happened to me.
I sat across the booth from her, nibbling on a grilled cheese sandwich, and I fell in love. Boom. Just like that, I knew this was the woman I wanted to marry. Had to marry. Would marry.
I wasn’t looking to get married, mind you. My clock wasn’t ticking. Oh, sure, something else was ticking, but that had ticked with pretty much every woman I’d ever dated. That kind of ticking got me into plenty of trouble – the kind of trouble my cat had to get me out of. What I was looking for was a fun, normal, stable relationship – not the carnival, freak-show roller-coaster affairs I’d had in the past.
But instead, I found my wife. And I found her after knowing her for all of three weeks.
It would take four more years for her to reach the same conclusion.
Back to the diner. I’m sitting there, the realization is hitting me and I’m thinking, okay, what do I do now? So I want to ask her something deep and meaningful, so she knows I’m a deep, meaningful guy. And klutz that I am, I blurt our something really stupid:
“So what do you want to do with the rest of your life?” I ask (or something like that – this was over 10 years ago, remember).
She doesn’t hesitate for one second. She doesn’t ponder, think about it or stumble through something really dumb. She looks at me, her beautiful brown eyes clear with conviction, and says, “I want to make the world a better place for children.”
Well, shit.
I knew she was an elementary school teacher. Kindergarten, in fact. I knew she had a Bachelor’s degree in Early Childhood Education and a Master’s degree in Family Studies. I knew she had a job, just like everyone else. But she had more than a job.
She had a mission.
And me? Right about now, I have a headache.
It gets worse. She then asks me, “And what about you? What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
See, this is where it’s clear that I’m an idiot. Because not only did I ask this question, I didn’t anticipate that she’d ask me the same thing. It’s only polite, after all. And I’m completely unprepared to answer, especially now that she’s come back with her answer that is so altruistic that anything I say will sound trite, materialistic and selfish in comparison.
Which pretty much accurately describes me, I admit. But that’s not going to get her father to walk her up the aisle and hand her off to me. And now that I know that is what I want, I’d better come up with something good.
Luckily, I have a knack for thinking on my feet, and I’m reasonably good at pulling words out of thin air and stringing together random ideas. I pause for just a second, and this is (something like) what I said in response:
“Well, right now I’m doing pretty much what I want to do. I think I have a great job. It’s exciting, every day is different, and I love seeing my work on TV every night,” (at this point in my life I’m a TV news cameraman).
But I know this is not going to get it done, so I continue, “…and I like to think, in some small way, I’m helping people keep up with what’s going on in the community. But long term I know I want to do more with my life, so I’m looking at going to grad school and getting an MBA. I have a lot more potential than I’m using right now. I want to make sure I can be a good provider for a family someday.”
I watch her closely as she takes this in. I actually had, once or twice, contemplated grad school. Sometime far in the future. I’m not sure I can even get in. But if she buys off on this I’ll probably have to follow through.
She nods, smiles. The conversation continues, luckily down a less serious path. I think I’ve dodged a huge bullet here. Whew.
We begin dating more often, at some point exclusively. I think we crossed a threshold one evening several months later. We’re sitting in a movie theatre before the start of the show, when she points to a couple a few rows in front of us. They are cuddling and canoodling, just carrying on, and she says, “You can sure tell they’re dating.”
“Oh, and we’re not?” I say, in mock sadness. “What are we, good buddies? Best friends? Pals?”
“No, you know what I mean!” she says.
“Actually, I don’t…maybe you’d better make it a bit more clear, PAL.”
“Okay, wise guy, I’ll show you after the movie,” she says.
And she did. It was definitely more than dating.
Still, it took four years to get to the proposal point, and another year of engagement. Finally, in the spring of 1999, the deal was sealed.
During that period of engagement we negotiated the details of the union. Where we would live, where we would not be willing to live. Number of children, timing. Financial goals. We were candid and honest with each other. Fortunately we were on the same page for most of the issues we discussed, and we reached compromises on those that didn’t match exactly the desires of one or the other. So come Wedding Day we knew, as much as any couple can, what to expect from each other and together for the next several years.
Which, with all that settled and out of the way, made for a great honeymoon.
We went to Maui. I’m told, by others who’ve been there, that the beaches are very nice.
So who is this woman, my wife? She’s smart, compassionate, and still committed to making the world a better place for children, especially ours. She’s still teaching Kindergaten. She has many friends, but not the time to see them as often as she’d like. She’s well read, but not as well read as she’d like (see previous sentence).
She’s a great mom. Chris and Tommy are two lucky guys. Patient, kind, and caring. She’s just wonderful with them.
You’ll notice I haven’t said much of anything about how she looks.
I’d be skeptical of any guy who told me he fell in love with a woman after three weeks, and the first thing he says when you ask him to describe her is how good-looking she is. That says to me he’s thinking with his small head, the one without a brain in it.
Now it just so happens that my wife is hot. But now, having read this, you already know the important qualities about my wife, the ones that made me fall in love with her in the first place. The ones that will last for the rest of our lives.
But in the interest of good journalism, you probably deserve a physical description.
My wife is tall and slender. About 5’ 8”, long legs, narrow waist. Brown eyes, brunette. Her beautiful, languid brown eyes sparkle with just a hint of mischief. Her lips are full and she has a captivating smile. Perfect teeth. It’s summertime here and she tans very nicely.
Nice tan lines.
She wears her hair fashionably short and I love it that way. When she comes home from the stylist with her brand new ‘do,’ it’s all I can do not to grab her, drag her into the bedroom and part her hair right down the middle.
Did I just say that?
Anyway, usually she makes me wait until the kids have gone to bed.
Oh, and did I mention she is six years younger than me?
So there it is. The description of my better half. She will play a more prominent role in this blog going forward, I would imagine. You can see why I love her. And why I will refer to her from here on out as My Beautiful Wife.
MBW.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. And perhaps now you’ll have a better appreciation for my closing remark.
It’s great to be The Family Man!
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The True Beginning
I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has visited my blog over the past four months. Many of you have left comments and I really enjoy reading what you have to say. Thank you for visiting, reading, and for all your kind words.
Or let me be more blunt. Thank you for putting up with my wandering imagination, silly ideas and maudlin moments. I enjoy writing these stories and sharing the antics of Chris and Tommy, but sometimes I'm surprised that people actually enjoy reading them. In any event, I'm grateful, and as long as you want to read this stuff, I'll put it out there.
Some of you have expressed hope that I will save these stories for my kids, so they can look back when they are older and read about what things were like way back in the early 2000s. Honestly, I'm not sure I want them to know what a crazy knucklehead their dad was.
But the truth is I have been keeping a journal. I started back in 1999, when we first learned my wife was pregnant with the child that would become Chris. I began writing letters, addressed to 'Dear Child,' and described what was happening as the child developed in the months prior to birth. I used a popular word processing program and kept the letters in a large file (backed up regularly, of course!). The journal talks about who his or her parents would be, where we lived, what we were feeling, what the world was like.
When Tommy came along, I started one for him as well.
The writing style is nothing great, but it was and is direct and straight from the heart.
Today Chris's journal is about 275 pages, Tommy's about 175. Along the way I began adding digital photos, and lately it has almost become more of a photo journal than a written one. But there are still some choice notes in each one, something I hope will put a few smiles on their faces when they read them in, oh, about 2025 or so.
I thought today I would share with you the entries leading up to the birth of Chris. First, because that was the day I first and forever became The Family Man. If you’re reading this blog, perhaps a bit of historical perspective would be of interest. Also because after reading Pumpkin Diary I see someone who has done something very similar (and better) to what I've done for my boys, and shared it with the world. And because I hope Robyn's upcoming labor will go more smoothly than it did for my wife.
But mostly because often, when I hold Chris, I think back to the moment when I first held him, the emotions that washed over me and changed me forever. I cannot imagine my life now without Chris, and Tommy too.
If you have kids, you'll relate to this and remember your own experience.
If you don't have kids, this is what it could be like if you ever do.
Enough. Here are the Journal entries from just over five years ago, verbatim.
Wednesday July 5, 2000, 4:25 p.m.
Dear Child,
Maybe today is the day. At 1:30 a.m. this morning your Mom started to have some labor pains. She woke me up to tell me about it, we talked about it for a few minutes and I went back to sleep. At 3:30 a.m. she woke me up again to tell me they were still happening. I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital and she said no, not yet. We turned on the light and read a little bit in the pregnancy book, and it seemed like she was in the early stage of first labor. We decided to stay at home for the time being.
We got up about 6:00 a.m. to get ready for the day – your Mom was going to go to the airport to pick up her Mom and Dad, your Grandparents, who had flown in from up north. I was going to go into work, but decided to drive your Mom to the airport in case the labor pains intensified. I called the office to tell them I probably would not be in. We picked up your Grandparents and came back to the house. Your Mom called her doctor, described what her contractions were like, and the doctor said to come right in.
We went to the hospital – not officially admitted, but put in a small room to be monitored. Your Grandmother, your Mom and I were in the hospital for about 3 hours; your Mom hooked up to a machine that monitored your activity and the contractions. It did not seem like the labor was progressing, so we went home about 12:30 p.m. I was going to go back into the office but I wasn’t sure if your Mom would need to go back into the hospital anytime soon, so I stayed home.
We all had a quick lunch and then I have just been hanging out with your Mom, timing her contractions and offering support. We don’t know how much longer before we go back to the hospital, but it looks like you will be born tonight or tomorrow. Dr. Watson seems to have hit it pretty close – back in November she said the due date would be July 6. It looks like you will be right on.
Thursday July 6, 2000
Dear Chris,
Welcome to the world!!! You were born today, Thursday July 6 2000 at 9:01 a.m. But I will get to that in a minute. Here is the rest of the story.
After we were sent home from the hospital Wednesday afternoon we all sort of waited around to see what would happen with your Mom. The contractions were pretty bad and they continued to get more intense, but not any closer together. From 5:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. I wrote down the time and duration of every contraction your Mom had. The contractions were always between five and eight minutes apart, but they would not get any closer. The problem was they continued to get more intense and painful. Between 9:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. your Mom and I paced back and forth across the back yard, hoping the walking would help speed things along. Every five minutes we would stop while your Mom had a :45 second contraction. She was really miserable.
At 11:30 your Mom called the hospital and described the situation. The nurse told her to come in but there was no promise that we would be admitted. We went down there hoping things would start to happen. We were put into room 2304 and hooked up to a monitor to track the contractions and your heartbeat. At 12:30 your Mom started to dilate, but not enough. They gave her a shot of Demerol to ease the pain and told her if she did not dilate any more in the next hour we would have to go home and come back in the morning. The contractions got more painful and the Demerol did not seem to help, but she did begin to dilate and at 2:30 a.m. the nurse admitted your Mom to the hospital. The nurse arranged for an epidural but your Mom did not get that until 3:30 a.m., and that last hour was pretty tough for her – every five minutes she would have a contraction that seemed like it was ripping her guts out. But your Mom was tough, she hung in there, and after the epidural she felt better.
Your Mom started to get some rest, I curled up on the floor and your Grandmother slept in a chair in the room. Throughout the rest of the early morning the nurse would come in to check on your Mom every half hour or so. I was drifting in and out of sleep. At 7:30 a.m. the nurse said it was time to get ready. I got up off the floor and your Grandmother got ready and the nurse began preparing the room. At 8:00 a.m. the nurse had your Mom begin pushing. At about 8:45 the top of your head began to show, so the nurse called Dr. Watson into the room. It was so exciting to see the top of your head and know you would be born in just a few minutes! With Dr. Watson encouraging your Mom the pushing continued, and soon your whole head popped out, and two pushes later there you were – born at 9:01 a.m. Thursday July 13, 2000. You were a boy – remember we did not know your sex, so you were a complete surprise. Your name had been chosen for months, if not years – even before we got married, your Mom and I knew if we had a son we would name him Christopher. The middle name was trickier – your Mom wanted Matthew, I wanted Peter, and I guess I wanted it more. She went with my suggestion and that is how you got your name.
Anyway, once you came completely out Dr. Watson cleaned you up and then I cut your umbilical cord. Dr. Watson laid you on your Mom’s stomach and we both cried, I wish I could remember the exact words but we were both so thrilled, so overcome with emotion, it is an experience words simply cannot describe. The nurses continued to work on you, washing you off, I remember one nurse holding you upside down saying out loud, “Ten fingers, ten toes, everything looks good!” You scored an 8-9 on your APGAR test – I’m still not sure what that is, but 10 is the best score possible, so you were a very healthy baby.
My dad, your Grandpa, came to the hospital about 2 minutes after you were born. He was in the room when you were weighed and measured – 20 & ½ inches long, 7 pounds 1 ounce. You were born with a pretty full head of dark hair. In fact, when the top of your head was just showing, one of the nurses made a comment that your hair was full and pretty long, so maybe you were a girl. I made a comment, “Long hair I can live with, but if the baby comes out with body piercing and tattoos, I am going to have a chat with my wife,” and everyone got a chuckle out of that.
So here you are, healthy, a boy, named, weighed, measured, wrapped up and ready to face the world. I cannot describe how overcome with emotion I am. I have a son, a beautiful, healthy baby boy, Christopher. I am a dad. I don’t have the words to describe it, the best I can do is this – I have had nine months to mentally prepare myself for this, and what I have been thinking about are the financial concerns, the logistics of having a child, how you work having a child into the routine of my life. I was ready for that, I was prepared and looking forward to doing all that had to be done to be a good, responsible father and parent. I was not prepared for the tidal wave of emotion that washed over me when I held you for the first time. I still cannot describe the love I felt for you and feel for you now. You are my first born son, my special precious child, and I will do all that I can for you to see that you have every chance to have a full and happy life. I love you more than anything in this world. I have heard people say that the greatest day of their lives was the day (days) their children were born. I never really understood it until it happened to me. Suddenly this day is the greatest day of my life, the day my son was born, the day my son Christopher came into this world.
Much of the rest of the day is a blur, people coming and going, your Mom taking a nap and me taking your Grandparents back to our house. The last thing about your first day was also pretty great. I went back to the hospital about 8:30 p.m. to see you and your Mom. You were asleep in your bassinet and your Mom was just starting to doze off. I took you out of your bassinet and took off your little shirt, took off my own shirt and laid you on my chest and reclined back in the chair in to room. The lights were low, your Mom was sleeping, and you were sleeping on my chest, skin-to-skin, a father and his son. It was the coolest feeling in the world. After a time I could not sleep, so I picked up the Sports Illustrated magazine I had brought with me and read you some stories about baseball. Then it was time to go home, but forevermore life will be different – we are now truly a family, and I have a son – Chris.
There it is, readers.
Thoughts?
For over five years, and hopefully many, many more, it was and still is great to be The Family Man.
Or let me be more blunt. Thank you for putting up with my wandering imagination, silly ideas and maudlin moments. I enjoy writing these stories and sharing the antics of Chris and Tommy, but sometimes I'm surprised that people actually enjoy reading them. In any event, I'm grateful, and as long as you want to read this stuff, I'll put it out there.
Some of you have expressed hope that I will save these stories for my kids, so they can look back when they are older and read about what things were like way back in the early 2000s. Honestly, I'm not sure I want them to know what a crazy knucklehead their dad was.
But the truth is I have been keeping a journal. I started back in 1999, when we first learned my wife was pregnant with the child that would become Chris. I began writing letters, addressed to 'Dear Child,' and described what was happening as the child developed in the months prior to birth. I used a popular word processing program and kept the letters in a large file (backed up regularly, of course!). The journal talks about who his or her parents would be, where we lived, what we were feeling, what the world was like.
When Tommy came along, I started one for him as well.
The writing style is nothing great, but it was and is direct and straight from the heart.
Today Chris's journal is about 275 pages, Tommy's about 175. Along the way I began adding digital photos, and lately it has almost become more of a photo journal than a written one. But there are still some choice notes in each one, something I hope will put a few smiles on their faces when they read them in, oh, about 2025 or so.
I thought today I would share with you the entries leading up to the birth of Chris. First, because that was the day I first and forever became The Family Man. If you’re reading this blog, perhaps a bit of historical perspective would be of interest. Also because after reading Pumpkin Diary I see someone who has done something very similar (and better) to what I've done for my boys, and shared it with the world. And because I hope Robyn's upcoming labor will go more smoothly than it did for my wife.
But mostly because often, when I hold Chris, I think back to the moment when I first held him, the emotions that washed over me and changed me forever. I cannot imagine my life now without Chris, and Tommy too.
If you have kids, you'll relate to this and remember your own experience.
If you don't have kids, this is what it could be like if you ever do.
Enough. Here are the Journal entries from just over five years ago, verbatim.
Wednesday July 5, 2000, 4:25 p.m.
Dear Child,
Maybe today is the day. At 1:30 a.m. this morning your Mom started to have some labor pains. She woke me up to tell me about it, we talked about it for a few minutes and I went back to sleep. At 3:30 a.m. she woke me up again to tell me they were still happening. I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital and she said no, not yet. We turned on the light and read a little bit in the pregnancy book, and it seemed like she was in the early stage of first labor. We decided to stay at home for the time being.
We got up about 6:00 a.m. to get ready for the day – your Mom was going to go to the airport to pick up her Mom and Dad, your Grandparents, who had flown in from up north. I was going to go into work, but decided to drive your Mom to the airport in case the labor pains intensified. I called the office to tell them I probably would not be in. We picked up your Grandparents and came back to the house. Your Mom called her doctor, described what her contractions were like, and the doctor said to come right in.
We went to the hospital – not officially admitted, but put in a small room to be monitored. Your Grandmother, your Mom and I were in the hospital for about 3 hours; your Mom hooked up to a machine that monitored your activity and the contractions. It did not seem like the labor was progressing, so we went home about 12:30 p.m. I was going to go back into the office but I wasn’t sure if your Mom would need to go back into the hospital anytime soon, so I stayed home.
We all had a quick lunch and then I have just been hanging out with your Mom, timing her contractions and offering support. We don’t know how much longer before we go back to the hospital, but it looks like you will be born tonight or tomorrow. Dr. Watson seems to have hit it pretty close – back in November she said the due date would be July 6. It looks like you will be right on.
Thursday July 6, 2000
Dear Chris,
Welcome to the world!!! You were born today, Thursday July 6 2000 at 9:01 a.m. But I will get to that in a minute. Here is the rest of the story.
After we were sent home from the hospital Wednesday afternoon we all sort of waited around to see what would happen with your Mom. The contractions were pretty bad and they continued to get more intense, but not any closer together. From 5:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. I wrote down the time and duration of every contraction your Mom had. The contractions were always between five and eight minutes apart, but they would not get any closer. The problem was they continued to get more intense and painful. Between 9:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. your Mom and I paced back and forth across the back yard, hoping the walking would help speed things along. Every five minutes we would stop while your Mom had a :45 second contraction. She was really miserable.
At 11:30 your Mom called the hospital and described the situation. The nurse told her to come in but there was no promise that we would be admitted. We went down there hoping things would start to happen. We were put into room 2304 and hooked up to a monitor to track the contractions and your heartbeat. At 12:30 your Mom started to dilate, but not enough. They gave her a shot of Demerol to ease the pain and told her if she did not dilate any more in the next hour we would have to go home and come back in the morning. The contractions got more painful and the Demerol did not seem to help, but she did begin to dilate and at 2:30 a.m. the nurse admitted your Mom to the hospital. The nurse arranged for an epidural but your Mom did not get that until 3:30 a.m., and that last hour was pretty tough for her – every five minutes she would have a contraction that seemed like it was ripping her guts out. But your Mom was tough, she hung in there, and after the epidural she felt better.
Your Mom started to get some rest, I curled up on the floor and your Grandmother slept in a chair in the room. Throughout the rest of the early morning the nurse would come in to check on your Mom every half hour or so. I was drifting in and out of sleep. At 7:30 a.m. the nurse said it was time to get ready. I got up off the floor and your Grandmother got ready and the nurse began preparing the room. At 8:00 a.m. the nurse had your Mom begin pushing. At about 8:45 the top of your head began to show, so the nurse called Dr. Watson into the room. It was so exciting to see the top of your head and know you would be born in just a few minutes! With Dr. Watson encouraging your Mom the pushing continued, and soon your whole head popped out, and two pushes later there you were – born at 9:01 a.m. Thursday July 13, 2000. You were a boy – remember we did not know your sex, so you were a complete surprise. Your name had been chosen for months, if not years – even before we got married, your Mom and I knew if we had a son we would name him Christopher. The middle name was trickier – your Mom wanted Matthew, I wanted Peter, and I guess I wanted it more. She went with my suggestion and that is how you got your name.
Anyway, once you came completely out Dr. Watson cleaned you up and then I cut your umbilical cord. Dr. Watson laid you on your Mom’s stomach and we both cried, I wish I could remember the exact words but we were both so thrilled, so overcome with emotion, it is an experience words simply cannot describe. The nurses continued to work on you, washing you off, I remember one nurse holding you upside down saying out loud, “Ten fingers, ten toes, everything looks good!” You scored an 8-9 on your APGAR test – I’m still not sure what that is, but 10 is the best score possible, so you were a very healthy baby.
My dad, your Grandpa, came to the hospital about 2 minutes after you were born. He was in the room when you were weighed and measured – 20 & ½ inches long, 7 pounds 1 ounce. You were born with a pretty full head of dark hair. In fact, when the top of your head was just showing, one of the nurses made a comment that your hair was full and pretty long, so maybe you were a girl. I made a comment, “Long hair I can live with, but if the baby comes out with body piercing and tattoos, I am going to have a chat with my wife,” and everyone got a chuckle out of that.
So here you are, healthy, a boy, named, weighed, measured, wrapped up and ready to face the world. I cannot describe how overcome with emotion I am. I have a son, a beautiful, healthy baby boy, Christopher. I am a dad. I don’t have the words to describe it, the best I can do is this – I have had nine months to mentally prepare myself for this, and what I have been thinking about are the financial concerns, the logistics of having a child, how you work having a child into the routine of my life. I was ready for that, I was prepared and looking forward to doing all that had to be done to be a good, responsible father and parent. I was not prepared for the tidal wave of emotion that washed over me when I held you for the first time. I still cannot describe the love I felt for you and feel for you now. You are my first born son, my special precious child, and I will do all that I can for you to see that you have every chance to have a full and happy life. I love you more than anything in this world. I have heard people say that the greatest day of their lives was the day (days) their children were born. I never really understood it until it happened to me. Suddenly this day is the greatest day of my life, the day my son was born, the day my son Christopher came into this world.
Much of the rest of the day is a blur, people coming and going, your Mom taking a nap and me taking your Grandparents back to our house. The last thing about your first day was also pretty great. I went back to the hospital about 8:30 p.m. to see you and your Mom. You were asleep in your bassinet and your Mom was just starting to doze off. I took you out of your bassinet and took off your little shirt, took off my own shirt and laid you on my chest and reclined back in the chair in to room. The lights were low, your Mom was sleeping, and you were sleeping on my chest, skin-to-skin, a father and his son. It was the coolest feeling in the world. After a time I could not sleep, so I picked up the Sports Illustrated magazine I had brought with me and read you some stories about baseball. Then it was time to go home, but forevermore life will be different – we are now truly a family, and I have a son – Chris.
There it is, readers.
Thoughts?
For over five years, and hopefully many, many more, it was and still is great to be The Family Man.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Super Hero
Last night I had to make a run to the mega home improvement chain warehouse. It feels like I go there at least once a week. Me, and everyone else in my town, it seems. That place is always busy. I think it has its own zip code.
So I climbed into my SUV, put on the seat belt, adjusted the mirrors, and just about had a heart attack.
Two strangers were sitting in the back seats.
It took me a second to recognize them, but when I did I was even more confused.
Superman and Batman were in my ride.
No, I’m not kidding. The actual Superman. Blue suit, red cape, big ‘S’ on his chest. The actual Batman as well. Full-on black mask, cape, and utility belt. That iconic bat logo on his chest.
I’m not talking about wimpy old Adam West here. I mean the full on, brooding, scowling Batman.
So I sat there for a second, looking at them in my mirror, a bit too intimidated to turn around. I mean, think about it. One minute you’re on your way out to run an errand, the next minute you’re in the company of two of the most powerful heroes in the world. In Superman’s case, the whole universe.
Have I committed some terrible crime against humanity that I somehow forgot about?
Well, they didn’t say anything and I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I started the car and drove to the mega home improvement chain warehouse.
The whole way there they were silent. Stone faced. My attempts at small talk were met with steely glares. So I did the smart thing – I shut up and drove.
We got to the mega home improvement chain warehouse, parked in the outer borough and walked in. I wondered if Superman would fly, but he didn’t.
Now I’ve been to this particular mega home improvement chain warehouse a billion times. Every other time I’ve gone I’ve been just like 98% of all the other guys in there – wandering around looking for the items on my list, the very list I left on the counter at home. Looking through 500 faucet rings, trying to match the one in my faucet, not having any success. Looking in vain for a guy in an orange apron who can help.
But this visit was different.
Now I know how a rock star feels. Or maybe the President. Because when I walked into the store that day, everyone stopped and stared. A hush fell over the entire building.
Jaws literally hung open.
As I moved down the aisle the crowd parted before me as though they were the Red Sea and I was Moses. People could not take their eyes off me. I could almost read their minds – “who is this man, to be in the company of not one, but TWO of the most powerful superheroes of all time?”
Okay, I admit. They weren’t looking at me. They were looking at Superman and Batman. Wouldn’t you? I mean, I’m not exactly hard on the eyes, but even on my best day I don’t fill out a latex jumpsuit like these two guys.
Still, I have to believe some of the aura carried over to me.
The entire time these two guys were stone cold silent. If they were even aware of the attention they were getting, they didn’t let on. I was surprised, at first, but then I realized these guys get this sort of treatment everywhere they go. It’s just another day at the office for them.
For me, it was a trip down the red carpet. Or in this case, the orange carpet.
Because for the first time ever, people in orange aprons actually wanted to help me. In fact, I’d say more people in orange aprons offering to help me than I’ve in my last 250 visits to this store combined. They came from every department, the checkout stands, the back room. One guy drove up on his forklift. I debated asking Superman to move it, but I guess he didn’t feel like showing off.
The women in the orange aprons were particularly attentive. It only makes sense. And in case you haven’t noticed, some of them are quite pretty – as pretty as you can be in an orange apron. I kind of lingered there for a moment, enjoying the moment.
I’m not even going to make a reference to the Tool department, so get that ugly thought out of your head. I’m The Family Man, for Pete’s sake!
Anyway, with all this help I was quickly able to get the items I needed, even with my list safely forgotten at home. We sailed through checkout, normally a 20 minute affair on a good day. Made the long hike back to the SUV.
I half-expected one or both of these guys to run of fly off to rescue someone, respond to a train about to jump the tracks, or prevent an asteroid from destroying the planet. I looked in the sky but did not see the Bat Signal. Then again, we’re a long way from Gotham out here in the Rockies.
But they got into my truck. We all buckled up and headed for home.
I began to suspect something was odd when Batman spoke up from the back. To this point he hadn’t said a word all night. And what he said then was a command, not a conversation.
"Turn on the Dancing Music."
Would you have argued with him? Neither did I.
So I did as ordered, and the rest of the ride home took place with the vehicle rocking to the sound of Will Smith’s ‘Men In Black’ and the Eagles ‘Get Over It.’
We got to my house. What would happen now? I got out and went in the door. Superman and Batman followed me in as if they lived there.
My house may not be ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ material, but it’s no Bat Cave either.
I dropped off my purchases in the garage, then went immediately upstairs to find Chris and Tommy. I wanted to tell them all about my adventure. They would be sad to know they had missed meeting Superman and Batman.
I went into Tommy’s bedroom first. Imagine my surprise when I saw Batman in his bed.
I didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Batman took care of that for me.
And I learned something about him that I’ll bet you won’t see in his most recent movie.
Mask firmly still in place over his face, he looked up at me and said, “Would you check under my bed and make sure there are no Monsters there?”
Batman afraid of Monsters?
Still, I did as he asked. There were none. I told him so.
“Thanks, Super Dad,” he said softly.
Wow.
I guess I’m now a Superhero too.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
So I climbed into my SUV, put on the seat belt, adjusted the mirrors, and just about had a heart attack.
Two strangers were sitting in the back seats.
It took me a second to recognize them, but when I did I was even more confused.
Superman and Batman were in my ride.
No, I’m not kidding. The actual Superman. Blue suit, red cape, big ‘S’ on his chest. The actual Batman as well. Full-on black mask, cape, and utility belt. That iconic bat logo on his chest.
I’m not talking about wimpy old Adam West here. I mean the full on, brooding, scowling Batman.
So I sat there for a second, looking at them in my mirror, a bit too intimidated to turn around. I mean, think about it. One minute you’re on your way out to run an errand, the next minute you’re in the company of two of the most powerful heroes in the world. In Superman’s case, the whole universe.
Have I committed some terrible crime against humanity that I somehow forgot about?
Well, they didn’t say anything and I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I started the car and drove to the mega home improvement chain warehouse.
The whole way there they were silent. Stone faced. My attempts at small talk were met with steely glares. So I did the smart thing – I shut up and drove.
We got to the mega home improvement chain warehouse, parked in the outer borough and walked in. I wondered if Superman would fly, but he didn’t.
Now I’ve been to this particular mega home improvement chain warehouse a billion times. Every other time I’ve gone I’ve been just like 98% of all the other guys in there – wandering around looking for the items on my list, the very list I left on the counter at home. Looking through 500 faucet rings, trying to match the one in my faucet, not having any success. Looking in vain for a guy in an orange apron who can help.
But this visit was different.
Now I know how a rock star feels. Or maybe the President. Because when I walked into the store that day, everyone stopped and stared. A hush fell over the entire building.
Jaws literally hung open.
As I moved down the aisle the crowd parted before me as though they were the Red Sea and I was Moses. People could not take their eyes off me. I could almost read their minds – “who is this man, to be in the company of not one, but TWO of the most powerful superheroes of all time?”
Okay, I admit. They weren’t looking at me. They were looking at Superman and Batman. Wouldn’t you? I mean, I’m not exactly hard on the eyes, but even on my best day I don’t fill out a latex jumpsuit like these two guys.
Still, I have to believe some of the aura carried over to me.
The entire time these two guys were stone cold silent. If they were even aware of the attention they were getting, they didn’t let on. I was surprised, at first, but then I realized these guys get this sort of treatment everywhere they go. It’s just another day at the office for them.
For me, it was a trip down the red carpet. Or in this case, the orange carpet.
Because for the first time ever, people in orange aprons actually wanted to help me. In fact, I’d say more people in orange aprons offering to help me than I’ve in my last 250 visits to this store combined. They came from every department, the checkout stands, the back room. One guy drove up on his forklift. I debated asking Superman to move it, but I guess he didn’t feel like showing off.
The women in the orange aprons were particularly attentive. It only makes sense. And in case you haven’t noticed, some of them are quite pretty – as pretty as you can be in an orange apron. I kind of lingered there for a moment, enjoying the moment.
I’m not even going to make a reference to the Tool department, so get that ugly thought out of your head. I’m The Family Man, for Pete’s sake!
Anyway, with all this help I was quickly able to get the items I needed, even with my list safely forgotten at home. We sailed through checkout, normally a 20 minute affair on a good day. Made the long hike back to the SUV.
I half-expected one or both of these guys to run of fly off to rescue someone, respond to a train about to jump the tracks, or prevent an asteroid from destroying the planet. I looked in the sky but did not see the Bat Signal. Then again, we’re a long way from Gotham out here in the Rockies.
But they got into my truck. We all buckled up and headed for home.
I began to suspect something was odd when Batman spoke up from the back. To this point he hadn’t said a word all night. And what he said then was a command, not a conversation.
"Turn on the Dancing Music."
Would you have argued with him? Neither did I.
So I did as ordered, and the rest of the ride home took place with the vehicle rocking to the sound of Will Smith’s ‘Men In Black’ and the Eagles ‘Get Over It.’
We got to my house. What would happen now? I got out and went in the door. Superman and Batman followed me in as if they lived there.
My house may not be ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ material, but it’s no Bat Cave either.
I dropped off my purchases in the garage, then went immediately upstairs to find Chris and Tommy. I wanted to tell them all about my adventure. They would be sad to know they had missed meeting Superman and Batman.
I went into Tommy’s bedroom first. Imagine my surprise when I saw Batman in his bed.
I didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Batman took care of that for me.
And I learned something about him that I’ll bet you won’t see in his most recent movie.
Mask firmly still in place over his face, he looked up at me and said, “Would you check under my bed and make sure there are no Monsters there?”
Batman afraid of Monsters?
Still, I did as he asked. There were none. I told him so.
“Thanks, Super Dad,” he said softly.
Wow.
I guess I’m now a Superhero too.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Hello, Old Friend
This is a really long post. If you get to the end, let me know – too long? Not worth your time? Like it? Hate it? Please let me know if these long ramblings aren’t worth your time.
You’ve been warned.
Hello, old friend. It sure has been a long time, hasn’t it?
18 years and change, to be exact.
Flash back to April 1987. I’m a young, strapping TV news cameraman, coming from Nevada via Montana to work in a top 50 market. Everything I own is in the back of my pickup. I’m going to be the best TV news cameraman Channel 3 has ever had. I roll into town, find an apartment, hit the ground running. Broad shoulders, blue eyes, brand new job…I’m on top of the world.
And you?
You’re an eight-week old Siamese kitten.
Chocolate face, paws and tail. Creamy white everywhere else. You’re just like the cat our family had growing up. It took me awhile to find you, and I finally did.
Yes, I admit it, I like cats. Not very manly, some would say. Too bad. I had a dog when I was a kid growing up. He’d follow me around on my paper route every morning. I loved that dog like crazy, and I cried when he died. But we also had cats, and I like them. And my first pet, in an apartment, is going to be a cat. So there.
I take you home to my little one-bedroom apartment. After much internal debate I choose a name for you. It fits. You like it, or at least you respond to it. And off we go.
That first year was rough for me. For all my bluster and bravado, I struggle on the job. Some doubt creeps in. The other news shooters at Channel 3 news are good. Damn good. But at least they’re on my team. It’s the guys from 6 and 8 that are eating my lunch on a regular basis. After one particularly discouraging day I come home and write two short works on the viewfinder of my news camera. A defiant statement put right our front, for all the world to see. Now I’m going to make it or go down in flames. One or the other. Eat or be eaten – no middle ground for me.
And who was there, right with me, the whole time? You were.
You ask for nothing, some occasional petting and some one-way conversation. Maybe some tuna now and then. You’re sleeping on the ratty couch when I come home. You sit there, night after night, watch the news with me. You notice my work is getting better. I’m holding my own each evening. We flip stations back and forth, see how my coverage of any given story compares to the other two stations. Often it’s better.
Life gets a bit more complicated. Now, occasionally, a girl joins us on the couch. Never the same one for very long. Some of them think you are cute, others don’t care. You see them come and go, pay them no mind. They are no threat.
You’ve become quite the comfort cat. You sleep at the foot of the bed each night. In the winter you’ll curl up as close as you can to get some warmth. Now, instead of sitting next to me on the couch, you’re in my lap. Perhaps a bit territorial? Or are you prescient, looking into the future?
I rise to the top of the news photography crew at my station, start getting the plum assignments. I’m traveling more. The summer of 1988 I was on the road all the time. The Republican National Convention in New Orleans, the wildfire in Yellowstone National Park, a dozen other stories. When I’m home I can tell you are stressed. You’re lonely, left alone at times for up to a week. You miss me.
I tried something that I thought would help – but I was wrong.
I brought in another cat.
It might as well have been a dog. You hated her. After a few months the two of you agreed to an uneasy truce – she stayed away from me when I was home, and in exchange, you let her eat. Honestly, I wanted to help you. I had no idea it would make you feel worse. I’ve told you this a hundred times, maybe more – I’m sorry I did that. I thought it was the right thing to do, and I was wrong. But you were the bigger cat, kept a stiff upper lip, and muddled through. You forgave me.
In 1991 things began to change. I bought a townhouse. The move was traumatic for you. The first two days you did not come out from behind the entertainment center. It took you a few weeks to really get comfortable. After awhile, though, I think you approved. The place had a small, fenced backyard, so you could actually go outside, chase butterflies, eat grass. In the upstairs window I widened the ledge so you could sit and look outside, or just sit in the sun.
A new girl began to come by. It became more and more often. Sometimes she’d stay overnight, occasionally the weekend. She was a cat person and you liked her. Sort of. But it became clear to you that when she was around, you were second banana. No room for you on my lap when she was there. And you found yourself booted off the bed on those nights. You sulked a bit, but you could deal with it. She would talk nicely to you, in that high-pitched baby voice, and would pet you when I was around. In retrospect, it was probably mostly for show, but you’d take what you could get.
But you must have known it was going nowhere, and your strategy was just to wait it out. Sure enough, you were right. One day she left and never came back. She says it was her call, I say it was mine. You knew who was telling the truth.
Life returned to normal, but in the back of your mind you must have known it would happen again. It was just a matter of time. You were expecting another season, a winter of female discontent. You were right, sort of.
Except it was more than a winter of discontent.
It was an Ice Age.
She was a whirlwind, a hurricane, and she swept into our lives. And it was awesome. She stayed over more and more often, and after a while she just sort of never left. I thought it was great.
You knew better.
Once the closet started filling up with her stuff, you’d had enough. You took matters into your own paws. You started pissing and shitting in her clothes and shoes. Virtually every day you’ve leave your mark on something of hers. Her brand new patent leather pumps? Full of piss. A brand new leather jacket I bought for her? She left it on the sofa and you took a dump on it. One of her favorite party dresses, left laying at the foot of the bed one night? You pissed on that as well.
Thank you, though, for not messing with her lingerie.
You were trying to tell me something, but I didn’t want to listen. Somehow you knew this was not a good thing for me, never mind you. Looking back it was clear that you knew this was a disaster, and since I didn’t do anything about it, you did. I thought you’d outgrow it, get over it, but you didn’t. She got really upset, at one point telling me it was you or her. I actually took you to the vet to see if you had a medical problem. The vet said you were fine, we should just give it time.
But you saw the cycle of fighting and making up. You knew that beyond the physical attraction there was nothing beneath the surface. We were so right for each other, but we were absolutely wrong for each other. You saw it after about three months.
It took me three years.
Oh, she moved out after you ruined half her wardrobe, but we continued to see each other. When it finally ended, it was sort of a relief for both of us. But the day she moved the last of her things out of the townhouse was the last day you ‘forgot’ to use the litter box.
Thank you, old friend. Thank you.
You and I grew close again. For a year there were few visitors. It was you and I, and the other cat. Then one day she was gone as well. I never knew what happened. She must have found a way out of the backyard. But she never came back. You didn’t seem to miss her.
A year later I met the woman who would become my wife. We dated. She stayed over far less frequently than the last one, and when she did, you never messed with her stuff. She liked you, petted you, but didn’t suck up to you as others had. She knew she didn’t need to play those games. When she was there, we all got along. It was very comfortable.
When we got married things began to move fast. Life changed again for you. We bought a house, twice the size of the townhouse. A large backyard, still fenced, but ways for you to sneak out. Lots of new furniture, some of which you aren’t allowed to jump on. It took you some time to explore, to learn your way around, and to find a couple of new secret places where you could hide.
But you’ve been absolutely been bumped down one rung on the ladder. You had the direct line to my attention. Now you take second place to my wife. And by and large, you’re okay with that. You don’t hold it against me. There’s plenty of time to find me for some lap time. And we do have some of that…just not as much as we used to.
Fourteen months after we’re married, Chris is born. This is something new. Suddenly I have much less time for you, and my wife has virtually none. Chris takes all of our time and gets all of our attention. He cries in the middle of the day, the middle of the night, and lots of other times in between – very unsettling for you. Now there’s a room in the house you are not allowed to go into.
When you do find my lap I’m often asleep. Not good company. But you don’t complain.
As Chris gets older he begins to notice you. He’s fascinated by you. He wants to grab you, play with you. He surprised you one day by crawling over to you, yanks your tail. Justifiably, you swat him with your paw and he cries. Unjustifiably, you get punished. You’re sad, but you don’t complain.
You now realize you’ve been bumped down one more rung on the ladder.
Just as Chris begins to learn how to pet you nicely, Tommy is born. Here we go again. As Tommy learns to crawl, then toddle, he pursues you with a greater vengeance that Chris ever did. He throws things at you. He’ll stroke you nicely, then yank your ear. It’s just not fair.
One more rung down the ladder. Always the lowest rung. The ladder gets bigger, but just increases the separation between us.
Maybe one day, lying in a small patch of sunlight streaming through the basement window, you contemplate how your life has changed. After all we’ve been through together, is this all you have left? You hardly ever see me anymore. You can’t remember the last time you sat in my lap to watch the news. You haven’t slept on my bed in years. You can’t sit on half the furniture in the house, can’t go into the two sunniest bedrooms, and have to constantly keep your eye out for the two crazy mini-me’s who’d just as soon step on your tail as pet you.
And you’re getting older. Did you know you’re 18 human years old? That’s about 126 in dog years, give or take, and who knows how many in cat years. You’re a couple of steps slower. You take the stairs more slowly, one at a time. Your fur is not as glossy as it once was. You’ve lost some weight.
Sleep on the bed? You can no longer jump high enough to get on it.
Yet still you come. Late at night, in my office, when the rest of the house is dark. My wife and kids are sleeping. I’m on the computer, working late. You pad silently into my office, asking for just a few minutes on my lap. ‘Please,’ you think, ‘can I have a minute or two? How about a couple of scratches under the chin? Just for old times sake?’
Too many times I’ve said no. “I’m busy,” I’d say. “Got to get this done, get some sleep. I don’t get much sleep anymore, you know. Gotta pay these bills, get to bed. Maybe tomorrow.”
You’d turn away sadly, walk slowly to the corner, curl up with your chin on your paws. Watch me work. If you can’t have my lap, you’ll settle for being in the same room, without any kids chasing you out. It’s better than nothing. But nothing like it was.
My mom died about six weeks ago. I used to talk to her on the phone every week, every Sunday night. Did you know that she asked about you every single time? “How are the boys?” she’d ask. “How’s your kitty?” She saw you two days after I first brought you home. She was a cat person. She got it.
I miss those calls.
You know, old friend, I miss the old days. I do. Life was simpler then. We had some great times. But life has a way of moving on, and even if we could go back, I wouldn’t. I love my wife, love my kids, and love the life we’ve built together.
But you’re a big part of that life. You have to know that. This house just wouldn’t be the same without you padding around. My wife, despite the restrictions she’s placed on you, loves you. The boys love you, too, as best they can. Chris even took you to his pre-school show and tell, with my help. He was so proud to show you off to all his pre-school buddies on ‘pet day.’ And you know you were best damn looking cat in the room.
I think back to 1987. Other than you, there’s almost nothing still with us from those early days. All the furniture is gone, clothes gone, everything. Our house today looks nothing like our first apartment. Oh, wait, there is one thing. Those two words I wrote on my news camera? They’ve become my personal motto. Those words are still with us today on my license plate.
Sadly, though, our time together is running out. I can see it. Last time we went to the vet she about said as much. “You’ll need to be thinking,’ she said, ‘about how you want to handle it when he starts to decline.” It may be your kidneys, she said, or some other organs start to fail. You’re at the high end of your life expectancy You’ve used up most of your 9 lives. It’s a matter of time.
And I sense that you can feel it as well. Something about the way you look at me. It’s almost as if you’re trying to tell me. “Pet me now. There aren’t so many chances left.”
So I promise you two things.
First, I’ll never let you suffer.
And starting right now, I’ll make time for lap time. We’ll make the best of whatever weeks, months, maybe years we have left. Jump up here, old friend. Sit on my lap while I finish this post. Then I’ll shut this machine off and we’ll turn on the news. Just for old time’s sake. No, it won’t be what it was. But we’ll make it the best it can be.
Look, you see that? You know, these new TV news guys, they couldn’t hold a candle to me when I was in my prime.
See that? What was that guy thinking? How could he shoot it that way?
Rookie.
But you – you’re a veteran. A survivor. Through the good times and bad, you’ve hung in. Given everything, asked for nothing. Nothing, that is, except love. Loyalty. Friendship.
One of the best friends a guy could have.
Hello, old friend.
Come sit with me awhile.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
You’ve been warned.
Hello, old friend. It sure has been a long time, hasn’t it?
18 years and change, to be exact.
Flash back to April 1987. I’m a young, strapping TV news cameraman, coming from Nevada via Montana to work in a top 50 market. Everything I own is in the back of my pickup. I’m going to be the best TV news cameraman Channel 3 has ever had. I roll into town, find an apartment, hit the ground running. Broad shoulders, blue eyes, brand new job…I’m on top of the world.
And you?
You’re an eight-week old Siamese kitten.
Chocolate face, paws and tail. Creamy white everywhere else. You’re just like the cat our family had growing up. It took me awhile to find you, and I finally did.
Yes, I admit it, I like cats. Not very manly, some would say. Too bad. I had a dog when I was a kid growing up. He’d follow me around on my paper route every morning. I loved that dog like crazy, and I cried when he died. But we also had cats, and I like them. And my first pet, in an apartment, is going to be a cat. So there.
I take you home to my little one-bedroom apartment. After much internal debate I choose a name for you. It fits. You like it, or at least you respond to it. And off we go.
That first year was rough for me. For all my bluster and bravado, I struggle on the job. Some doubt creeps in. The other news shooters at Channel 3 news are good. Damn good. But at least they’re on my team. It’s the guys from 6 and 8 that are eating my lunch on a regular basis. After one particularly discouraging day I come home and write two short works on the viewfinder of my news camera. A defiant statement put right our front, for all the world to see. Now I’m going to make it or go down in flames. One or the other. Eat or be eaten – no middle ground for me.
And who was there, right with me, the whole time? You were.
You ask for nothing, some occasional petting and some one-way conversation. Maybe some tuna now and then. You’re sleeping on the ratty couch when I come home. You sit there, night after night, watch the news with me. You notice my work is getting better. I’m holding my own each evening. We flip stations back and forth, see how my coverage of any given story compares to the other two stations. Often it’s better.
Life gets a bit more complicated. Now, occasionally, a girl joins us on the couch. Never the same one for very long. Some of them think you are cute, others don’t care. You see them come and go, pay them no mind. They are no threat.
You’ve become quite the comfort cat. You sleep at the foot of the bed each night. In the winter you’ll curl up as close as you can to get some warmth. Now, instead of sitting next to me on the couch, you’re in my lap. Perhaps a bit territorial? Or are you prescient, looking into the future?
I rise to the top of the news photography crew at my station, start getting the plum assignments. I’m traveling more. The summer of 1988 I was on the road all the time. The Republican National Convention in New Orleans, the wildfire in Yellowstone National Park, a dozen other stories. When I’m home I can tell you are stressed. You’re lonely, left alone at times for up to a week. You miss me.
I tried something that I thought would help – but I was wrong.
I brought in another cat.
It might as well have been a dog. You hated her. After a few months the two of you agreed to an uneasy truce – she stayed away from me when I was home, and in exchange, you let her eat. Honestly, I wanted to help you. I had no idea it would make you feel worse. I’ve told you this a hundred times, maybe more – I’m sorry I did that. I thought it was the right thing to do, and I was wrong. But you were the bigger cat, kept a stiff upper lip, and muddled through. You forgave me.
In 1991 things began to change. I bought a townhouse. The move was traumatic for you. The first two days you did not come out from behind the entertainment center. It took you a few weeks to really get comfortable. After awhile, though, I think you approved. The place had a small, fenced backyard, so you could actually go outside, chase butterflies, eat grass. In the upstairs window I widened the ledge so you could sit and look outside, or just sit in the sun.
A new girl began to come by. It became more and more often. Sometimes she’d stay overnight, occasionally the weekend. She was a cat person and you liked her. Sort of. But it became clear to you that when she was around, you were second banana. No room for you on my lap when she was there. And you found yourself booted off the bed on those nights. You sulked a bit, but you could deal with it. She would talk nicely to you, in that high-pitched baby voice, and would pet you when I was around. In retrospect, it was probably mostly for show, but you’d take what you could get.
But you must have known it was going nowhere, and your strategy was just to wait it out. Sure enough, you were right. One day she left and never came back. She says it was her call, I say it was mine. You knew who was telling the truth.
Life returned to normal, but in the back of your mind you must have known it would happen again. It was just a matter of time. You were expecting another season, a winter of female discontent. You were right, sort of.
Except it was more than a winter of discontent.
It was an Ice Age.
She was a whirlwind, a hurricane, and she swept into our lives. And it was awesome. She stayed over more and more often, and after a while she just sort of never left. I thought it was great.
You knew better.
Once the closet started filling up with her stuff, you’d had enough. You took matters into your own paws. You started pissing and shitting in her clothes and shoes. Virtually every day you’ve leave your mark on something of hers. Her brand new patent leather pumps? Full of piss. A brand new leather jacket I bought for her? She left it on the sofa and you took a dump on it. One of her favorite party dresses, left laying at the foot of the bed one night? You pissed on that as well.
Thank you, though, for not messing with her lingerie.
You were trying to tell me something, but I didn’t want to listen. Somehow you knew this was not a good thing for me, never mind you. Looking back it was clear that you knew this was a disaster, and since I didn’t do anything about it, you did. I thought you’d outgrow it, get over it, but you didn’t. She got really upset, at one point telling me it was you or her. I actually took you to the vet to see if you had a medical problem. The vet said you were fine, we should just give it time.
But you saw the cycle of fighting and making up. You knew that beyond the physical attraction there was nothing beneath the surface. We were so right for each other, but we were absolutely wrong for each other. You saw it after about three months.
It took me three years.
Oh, she moved out after you ruined half her wardrobe, but we continued to see each other. When it finally ended, it was sort of a relief for both of us. But the day she moved the last of her things out of the townhouse was the last day you ‘forgot’ to use the litter box.
Thank you, old friend. Thank you.
You and I grew close again. For a year there were few visitors. It was you and I, and the other cat. Then one day she was gone as well. I never knew what happened. She must have found a way out of the backyard. But she never came back. You didn’t seem to miss her.
A year later I met the woman who would become my wife. We dated. She stayed over far less frequently than the last one, and when she did, you never messed with her stuff. She liked you, petted you, but didn’t suck up to you as others had. She knew she didn’t need to play those games. When she was there, we all got along. It was very comfortable.
When we got married things began to move fast. Life changed again for you. We bought a house, twice the size of the townhouse. A large backyard, still fenced, but ways for you to sneak out. Lots of new furniture, some of which you aren’t allowed to jump on. It took you some time to explore, to learn your way around, and to find a couple of new secret places where you could hide.
But you’ve been absolutely been bumped down one rung on the ladder. You had the direct line to my attention. Now you take second place to my wife. And by and large, you’re okay with that. You don’t hold it against me. There’s plenty of time to find me for some lap time. And we do have some of that…just not as much as we used to.
Fourteen months after we’re married, Chris is born. This is something new. Suddenly I have much less time for you, and my wife has virtually none. Chris takes all of our time and gets all of our attention. He cries in the middle of the day, the middle of the night, and lots of other times in between – very unsettling for you. Now there’s a room in the house you are not allowed to go into.
When you do find my lap I’m often asleep. Not good company. But you don’t complain.
As Chris gets older he begins to notice you. He’s fascinated by you. He wants to grab you, play with you. He surprised you one day by crawling over to you, yanks your tail. Justifiably, you swat him with your paw and he cries. Unjustifiably, you get punished. You’re sad, but you don’t complain.
You now realize you’ve been bumped down one more rung on the ladder.
Just as Chris begins to learn how to pet you nicely, Tommy is born. Here we go again. As Tommy learns to crawl, then toddle, he pursues you with a greater vengeance that Chris ever did. He throws things at you. He’ll stroke you nicely, then yank your ear. It’s just not fair.
One more rung down the ladder. Always the lowest rung. The ladder gets bigger, but just increases the separation between us.
Maybe one day, lying in a small patch of sunlight streaming through the basement window, you contemplate how your life has changed. After all we’ve been through together, is this all you have left? You hardly ever see me anymore. You can’t remember the last time you sat in my lap to watch the news. You haven’t slept on my bed in years. You can’t sit on half the furniture in the house, can’t go into the two sunniest bedrooms, and have to constantly keep your eye out for the two crazy mini-me’s who’d just as soon step on your tail as pet you.
And you’re getting older. Did you know you’re 18 human years old? That’s about 126 in dog years, give or take, and who knows how many in cat years. You’re a couple of steps slower. You take the stairs more slowly, one at a time. Your fur is not as glossy as it once was. You’ve lost some weight.
Sleep on the bed? You can no longer jump high enough to get on it.
Yet still you come. Late at night, in my office, when the rest of the house is dark. My wife and kids are sleeping. I’m on the computer, working late. You pad silently into my office, asking for just a few minutes on my lap. ‘Please,’ you think, ‘can I have a minute or two? How about a couple of scratches under the chin? Just for old times sake?’
Too many times I’ve said no. “I’m busy,” I’d say. “Got to get this done, get some sleep. I don’t get much sleep anymore, you know. Gotta pay these bills, get to bed. Maybe tomorrow.”
You’d turn away sadly, walk slowly to the corner, curl up with your chin on your paws. Watch me work. If you can’t have my lap, you’ll settle for being in the same room, without any kids chasing you out. It’s better than nothing. But nothing like it was.
My mom died about six weeks ago. I used to talk to her on the phone every week, every Sunday night. Did you know that she asked about you every single time? “How are the boys?” she’d ask. “How’s your kitty?” She saw you two days after I first brought you home. She was a cat person. She got it.
I miss those calls.
You know, old friend, I miss the old days. I do. Life was simpler then. We had some great times. But life has a way of moving on, and even if we could go back, I wouldn’t. I love my wife, love my kids, and love the life we’ve built together.
But you’re a big part of that life. You have to know that. This house just wouldn’t be the same without you padding around. My wife, despite the restrictions she’s placed on you, loves you. The boys love you, too, as best they can. Chris even took you to his pre-school show and tell, with my help. He was so proud to show you off to all his pre-school buddies on ‘pet day.’ And you know you were best damn looking cat in the room.
I think back to 1987. Other than you, there’s almost nothing still with us from those early days. All the furniture is gone, clothes gone, everything. Our house today looks nothing like our first apartment. Oh, wait, there is one thing. Those two words I wrote on my news camera? They’ve become my personal motto. Those words are still with us today on my license plate.
Sadly, though, our time together is running out. I can see it. Last time we went to the vet she about said as much. “You’ll need to be thinking,’ she said, ‘about how you want to handle it when he starts to decline.” It may be your kidneys, she said, or some other organs start to fail. You’re at the high end of your life expectancy You’ve used up most of your 9 lives. It’s a matter of time.
And I sense that you can feel it as well. Something about the way you look at me. It’s almost as if you’re trying to tell me. “Pet me now. There aren’t so many chances left.”
So I promise you two things.
First, I’ll never let you suffer.
And starting right now, I’ll make time for lap time. We’ll make the best of whatever weeks, months, maybe years we have left. Jump up here, old friend. Sit on my lap while I finish this post. Then I’ll shut this machine off and we’ll turn on the news. Just for old time’s sake. No, it won’t be what it was. But we’ll make it the best it can be.
Look, you see that? You know, these new TV news guys, they couldn’t hold a candle to me when I was in my prime.
See that? What was that guy thinking? How could he shoot it that way?
Rookie.
But you – you’re a veteran. A survivor. Through the good times and bad, you’ve hung in. Given everything, asked for nothing. Nothing, that is, except love. Loyalty. Friendship.
One of the best friends a guy could have.
Hello, old friend.
Come sit with me awhile.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Dirty Laundry
I don’t talk much about my job in this blog. It really isn’t that relevant to most of the stories I tell. Suffice it to say that I have a position in the marketing department of a technology company. It’s a white collar job, pays reasonably well, and I have no complaints whatsoever.
But I do have a slight entrepreneurial streak, and though I many never muster the courage to follow through with it, I have dreamed of owning my own business. Actually, what I’ve been kicking around recently is the thought of a having a second, side business that I could manage while still keeping my day job.
One reason for considering this I’m thinking as Chris and Tommy get older I could hire them to do some work, and ease their entry into the workforce, help them build a good work ethic, and with actual income to their credit, establish a Roth IRA for each. Who knows, if it took off maybe it could be their job during the summer when they’re in high school.
Okay, that’s still a long way off. But I like to think ahead.
Anyway, I’ve put some thought into what kind of business would work. First, it would have to be a business that did not require me to physically be there every day. It has to be the kind of business that I would not have to show up at a specific time each day, for example, to unlock to doors in the morning or lock them again at night. It would be a business that has little or no actual inventory, and requires few, if any, employees. I don’t have the time to deal with employees calling in sick, and I can’t be leaving my office every couple of hours to handle some crisis.
Well, as you can figure out, there aren’t too many businesses that meet these criteria. One that I’ve come up with is self-serve car washes, where you pull your ride into a stall and use the wand or brush to wash it. You feed quarters into the box and you get a certain number of minutes. I like it because it’s a cash business, I’d never have to be there at any specific time, and I could go there whenever I wanted to clean up the place and pocket my bags of quarters. Plus, it’s open 24-7, so I can make money while I sleep.
Unfortunately these are very expensive. I’ve looked at a few, made an offer on one, but wasn’t able to pull it off. It’s really a stretch for where I am financially right now.
My other thought was a Laundromat. This is also a cash business, has little or no inventory, and it could be open 24-7. I’d need a cleaning service to come in each day and mop the floor, clean the bathroom, etc., but probably would not require much else in the way of labor. But these are also expensive. The couple that I have found for sale are asking way too much money.
So what is the point of this, you ask? The name of this blog is not The Business Man, after all.
Well, the point is that I must have been thinking about Laundromats the other day and nodded off.
Because the next thing I knew, I was in my Laundromat, working away.
It was not exactly as I imagined it. I was behind a counter under a big sign that said ‘Wash and Fold.’ And there was an enormous pile of laundry in front of me, waiting to be folded. My employee had not shown up – I didn’t even know I HAD an employee - so I had to sort and fold this huge pile of laundry.
Well, I’m an industrious guy with a strong work ethic, so I got after it and started sorting and folding. It didn’t look so bad; I was making some real progress. After a few minutes of folding I took a look around to see what my Laundromat looked like.
It was awful.
I mean, I only had one washer and one dryer! Who in their right mind opens a Laundromat with one washer and one dryer? And clearly I had the business to support more machines, because there were baskets and bags full of dirty laundry waiting to go into my single pair of machines.
Memo to the Boss: Develop and execute expansion plan right away!
But wait a minute. This single washer/dryer pair was no ordinary Kenmore. Each load only took about 90 seconds to wash and another 90 seconds to dry. And the one customer I had on the floor at the moment was filling and emptying these machines as fast as they could clean and dry the clothes. It was like something out of a cartoon – huge armfuls of clothes went into the washer, only to be taken out again and thrown into the dryer, where the same huge armfuls of clothes came out all hot and fluffy and pitched into my pile at the Wash & Fold counter.
It quickly became apparent that I was going to have a hard time keeping up with the folding. The clothes were piling up at an alarmingly fast rate. I dug back into the pile and started folding again. And as I got going I noticed that most of the clothes were little. Not doll clothes, exactly, but kid clothes.
Tons and tons of kid clothes.
I looked out at my lone customer, still madly moving huge piles of clothes into and out of the machines. She was working furiously, sweat dripping from her hair, arms moving so quickly they appeared as a blur. But instead of shrinking as the clothes came out of the washer and into the dryer, the pile of dirty laundry got bigger.
This woman looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. On the other hand, how could I? I’d only owned this place, as near as I could tell, for about 15 minutes.
I went back to the folding pile and started again. In two minutes the pile had doubled in size. Shorts, pants, shirts, pajamas, all in kid sizes. Was that Snow White out there using my Laundromat? Was I folding the laundry for seven dwarves?
No, that couldn’t be it. There were way too many clothes here for only seven dwarves. Maybe this laundry is from an orphanage. Like, perhaps, the only orphanage for all of China.
I pulled on the sleeve of a shirt when the pile shifted and out poured an avalanche of socks. It knocked me out of my chair and onto the floor, burying me up to my chest in socks. I quickly began to sort them, looking for matches…but to no avail. Not a single sock matched any of the others. I did a quick count, just to get a ballpark number.
There were eight million socks. Each one without a match.
Something was definitely wrong here. I must have purchased the only Laundromat in Hell.
I looked back out at my customer. She was demonic. Moving so fast I could not follow her motion. The machines were both belching water and steam, clothes flying everywhere, but somehow ending up in my pile of Clothes To Be Folded. The pile of dirty laundry now extending out the door and into the parking lot.
Suddenly the woman stops, turns and stares at me. Here eyes are shooting daggers. If looks could kill I’d be dead.
Now I recognize the customer.
It’s my wife.
She’s shouting something. No, screaming is a more accurate description. And it’s directed at me.
“Are you going to stand there and watch me work all day?”
I feel something kicking my foot. Harder and harder. I can’t see what it is because I’m up to my shoulders in unfolded laundry. The kicking really starts to hurt, so I start to dig through the pile of clothes to see what’s going on.
“Hey,” I hear someone say, “are you going to fold these clothes or what?”
I look up. I’m back in my own living room. Sitting on the floor.
Surrounded by laundry that needs to be folded.
My wife is standing there. Chris and Tommy are right behind her.
“We’re going out to play,” she says. “If you’d get your act together, maybe you could join us.”
I nod, mumble something, reach for a shirt. Start folding. My wife and kids walk out of the room, through the kitchen and into the backyard. Soon I hear them laughing and having fun.
Wow.
I think I’ll take another look at the car wash idea.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
But I do have a slight entrepreneurial streak, and though I many never muster the courage to follow through with it, I have dreamed of owning my own business. Actually, what I’ve been kicking around recently is the thought of a having a second, side business that I could manage while still keeping my day job.
One reason for considering this I’m thinking as Chris and Tommy get older I could hire them to do some work, and ease their entry into the workforce, help them build a good work ethic, and with actual income to their credit, establish a Roth IRA for each. Who knows, if it took off maybe it could be their job during the summer when they’re in high school.
Okay, that’s still a long way off. But I like to think ahead.
Anyway, I’ve put some thought into what kind of business would work. First, it would have to be a business that did not require me to physically be there every day. It has to be the kind of business that I would not have to show up at a specific time each day, for example, to unlock to doors in the morning or lock them again at night. It would be a business that has little or no actual inventory, and requires few, if any, employees. I don’t have the time to deal with employees calling in sick, and I can’t be leaving my office every couple of hours to handle some crisis.
Well, as you can figure out, there aren’t too many businesses that meet these criteria. One that I’ve come up with is self-serve car washes, where you pull your ride into a stall and use the wand or brush to wash it. You feed quarters into the box and you get a certain number of minutes. I like it because it’s a cash business, I’d never have to be there at any specific time, and I could go there whenever I wanted to clean up the place and pocket my bags of quarters. Plus, it’s open 24-7, so I can make money while I sleep.
Unfortunately these are very expensive. I’ve looked at a few, made an offer on one, but wasn’t able to pull it off. It’s really a stretch for where I am financially right now.
My other thought was a Laundromat. This is also a cash business, has little or no inventory, and it could be open 24-7. I’d need a cleaning service to come in each day and mop the floor, clean the bathroom, etc., but probably would not require much else in the way of labor. But these are also expensive. The couple that I have found for sale are asking way too much money.
So what is the point of this, you ask? The name of this blog is not The Business Man, after all.
Well, the point is that I must have been thinking about Laundromats the other day and nodded off.
Because the next thing I knew, I was in my Laundromat, working away.
It was not exactly as I imagined it. I was behind a counter under a big sign that said ‘Wash and Fold.’ And there was an enormous pile of laundry in front of me, waiting to be folded. My employee had not shown up – I didn’t even know I HAD an employee - so I had to sort and fold this huge pile of laundry.
Well, I’m an industrious guy with a strong work ethic, so I got after it and started sorting and folding. It didn’t look so bad; I was making some real progress. After a few minutes of folding I took a look around to see what my Laundromat looked like.
It was awful.
I mean, I only had one washer and one dryer! Who in their right mind opens a Laundromat with one washer and one dryer? And clearly I had the business to support more machines, because there were baskets and bags full of dirty laundry waiting to go into my single pair of machines.
Memo to the Boss: Develop and execute expansion plan right away!
But wait a minute. This single washer/dryer pair was no ordinary Kenmore. Each load only took about 90 seconds to wash and another 90 seconds to dry. And the one customer I had on the floor at the moment was filling and emptying these machines as fast as they could clean and dry the clothes. It was like something out of a cartoon – huge armfuls of clothes went into the washer, only to be taken out again and thrown into the dryer, where the same huge armfuls of clothes came out all hot and fluffy and pitched into my pile at the Wash & Fold counter.
It quickly became apparent that I was going to have a hard time keeping up with the folding. The clothes were piling up at an alarmingly fast rate. I dug back into the pile and started folding again. And as I got going I noticed that most of the clothes were little. Not doll clothes, exactly, but kid clothes.
Tons and tons of kid clothes.
I looked out at my lone customer, still madly moving huge piles of clothes into and out of the machines. She was working furiously, sweat dripping from her hair, arms moving so quickly they appeared as a blur. But instead of shrinking as the clothes came out of the washer and into the dryer, the pile of dirty laundry got bigger.
This woman looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. On the other hand, how could I? I’d only owned this place, as near as I could tell, for about 15 minutes.
I went back to the folding pile and started again. In two minutes the pile had doubled in size. Shorts, pants, shirts, pajamas, all in kid sizes. Was that Snow White out there using my Laundromat? Was I folding the laundry for seven dwarves?
No, that couldn’t be it. There were way too many clothes here for only seven dwarves. Maybe this laundry is from an orphanage. Like, perhaps, the only orphanage for all of China.
I pulled on the sleeve of a shirt when the pile shifted and out poured an avalanche of socks. It knocked me out of my chair and onto the floor, burying me up to my chest in socks. I quickly began to sort them, looking for matches…but to no avail. Not a single sock matched any of the others. I did a quick count, just to get a ballpark number.
There were eight million socks. Each one without a match.
Something was definitely wrong here. I must have purchased the only Laundromat in Hell.
I looked back out at my customer. She was demonic. Moving so fast I could not follow her motion. The machines were both belching water and steam, clothes flying everywhere, but somehow ending up in my pile of Clothes To Be Folded. The pile of dirty laundry now extending out the door and into the parking lot.
Suddenly the woman stops, turns and stares at me. Here eyes are shooting daggers. If looks could kill I’d be dead.
Now I recognize the customer.
It’s my wife.
She’s shouting something. No, screaming is a more accurate description. And it’s directed at me.
“Are you going to stand there and watch me work all day?”
I feel something kicking my foot. Harder and harder. I can’t see what it is because I’m up to my shoulders in unfolded laundry. The kicking really starts to hurt, so I start to dig through the pile of clothes to see what’s going on.
“Hey,” I hear someone say, “are you going to fold these clothes or what?”
I look up. I’m back in my own living room. Sitting on the floor.
Surrounded by laundry that needs to be folded.
My wife is standing there. Chris and Tommy are right behind her.
“We’re going out to play,” she says. “If you’d get your act together, maybe you could join us.”
I nod, mumble something, reach for a shirt. Start folding. My wife and kids walk out of the room, through the kitchen and into the backyard. Soon I hear them laughing and having fun.
Wow.
I think I’ll take another look at the car wash idea.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Birthday Boy
During the last couple of weeks, while you were reading about a certain medical procedure, a far more important event took place.
Tommy turned three years old.
For those readers who have young children, you may have experienced the dreaded Birthday Party. It seems the bar has been raised when giving a birthday party for a child, at least in our socio-economic circle. These days, if you don’t have a clown, magician, live pony rides, an inflatable jumping/bouncing castle, a professionally catered meal and cake, and half-a dozen party games, well, you just haven’t done right by your child. The last few birthday parties we’ve attended with one of our kids have resembled a small county fair.
Not to be a scrooge or anything, but I think the whole thing has gotten out of hand.
Plus, Chris and Tommy have their birthdays less than three weeks apart, and what we do for one, we have to do for the other. I’m not going through that twice in less that a month. And to pull off one of these uber-parties, we’d probably need a conditional land use permit from the City.
So we went old-school. We had a small gathering, family only, on the deck in our backyard. We sang happy birthday, watched Tommy huff and puff to blow out the three candles on his cake, watched him open presents, ate the birthday cake with ice cream, and called it good.
Oh, by the way, he had a wonderful time. And he did get some nice presents, some of which have not been broken yet.
I’ll share with you the three best things, from my point of view, from the big day.
First was watching him blow out the candles. He’s a bit undersized for his age, but with the heart and will of a lion. Still, his lungs are what they are, and he has asthma to boot. So blowing out the candles was a monumental task. Ultimately, I’m not sure if he blew them out or drowned them, if you get my drift. But by God he would not accept any help, and he was going to get those candles out if it took him all night. When he finally did get them I’m not sure who was happier – Tommy, me, or his pediatrician.
Second, his presents. He received some nice toys. We didn’t skimp on gifts (even if some of you think we screwed him on the party), and his grandparents spoiled him rotten. But he’s not a particularly materialistic boy, and he was as excited to open the cards as he was the wrapped boxes. He expressed that pure, un-jaded joy at opening each and every present. “Oh, this is GREAT!” he would say after opening each present. I so much enjoyed seeing the look of surprise and happiness on his face as he opened his packages
But this last item was the best of all.
As I was tucking him into bed, I asked him, “Tommy, how old are you?”
“Three,” he answered.
I looked at him sadly. “Yes, you should have turned three today. But I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
A look of concern crossed his face.
“Tommy,” I said, “I’ve decided you have to stay two for one more year.”
He didn’t quite understand. “You see, Dads can do this one time to each of their children. They can have them stay the same age one time. You’re so cute as a two-year old that I want you to stay two for one more year.”
He started to shake his head ‘no.' “Don’t worry,” I said, “You can still keep all of your presents. But when someone asks you how old you are, you have to say ‘two.’
He thought about this for a minute.
“No, I’m three,’ he said.
“Show me how many years old you are,” I said.
He put up his hand, and two fingers stood up. The peace sign. He’s had a whole year to practice this and he’s got it down. Then he furrowed his brow, used his other hand to help, and slowly straightened his ring finger to join the other two. He thrust this forward and said, “I’m three.”
I held his hand and put the ring finger back down. “No, Tommy, you have to be two. Just for one more year.”
He yanked his hand back, and using both hands, got that finger back up. “I’m three!”
It must have been the grin I could no longer contain that gave it away. Or maybe it was just another manifestation of his indomitable will and determination. But he smiled triumphantly and says firmly, “I’m three!”
“No, no, no, you have to stay two!” I wailed, wrestling his third finger down. “Please, Tommy, you have your whole life to grow up! Please stay two for just one more year!”
He’s laughing now. “Three!”
“Two.”
“Three!”
I tickle him. “Tommy, two is perfect for you! You can do it! Keep your presents, just stay two!”
We’re both helpless with laughter, tickling and rolling on the floor. “Three!” “No, two!” “No, three!” “Two, two, two!”
He’s laughing so hard I have to stop and let him catch his breath. As soon as he can speak he says, “Three!”
At this point my wife comes into Tommy’s room. She stops, sees us both lying on the floor, panting. She stares. Finally says, “I don’t know who the three-year old is in this room. It looks like there are two of them.”
She points to me. “Tommy needs to go to bed. Maybe you do, too.” Her subtle smile tells us both she’s in on the game.
She scoops Tommy up, lays him in his bed, and tucks him in. “Goodnight, big boy,’ she says. Turning to me, she points to the door. “Out.”
I follow her as she walks out the door. I turn and look back at Tommy. He’s watching me.
“Two,” I whisper.
He looks up at me, covers up to his chin. His eyes sparkle. A grin slowly spreads over his face as his hand appears from under the covers.
He holds up two fingers.
Slowly, the third rises up.
“Three,” he says softly.
“Three.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tommy turned three years old.
For those readers who have young children, you may have experienced the dreaded Birthday Party. It seems the bar has been raised when giving a birthday party for a child, at least in our socio-economic circle. These days, if you don’t have a clown, magician, live pony rides, an inflatable jumping/bouncing castle, a professionally catered meal and cake, and half-a dozen party games, well, you just haven’t done right by your child. The last few birthday parties we’ve attended with one of our kids have resembled a small county fair.
Not to be a scrooge or anything, but I think the whole thing has gotten out of hand.
Plus, Chris and Tommy have their birthdays less than three weeks apart, and what we do for one, we have to do for the other. I’m not going through that twice in less that a month. And to pull off one of these uber-parties, we’d probably need a conditional land use permit from the City.
So we went old-school. We had a small gathering, family only, on the deck in our backyard. We sang happy birthday, watched Tommy huff and puff to blow out the three candles on his cake, watched him open presents, ate the birthday cake with ice cream, and called it good.
Oh, by the way, he had a wonderful time. And he did get some nice presents, some of which have not been broken yet.
I’ll share with you the three best things, from my point of view, from the big day.
First was watching him blow out the candles. He’s a bit undersized for his age, but with the heart and will of a lion. Still, his lungs are what they are, and he has asthma to boot. So blowing out the candles was a monumental task. Ultimately, I’m not sure if he blew them out or drowned them, if you get my drift. But by God he would not accept any help, and he was going to get those candles out if it took him all night. When he finally did get them I’m not sure who was happier – Tommy, me, or his pediatrician.
Second, his presents. He received some nice toys. We didn’t skimp on gifts (even if some of you think we screwed him on the party), and his grandparents spoiled him rotten. But he’s not a particularly materialistic boy, and he was as excited to open the cards as he was the wrapped boxes. He expressed that pure, un-jaded joy at opening each and every present. “Oh, this is GREAT!” he would say after opening each present. I so much enjoyed seeing the look of surprise and happiness on his face as he opened his packages
But this last item was the best of all.
As I was tucking him into bed, I asked him, “Tommy, how old are you?”
“Three,” he answered.
I looked at him sadly. “Yes, you should have turned three today. But I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
A look of concern crossed his face.
“Tommy,” I said, “I’ve decided you have to stay two for one more year.”
He didn’t quite understand. “You see, Dads can do this one time to each of their children. They can have them stay the same age one time. You’re so cute as a two-year old that I want you to stay two for one more year.”
He started to shake his head ‘no.' “Don’t worry,” I said, “You can still keep all of your presents. But when someone asks you how old you are, you have to say ‘two.’
He thought about this for a minute.
“No, I’m three,’ he said.
“Show me how many years old you are,” I said.
He put up his hand, and two fingers stood up. The peace sign. He’s had a whole year to practice this and he’s got it down. Then he furrowed his brow, used his other hand to help, and slowly straightened his ring finger to join the other two. He thrust this forward and said, “I’m three.”
I held his hand and put the ring finger back down. “No, Tommy, you have to be two. Just for one more year.”
He yanked his hand back, and using both hands, got that finger back up. “I’m three!”
It must have been the grin I could no longer contain that gave it away. Or maybe it was just another manifestation of his indomitable will and determination. But he smiled triumphantly and says firmly, “I’m three!”
“No, no, no, you have to stay two!” I wailed, wrestling his third finger down. “Please, Tommy, you have your whole life to grow up! Please stay two for just one more year!”
He’s laughing now. “Three!”
“Two.”
“Three!”
I tickle him. “Tommy, two is perfect for you! You can do it! Keep your presents, just stay two!”
We’re both helpless with laughter, tickling and rolling on the floor. “Three!” “No, two!” “No, three!” “Two, two, two!”
He’s laughing so hard I have to stop and let him catch his breath. As soon as he can speak he says, “Three!”
At this point my wife comes into Tommy’s room. She stops, sees us both lying on the floor, panting. She stares. Finally says, “I don’t know who the three-year old is in this room. It looks like there are two of them.”
She points to me. “Tommy needs to go to bed. Maybe you do, too.” Her subtle smile tells us both she’s in on the game.
She scoops Tommy up, lays him in his bed, and tucks him in. “Goodnight, big boy,’ she says. Turning to me, she points to the door. “Out.”
I follow her as she walks out the door. I turn and look back at Tommy. He’s watching me.
“Two,” I whisper.
He looks up at me, covers up to his chin. His eyes sparkle. A grin slowly spreads over his face as his hand appears from under the covers.
He holds up two fingers.
Slowly, the third rises up.
“Three,” he says softly.
“Three.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
The Boy of Summer
The sun was shining brightly that afternoon. A gentle breeze wafted over the field. In another place, at another time, it would have been a wonderful day for a picnic, a drive in the country, a stroll on the beach. A day to relax, to spend time with loved ones, a day upon which, when you looked back, you would say, “Wasn’t that a special, wonderful day?”
But today would not be like that. Today was a day for a battle. A battle royale, a clash of titans, the collision of the immovable object and the unstoppable force. There would be only one winner.
And that winner would be me.
I stood tall, ready, waiting. Who would I be facing? It didn’t matter. I’m on top of my game. Indomitable, unhittable. This day would belong to me.
I heard the crowd roar, a deafening sound, as my opponent entered the arena. Though not a tall, imposing figure, he carried himself with a confidence, a swagger that belied his height. He moved with an easy grace, supple and relaxed. It was clear the crowd loved him, and he knew it. He moved as though he, too, was sure of the outcome, an outcome which would favor him.
As he drew closer I recognized him. Fair hair, blazing green eyes. In many ways, much like myself. Only smaller.
‘Big Stick’ Chris had entered the arena.
He glanced at me, contemptuously. As if I’m not worthy of his time. He turned his back on me, raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades as though it were his birthright.
I noticed him scanning the crowd, his glance finally falling upon two figures. A tall, fair lady; slender and majestic. At her side, a young, fair-haired lad, glowering at me. His mother and brother, here to cheer him on. Sure of his victory, they appeared relaxed, confident.
I would make sure they left disappointed.
Big Stick Chris turned again, facing me. At that moment he revealed that which had given him his name – a large, sledgehammer of a bat. Nearly as tall as he, and wider than his arms. He wielded it as though it were a matchstick, as though it weighed nothing.
A slight shiver ran up my spine. Just for a moment.
He stepped up, closer. Stood facing me, just off the mark in the field. He tapped his bat, smiled a wicked, devilish smile at me, and silently mouthed the words.
‘Bring It.’
It was time. Mano-a-mano. Me. Against. Him.
I reached into the bucket at my left, selected my weapon. One of many, a simple white ball. Plastic, with holes. Seemingly harmless, yet in my hands a weapon sure to wreak devastation and frustration upon Mr. Big Stick himself.
Bring it, you say? You’ll regret those words, my little friend.
I made my move, whipping my arm and unleashing my sphere, every ounce of my strength used to disguise my change-up. Surely he would swing at air, then watch from the ground as my pitch floated slowly past him. My ball flew softly toward him as I stood back, waiting for the crowd to be silenced as he fell to the earth, defeated.
It was not to be.
He didn’t bite on the change-up. Instead, he waited, a huge smile on his face, as my pitch slowly floated right into his wheelhouse. Now the big stick is moving, creating through the sheer force of his power a wind that was felt for miles. His bat connected, crushing the ball, sending it high over the crowd and into the dusty street outside the arena.
He watched it fly. It took a long time and he enjoyed every minute of it. When the crowd finally stopped cheering, he turned back to me. His eyes said it all.
“What else you got, old man?”
I must tell you I gave everything I had that afternoon. Pitch after pitch I threw, every ounce of strength I possessed behind each one, only to watch with despair as Chris smacked each one with careless ease out of the yard. His mom and brother cheered his success. With every swing he grew stronger, more confident, as I became more drained and discouraged.
Finally it was over. I threw my last ball, he swung and drove it right past my head, knocking me to my knees, defeated. He dropped his bat and raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades, their love. They roared, they cheered. They love him.
I sat alone, forgotten.
Finally he walked over to me, offered his hand.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, “let’s play football now!”
Not a chance.
It's Great to be The Family Man
But today would not be like that. Today was a day for a battle. A battle royale, a clash of titans, the collision of the immovable object and the unstoppable force. There would be only one winner.
And that winner would be me.
I stood tall, ready, waiting. Who would I be facing? It didn’t matter. I’m on top of my game. Indomitable, unhittable. This day would belong to me.
I heard the crowd roar, a deafening sound, as my opponent entered the arena. Though not a tall, imposing figure, he carried himself with a confidence, a swagger that belied his height. He moved with an easy grace, supple and relaxed. It was clear the crowd loved him, and he knew it. He moved as though he, too, was sure of the outcome, an outcome which would favor him.
As he drew closer I recognized him. Fair hair, blazing green eyes. In many ways, much like myself. Only smaller.
‘Big Stick’ Chris had entered the arena.
He glanced at me, contemptuously. As if I’m not worthy of his time. He turned his back on me, raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades as though it were his birthright.
I noticed him scanning the crowd, his glance finally falling upon two figures. A tall, fair lady; slender and majestic. At her side, a young, fair-haired lad, glowering at me. His mother and brother, here to cheer him on. Sure of his victory, they appeared relaxed, confident.
I would make sure they left disappointed.
Big Stick Chris turned again, facing me. At that moment he revealed that which had given him his name – a large, sledgehammer of a bat. Nearly as tall as he, and wider than his arms. He wielded it as though it were a matchstick, as though it weighed nothing.
A slight shiver ran up my spine. Just for a moment.
He stepped up, closer. Stood facing me, just off the mark in the field. He tapped his bat, smiled a wicked, devilish smile at me, and silently mouthed the words.
‘Bring It.’
It was time. Mano-a-mano. Me. Against. Him.
I reached into the bucket at my left, selected my weapon. One of many, a simple white ball. Plastic, with holes. Seemingly harmless, yet in my hands a weapon sure to wreak devastation and frustration upon Mr. Big Stick himself.
Bring it, you say? You’ll regret those words, my little friend.
I made my move, whipping my arm and unleashing my sphere, every ounce of my strength used to disguise my change-up. Surely he would swing at air, then watch from the ground as my pitch floated slowly past him. My ball flew softly toward him as I stood back, waiting for the crowd to be silenced as he fell to the earth, defeated.
It was not to be.
He didn’t bite on the change-up. Instead, he waited, a huge smile on his face, as my pitch slowly floated right into his wheelhouse. Now the big stick is moving, creating through the sheer force of his power a wind that was felt for miles. His bat connected, crushing the ball, sending it high over the crowd and into the dusty street outside the arena.
He watched it fly. It took a long time and he enjoyed every minute of it. When the crowd finally stopped cheering, he turned back to me. His eyes said it all.
“What else you got, old man?”
I must tell you I gave everything I had that afternoon. Pitch after pitch I threw, every ounce of strength I possessed behind each one, only to watch with despair as Chris smacked each one with careless ease out of the yard. His mom and brother cheered his success. With every swing he grew stronger, more confident, as I became more drained and discouraged.
Finally it was over. I threw my last ball, he swung and drove it right past my head, knocking me to my knees, defeated. He dropped his bat and raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades, their love. They roared, they cheered. They love him.
I sat alone, forgotten.
Finally he walked over to me, offered his hand.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, “let’s play football now!”
Not a chance.
It's Great to be The Family Man
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