A phone call

We’re sitting at the dinner table – Chris, Tommy, MBW and I. It’s lasagna night, and MBW makes awesome lasagna. The boys like it because it’s good, and also because it’s a bit messy. That makes it fun.

With every bite I’m thinking of how hard I’m going to have to work at the gym tonight. Still, it’s worth it. I have a forkful of luscious lasagna on final approach when the phone rings.

Before the first ring is complete Chris is up and out of his chair and dashing for the phone. At age five, he thinks answering the phone is one of the coolest things ever. MBW has taught him well – he picks up the phone and says, “Hello, Mann residence.”

He pauses for just a second, listening intently. He turns to me and says, “Dad, it’s for you.”

I get up from the table and take the phone. “Hello?”

A clipped, professional female voice on the other end of the line says, “Please hold for Stephen McPherson.” It’s less of a request and more of a command. Her voice is immediately replaced by some canned ‘hold’ music.

I’m both annoyed and perplexed. First of all, I have no idea who is calling, why they are calling, or who Stephen McPherson is. Second, I have put our phone numbers on the National Do Not Call list, and I’ve gotten used to not having telemarketers bug us. I’m perplexed because this doesn’t feel like a telemarketing call. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going on.

Just as I’m about to hang up and get back to dinner, a male voice comes on the line.

“Mr. Mann? Mr. Fam Mann? Hey, how’re you doing tonight?”

The voice is pure LA – smooth, confident, and absolutely insincere.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“Fam, this is Steve McPherson, and I’m VP of programming at ABC TV. I just want to talk to you for a minute about your TV viewing. Well, actually, you’re lack of TV viewing.”

This has to be a prank phone call.

“Okay, you’re funny. I’m laughing. Really. Now who are you and what do you want? Did somebody put you up to this?”

“No, Fam, I really want to talk to you tonight. You write a blog, a popular blog, and you said something about not watching TV, and you mentioned some of our shows. I want to talk to you and see if I can’t convince you to take a look our shows, see what you’re missing, maybe tell people they’re missing some quality TV.”

Could this be for real?

“Did you actually read the blog” I ask?

“No, Fam, I didn’t. I don’t do blogs. But one of my assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife read it. She reads you all the time. I hear you really bashed some of our shows. Ratings have actually gone down a half-point since you put that thing out on the Internet.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Steve, if this is for real, you need to know something. My ‘popular blog’ is read, on average, by less than a hundred people a day. I mostly talk about my kids. I did write a piece on TV, basically saying we have better things to do than watch sitcoms. There’s no way this piece could have had any influence on your ratings.”

“Fam, baby, the numbers don’t lie. Ratings are down. Advertisers are unhappy. Producers are unhappy. Local affiliates across the country are unhappy. Worse, Eva Longoria is unhappy. Jennifer Garner is unhappy. I can’t have that. Everything was fine until you wrote this blog thing, and now the sh!% has hit the fan. We gotta do something here, Fam.”

“Excuse me, did you just call me “Fam, baby?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Look, Fam, let’s be reasonable about this. All I want is for you to go back on your blog thing and write up something about you decided to watch our shows, how great they are, how you and your family enjoy spending quality time in front of your television.”

“Well, ‘Steve ‘baby’, I really try not to lie on my blog. It’s called credibility? Maybe you’ve heard of that. We don’t watch much TV. We do other things.”

“Fam, I hear you. But think about this. Do you want your kids to grow up like you, unable to make small talk in the office because they haven’t watched the latest episodes of the hottest shows? Do you want your kids to be social outcasts, to not be ‘with it?’?”

“Steve-o, that really doesn’t describe me. Or my kids”

“No? Perhaps this does. By not watching television and supporting our advertisers, you’re not doing your part to keep the economy growing. I don’t know how to say this any other way, but frankly, you’re acting very un-American.”

I really can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

He continues, “But I know, in your own misguided way, you’re trying to do what you think is right for you and your family. I have an idea, if you’re willing to listen, to get you to sample one of our shows.”

I can’t wait to hear this.

“What is it?”

His voice lowers, conspiratorially. “Send your wife and kids over to her sister’s house next Sunday night. I’ll arrange for Eva Longoria to come over to your house to watch Desperate Housewives with you. Trust me, after that hour you’ll be hooked. Know what I mean, Fam?”

I swear I could hear him winking at me over the phone.

“Um…no.”

“Okay, how about Teri Hatcher?

“No.”

“Fam, what’s with you? What is your problem?”

I wasn’t aware that I had a problem. This gives me pause.

But you know what? He’s right. Now that I think about it, I do have a problem.

“Steve, I guess you’re right. I do have a problem. My problem is that I have a beautiful wife, two great young boys, a reasonably demanding job. I’ve got a house, a mortgage, bills to pay, college funds to fill. I’ve got a waistline that wants me to go to the gym, not sit on the couch. I’ve got a stack of books, really good books, that call to me if I do sit on the couch. I’ve got friends, despite the fact that I can’t talk about TV shows.”

“My problem, Steve-o, is that I have a life. A full life, a great life. A life that, frankly, is too full to spend watching Desperately Lost Housewives with Aliases.”

I pause for a moment.

“Not only that, Steve-o, my wife makes Eva look like your assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife.”

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line.

“What have you got against TV, Fam?”

“Nothing,” I said, “I watch TV five days a week.”

“What ARE you watching, then?"

In the morning Chris and Tommy watch Sesame Street. I think, over the last few years, I’ve seen almost every episode, many more than once.

“Steve,” I said, “I live in Elmo’s World.”

Pause.

“Fam, you’re a real jerk,” Steve-o says, and hangs up on me.

I turn and put the phone back on the cradle. Chris looks at me and asks, “Who was that, Dad?”

I smile and say, “Guess who called, guys?”

Tommy says, “Who, Daddy?”

“It was Oscar the Grouch!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Comfort

It’s 11:30 p.m. Saturday night. Wild, crazy guy that I am, I’m sitting on the couch reading Friday’s Wall Street Journal. It’s a particularly exciting issue. I like to look at the real estate section and wonder who the people are that are buying all the fabulous multi-million dollar condos, estates and 500 acre mountain retreats that are listed. Maybe if I read the Journal long enough, I’ll be one of them.

Sure.

MBW, Chris and Tommy are long since asleep. The house is quiet. Soon I, too, will go to bed.

Suddenly I hear Tommy moaning. Actually, he’s talking, but it’s difficult to make out what he’s saying. He’s notorious for talking in his sleep. When he first started to do this, MBW or I would rush into his room and try to comfort him. We discovered this often served only to wake him up, creating confusion over what was real and what was part of his dream, and making it very difficult to get him to go back to sleep.

Now we tend to let him talk out whatever issue he’s dreaming about. Usually he’ll stop talking after a few minutes without even waking up.

But this time he continues to talk, and he starts to say, “Mommy…Daddy…” That lets me know he is awake, and he needs something.

So I go upstairs to head him off from going into our bedroom and waking up MBW. I catch him just as he’s leaving his room. His blond hair all tousled, eyes half-open, wearing his footie pajamas, he looks up at me and says, “Dad, I hear a buzzing sound.”

I have no idea what this could be, of course. I scoop him up and say, “Would you like to rock with Daddy for awhile?”

He nods, says “Yes.”

I’ve talked about this before. Sometimes rocking with him will calm him, soothe whatever was troubling him, and send him back to sleep with a sense of security. I’m hoping it will do the same tonight.

So we curl up in the rocking chair we keep in his room. Gently we rock, back and forth, Tommy curled up on my chest, safe and secure in my arms, his blankie held close to he face. I’ve wrapped us up in a quilt from his bed, so we’re warm and snuggly. His nighttime ‘go to bed’ lullaby CD plays softly, set to repeat all night. His room is lit by two soft, glowing nightlights. The glow of his clock (there for MBW and I – he’s not telling time yet) let’s me know it’s almost midnight.

As we rock, I remember the feeling of receiving comfort from my parents. I remember being in the back seat of my parents’ car, piles of blankets and pillows, as we all went to a drive in movie. Feeling safe and secure, lying in the back seat, Mom and Dad up front watching a movie. Occasionally I would peek up over the back seat, trying to see between Mom and Dad as they leaned in close to each other, before lying back down on the back seat and falling asleep.

Now I am the one providing the comfort. I think on this, the responsibility that comes with being the provider of comfort and security. It’s daunting, at times. I have my own set of concerns, my own insecurities, my own fears. Yet for my boys I must put them aside and let them see that everything is under control. Their world is safe.

I’ve done some things in my life that have brought me much happiness, given me great satisfaction, things that I am proud of. I have some accomplishments, have had some adventures, have achieved some goals. Occasionally I replay, in my mind, the Single Man ‘Greatest Hits’ DVD when I want to pick myself up or remind myself what I am capable of.

Not all of them are X-rated.

But this, what I am doing right now, is arguably the most important thing I will do in my life. No, I’m not talking about rocking Tommy to sleep. I’m talking about being the provider of comfort, the sense of security, the Port in The Storm. The refuge.

The Rock.

I don’t mean to overstate this. But tonight I am feeling like the most important thing I will do for the foreseeable future is provide my kids with the sense that I am there for them, that I will take care of them, that I will love and nurture them. The knowledge that no matter what happens, I will be there for them. That I will be there to Make Sure Everything is Okay.

How many children grow up without having that sense of security? How many children don’t have a place to go where they know, no matter what, they will be taken care of, their fears comforted, their needs met?

Yes, Family Man, easy for you to say. Have you been tested? Have you really faced any significant adversity? Sure, you talk big now, rocking your son back to sleep. How hard is that? You, in your safe, suburban middle-class home, with your company-provided health insurance, your little emergency fund savings account, your pantry full of food. Anyone can do that.

What about single parents? What about families uprooted by Katrina or other natural disasters? What happens if a major medical issue should occur in your safe little family?

Are you talking so big then, Family Man?

Hopefully I’ll never know.

But if circumstances should change for the worse, in one fashion or another, I’ll do the best I can. My priorities will be in the right place. It’s not an easy thing in any circumstance. My current situation makes the responsibility easier to bear, no doubt. Remember, many people in my exact circumstance fail at this task. How many people who seem to have it made somehow forget their kids are counting on them to do the right thing? I personally know a few. It’s not my place to judge, and if it sounds like I am, I don’t mean it that way. I just feel bad for the kids who, through no fault of their own, find themselves without the comfort and security that Tommy is experiencing right now.

Deep stuff, perhaps. Probably not best addressed after midnight. But that’s what goes through my mind as I rock my son to sleep.

Which, it seems, has been achieved.

I ease up out of the rocker, gently set Tommy in his bed. Pull the covers up tight, arrange them just so. Position Elmo to watch over Tommy, to take the rest of the shift for me. I know he’ll do a good job.

Tommy will sleep well tonight.

On my way out I hear a soft buzzing sound. I stop, listen close, trying to figure out what it is. It takes a moment, but I finally figure it out.

I spot a small fly, buzzing around one of Tommy's nightlights. Mystery solved.

Now I will go to sleep with the feeling that, so far, I seem to be doing okay at the biggest job I’ve had so far in my life.

As I lay down, perhaps I’ll replay, once again, my ‘Greatest Hits’ DVD in my mind as I fall asleep.

But there’s a new chapter at the end.

It’s titled “Fatherhood.”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Graveyard Shift

I’m writing this as I sit in my work cubicle. According to the clock in the bottom right corner of my computer screen, it’s 11:25 p.m. Wednesday evening.

I’m back in the office tonight, as I have been the past two nights, working on The Project From Hell. We’re preparing for a major trade show that hits in exactly three weeks, and I have a ton of work to do.

So what I’ve been doing each day this week is going in to work as usual, 8:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., going home, eating a quick dinner, playing with Chris and Tommy until bedtime, reading books, putting them to bed, then coming back into the office for three hours or so, and going home.

Tonight, while reading bedtime stories to the boys, I fell asleep. Chris had to poke me and say, “Dad, wake up!”

And it’s going to be this way for the rest of this week, for sure. Perhaps into next week as well.

So there won’t be a post of much value until the weekend at least.

A couple of quick notes:

In a post a couple of weeks ago I talked about posts I was going to write – and haven’t yet. Specifically, I said I would write about a phone call I received, an idea I had and a sports-related story. The idea I had was including photos in this blog, so I did write about that, but have yet to put up any photos. I haven’t had a chance to write about the phone call or the sports thing. I will, but it probably won’t be in the next post or two.

Tommy’s at the age where he asks a lot of questions. Most of them start with “Why?” Some of them are confirmations of things or concepts he is pretty sure he knows or understands, but wants, well, confirmation. It’s always interesting to hear his questions. I try to answer them as best I can.

Tonight, when I was playing outside with both boys, Tommy asked me, “Dad, all adults are grown-up, right?”

To which I replied, “Well, most of them. Not all.”

I have a post about that as well. I’ll get to it one of these days.

Well, back to work.

It’s (usually) great to be The Family Man.

Biker Boys

Chris has been riding his two wheel bike without training wheels for most of the summer. It was quite a big deal when we took the training wheels off earlier this year, as I described here.

Tommy has just graduated from his tricycle to a small two-wheeler with training wheels. Wanting to be just like Chris, he has moved to the two-wheeler much sooner than Chris did. He’s still a bit tentative, but he’s working at it. As I’ve mentioned before, he’s a tenacious kid – when he wants something, he does whatever he can to get it. And right now what he wants is to ride a two-wheeler like Chris.

So last night we’re out in the driveway. Chris is zooming up and down the sidewalk. We live on a corner lot and he’s flying around the corner, cutting across the yard, even jumping the curb occasionally. I’m keeping an eye on him, but he’s pretty comfortable and isn’t trying to do anything too crazy…yet.

Tommy is riding slowly up and down the driveway. Our driveway has a slight downhill slope from the garage to the street. He’s still a bit tentative going down, and he needs a bit of a push going up. But he’s working at it. I’m proud of him.

After a bit Chris says, “Dad, can we ride around the block?” I consider this for a moment. The loop he’s talking about is not quite half a mile, slightly up hill one way and downhill coming back. It’s residential, very little traffic, and Tommy would be on the sidewalk the whole way. We walk this fairly often so both boys know the way and are comfortable with the trip.

But I’m not sure Tommy can make it on the bike.

So I ask Tommy, “Do you want ride around the block?”

Without hesitation he says, “Sure.”

So we head out. Chris rides ahead, in the street, occasionally circling back to Tommy and me. I’m walking behind Tommy, who’s pedaling slowly up the sidewalk. About every ten feet or so, he hits his brakes and comes to a complete stop.

We’re going uphill.

“Tommy, why are you stopping?”

“I’m going too fast,” he says.

The truth is we are barely creeping along, moving very slowly uphill on the sidewalk. He continues to do this, going about ten feet or so and slamming on his brakes. It’s gets maddening. Start, stop. Start, stop. Start, stop.

I’m trying to be patient. He’s just learning, after all. And really, why am I in such a hurry? It’s a beautiful fall evening. We’re outside, having fun. Chris is having a great time, riding back and forth, enjoying the freedom of his two wheel bike unencumbered with training wheels and without Dad hovering over him. Tommy is diligently working, testing his brakes, learning how to ride. And I should appreciate the fact that he is being so careful, making sure he is in control.

I take a deep breath, relax.

“Tommy, you’re doing a great job. Are you having fun?”

He turns his head, looks up at me, smiling. “This is great, Dad!” he says with a big smile.

See? I should just chill out.

So we continue up the hill, eventually getting to the top, and round the corner. It’s flat up here, the top of the loop. Tommy continues to creep along, slowly, stopping every ten feet or so.

We make the turn again and are now heading back toward home, on the far side of the block. From here there is a downhill section that is a bit steeper that what we came up on the other side. The slope on the way up was longer and more gradual; this side going down is steeper and shorter, with a flat run-out at the bottom.

Chris loves this part. He flies down the hill, in control, but going pretty fast.

I’m thinking Tommy will go even more slowly, stop more often than he did on the way up. Chris might ride up and down again two or three more times before Tommy gets down.

“Tommy,” I say, “be sure to use your brakes here. I’ll be right behind you all the way if you need help.”

He turns and looks up at me. “Okay, Daddy,” he says.

You know what’s coming, don’t you?

Tommy starts out slowly, but moving steadily. I’m walking just behind, waiting for him to hit the brakes.

He never does.

Instead, he picks up speed and starts to laugh. I’m walking faster now, trying to keep up. He continues to pick up speed and now I’m jogging, then sprinting down this hill as Tommy continues to roll. He’s keeping a line straight down the center of the sidewalk, clearly in control, and laughing his head off. He’s just roaring with laughter.

I’m barely keeping up, running flat out, wondering if he will suddenly hit the brakes and screech to a halt, or swerve and smack into a parked car or a mailbox. Of course, he does neither, cruising effortlessly all the way down the hill, slowing only as the sidewalk flattens out.

He eventually coasts to a halt. I catch up to him, huffing and puffing (remember, I’m old!). He has a grin a mile wide on his face. His eyes are bright, shining, and full of exhilaration.

“That was great, Dad!” he says.

“Tommy,” I say, “why didn’t you use your brakes on the way down?”

“I didn’t need to,” he says simply.

He used his brakes all the way up the hill, and not once on the way down. Go figure.

“Dad,” he says, “let’s do that again!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

The Old Man and the Vitamin C

You’ve heard me say (or perhaps, more correctly, read as I wrote) this before – I’m old. Which I attempted to illustrate in this post.

You may have also read my description of myself as an Ordinary Man.

Old and ordinary – not exactly what I had in mind for myself. Yet, nonetheless, that’s where I seem to be.

I got my haircut this past Saturday – nothing significant about that. I try to remember to do it once a month or so. I go to the local chain discount hair place. No fancy-schmanzy salon for me. My cut is so ‘ordinary’ I could probably to it myself.

The woman cutting my hair was using the electric clippers, and I happened to notice the preponderance of gray hair that was falling into my lap. The gray was mixed in with the dirty blond/light brown hair that I thought I still had. The percentage of gray seems to be increasing with each haircut. Some guys have 'salt and pepper' hair - it makes them look 'distinguished.' I guess I'm getting 'salt and sand.'

Yuck.

The ‘stylist,’ as she likes to be called, noticed me noticing the hair in my lap and suggested a hair coloring treatment. “Many of my older customers are finding this to be very effective,” she said. Noticing my scowl, she quickly added, “…not that you’re old, of course, but it will help you keep your youthful appearance!”

Nice try, lady. See what kind of a tip you get!

Of course I didn’t stiff the stylist, but I left in a rather dark mood.

The next day, Sunday, I sat at the breakfast table with Chris and Tommy, glumly staring at the pile of vitamins I consume each morning. The pile seems enormous, both in the quantity of pills and the size of some of them. Vitamin B, Vitamin C, Vitamin K, some fish oil pill, a large multi-vitamin, and various others. In particular, the orange Vitamin C tablet that is only slightly smaller than a tennis ball stands out amongst the others. They are almost a meal in themselves – something Chris happened to notice as well.

“Dad, why do you eat vitamins for breakfast?” he asked.

“So I can stay healthy,” I replied.

He pointed to his purple Flintstones vitamin. “I just have one vitamin,” he said, “and you have a whole pile of them! You have as many vitamins as I have cereal!”

Looking at his bowl of Cheerios, it did seem like the quantity of my pile of vitamins was equal to the small amount of cereal we can get them to eat each morning.

So Tommy joined in, and they both had a high time teasing me about eating vitamins for breakfast.

I go into work Monday morning, feeling old, gray, and grumpy from eating vitamins for breakfast. Washed down with V-8. Reporting to a boss who is younger than I am.

I got to wondering what happened to the 20-something year old TV news cameraman who could roll out of bed after four hours of sleep, get by on donuts and Diet Coke, go hard all day and still have something left in the tank to party into the night. The guy who would drive all night to go to a jeep rally, sleep for two hours sitting up in the drivers seat, crawl over rocks all day and drive home again, fueled by pop-tarts and Powerbars. The guy with the blond hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders who broke hearts all over the West.

Okay, that last sentence is a bit much. But the older I get, the better I remember myself being as a young man.

MBW and I married later in life than many of our peers. That’s both good and bad. It’s good in that we’re both more mature and more realistic when it comes to our expectations – of each other, of our kids, of our lives. It’s better because we’re more financially stable, more grounded in our careers and more certain of our long-tem goals. Chris and Tommy are growing up in a secure and stable environment, and I think that is helping them grow up with a sense of confidence.

It’s bad in that we don’t always have the energy to do all that we feel we should with the boys. And, occasionally, we’ve each had moments where we’re a bit short of patience.

Maybe that happens to all parents.

Personally, I’m finding that there are days when I don’t want to climb out of my car after a long day in my cubicle and play whatever game Chris and Tommy want to play the instant I walk in the door. Of course they’ve been waiting anxiously for me to get home and they want my attention. Sometimes it’s hard to deliver.

So I’m trying to stay on top of it. You’ve read my occasional posts about my workouts. I’m trying to keep in decent shape. I’m trying to eat a healthier diet, but deep down inside I’m a donuts and Diet Coke guy trying to gag down oatmeal and blueberry yogurt every day. Someday archeologists will make an astounding discovery – I did have six-pack abs! This discovery will be made after carefully excavating through the layer of chocolate chip cookies to find them.

Which brings me back to the vitamins. I do take a handful each morning. I don’t know, honestly, if they help. Maybe it’s all a placebo. But at least I feel like I’m doing something. I consider the stakes to be high. When it’s all said and done I want my kids to remember their dad as an active participant, not some guy who sat on the couch. I want the stories to be about what we did together, not what they did and told me about.

Last I crawled into bed after my post-workout shower. I took my vitamins that morning, gagged down my oatmeal and V-8, had my lean turkey sandwich on some kind of oat bread for lunch (no trans-fat!), and limited my snack to less than a hundred chocolate chip cookies. Played some combination football-frisbee-swingset game with the boys after work (the rules of which I still don’t understand), helped give them a bath, read them their nightly books, tucked them into bed and went to the gym. Not the toughest guy there, but did my full routine. Finally, the day over, pulled up the covers and sighed a great big sigh.

Just then I feel MBW snuggle up to me.

“How was your workout?” she asks.

“It was okay,” I reply.

She nuzzles my neck. “You smell nice,” she says.

“That’s what a shower will do for you,” I answer.

Her hand finds my bicep. “You’ve got hard muscles…for an old guy,” she says.

“Well, I do what I can,” I say.

Her hand moves. “This muscle is hard, too.”

Hmm?

“Are you up for another workout?” she whispers

It appears that I am, in fact, up for another workout.

Yes, I may take all kinds of vitamins. A, B, C, K, you name it. I take it.

But so far, luckily, I have no need to take Vitamin V!

It’s great to be The Family Man!

Photograph

As I have mentioned in a few previous posts, I spent ten years as a television photojournalist. It was a very interesting job, allowing me to experience a variety of things first hand. Things most people only see on TV.

Over the course of my years in the profession I came to believe there were two main types of photojournalists – journalists who happen to take pictures and photographers who happen to be in the news business.

I fell squarely into the second category.

In addition to the station-owned video equipment, I personally owned a Hasselblad medium format camera, four Nikon 35mm camera bodies, three medium format lenses, six 35mm lenses, three flash units and a portable three-head studio strobe kit. I had a freelance photo business going on the side, and a couple of years I made more money doing freelance photography that I did at my ‘day’ job.

After ten years as a TV news photographer I began to feel that while it was a great job, it was a lousy career. But I still really enjoyed photography, and I briefly considered opening a commercial photography studio. I went back and forth for awhile before deciding to sell my photo gear, and used the proceeds to pay my way through graduate school.

About that time digital photography began to take off. I bought a digital camera, upgraded once or twice, and am about ready to upgrade again.

It was also about the time I was getting married, and shortly after we were married, MBW and I had kids.

No, not THAT shortly. It was a full fourteen months between the wedding date and Chris’s birth. So get that dirty thought out of your head right now. Jeez! I’m not that kind of guy. Well, okay…but even if I were, MBW most certainly is not that kind of woman.

Anyway, the point of this diatribe is I like to take pictures, and as any parent knows, there is no subject more captivating than whatever cute thing their kid happens to be doing at any given moment.

And the beauty of digital photography is you can record every single moment without worrying about running out of film, the cost of film or any other film related issue.

Which leads, of course, to a condition I like to call Photographus Excessivus. Symptoms including recording multiple framings and angles of the most mundane things your children do. Did Chris get out of bed one morning with a mild case of Bed Head? Better have 15 shots of that! Did Tommy spill his juice? Grab the camera! Petting the cat? Front page news!

I have my share of ridiculous photos, the kind you look at once they’ve been downloaded to the computer and say, “Why did I think that was worth shooting?” At the time I took them, they seemed interesting. Ten minutes later, they’re recyclyed back to the billions of 1s and 0s from whence they came.

Yet I also have many wonderful, candid photos I never would have taken with a film camera. I have a shot of Chris, about age 3, throwing fall leaves up into the air. The expression of pure joy and happiness on his face is worth more than a thousand words. A photo of Tommy, sitting on our bed ‘reading’ a book, with a huge smile on his face. It captures the essence of his personality. A photo of both boys, leaning out of the back of MBWs Honda CRV, as they play happily together.

Now, I won’t go so far as to say my photos are as good as the ones you see at Pumpkin Diary. Though personally, and this is just my humble opinion, I think Chris and Tommy are just as cute as Bram. (BTW, visit Pumpkin Diary and notice the most recent sequence of photos - you'll see Bram is an absolutely adorable kid). Now I know most people don’t find ordinary pictures of other people’s kids much fun to look at. But I have a few that have earned a grudging compliment from friends who have come over to visit.

Speaking of blogs, I’ve found a few that use photos as an integral part of the content, and I’ve come to enjoy them more and more. In addition to Pumpkin Diary, Blogs like ultrabright and Geek Girl use photos often and they seem to really add to the story.

So it occurred to me that maybe I’d put some photos on this blog from time to time. But so far I’ve been reluctant to do that, for a couple of reasons.

First, I’m leery of putting pictures of my kids on the Internet. I think we all know the Internet can be a dangerous place for kids. Though I’ve tried to keep this blog somewhat anonymous in terms of last names, where we live, and other pertinent details, it wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to figure out who we are and where we are. It’s not worth the risk on the off-chance some nutcase sees my kids and develops some sick fixation. Being in the news business for 10 years, I saw and heard some truly scary things.

Second, anyone who has read this blog for some time has probably created their own mental image of what we all look like. I’ve provided some basic descriptions, such as hair and eye color, but each of you probably already knows what Chris and Tommy look like – to you. And that’s probably the way it should stay. I’d hate to put up a photo of one of the boys and have readers think, “That’s not Chris!”

That, and I’d rather you continue to think of me as tall, blond and handsome, with 210 pounds of sculpted muscle draped elegantly over my 6’ 3” frame.

(In one of my next posts I will absolutely disabuse of you that notion).

MBW, of course, truly does look like a supermodel, one who chose education over fame and fortune. Tall and slender, with lovely long legs, fashionable short hair and beautiful brown eyes, she’s the one who’s photo would cause the traffic to this site to explode.

And if I truly looked as I described myself above, I could see why she married me. But since that description may not be exactly accurate, and since she clearly didn’t marry me for the money (or lack thereof), posting my picture might lead you to wonder why exactly she DID marry me. But that’s a story for another post.

However, a friend of mine who also writes a blog (I link to it) came up with an idea for using photos that seems to make sense for me.

Now if I can just figure out how exactly to put photos on the blog, you may see some here from time to time. They might even relate to the story! Or they might just be random filler.

Better yet, I might even give Chris and Tommy the camera from time to time and post their work.

Let me know your thoughts on photo blogs.

It’s great to be (say cheese!) The Family Man.

Death by Catalogue

Chris and Tommy are at the age where going out to the mailbox to get the mail is a treat. It’s really something to look forward to. They know the name of our regular letter carrier (it’s Keith) and they say hello to him if they’re playing in the front yard when he delivers our mail.

When they bring in the mail, every piece is a treasure, an important communication, one to be examined carefully, to be savored. Before MBW can have a look, they’ve already gone through the stack.

“Look, mom, we got five letters!” Chris will say.

“Mommy, mommy, we got three magazines! And I’m three!” Tommy will shout.

They’re really bills and catalogues. But why spoil their excitement?

One night at the dinner table Chris turned to me and said, “Dad, isn’t it great that every day Keith drives by our house and gives us letters and stuff?”

“It sure is, Chris,” I say.

Ah, the innocent joy of getting the mail.

In addition to the mailbox in front of our home, I have a PO Box at the local post office. I have a small side business and I direct mail for that business to the PO Box. I’d say, on average, I’d get about one or two pieces of mail a week there. So almost every Saturday I’d take the boys over to the post office and get the mail from the box. I’d let Chris and Tommy each have a turn putting the key in the lock, pulling the box open, and taking out whatever mail might be in there. That was an extra special treat.

Notice I said that I USED to get one or two pieces of mail a week there.

My mom passed away last spring. I’m the executor of her estate. One of the first things I did was to have her mail forwarded to my attention. After some thought I decided to have it sent to the PO Box, to help keep it separate from our regular mail.

I was expecting to get her bills, a magazine or two, and an occasional personal letter. And I did, in fact, get all of those.

I also got about 8 million catalogues.

My mom was wheelchair-bound for the last 22 years of her life. I always knew she did a fair amount of shopping by catalogue. It was so much easier for her to browse the pages of a colorful catalogue, buy what she liked and have things delivered to her door versus going out to the mall and trying to carry her purchases on her lap as she wheeled herself around. Of course it made sense she would receive some catalogues.

Often she used to send me pages she’d torn out of a catalogue and ask me to pick things the boys might like for Easter, their birthdays or for Christmas.

I guess I simply had no conception of the number of catalogues she received.

It started slowly at first. About three weeks after her mail started arriving in my PO Box the catalogues came. Two arrived one day, five a few days later, seven or eight the following week.

Two months after it was a deluge of catalogues. 10, 12, 15 a day. Almost every day.

And it never stopped.

Last night it was cold, gray and raining like crazy where we live. For something to do, I took the boys out to McDonalds to play in the indoor play space. On the way we stopped at the post office. I let Tommy have the first turn opening the box and taking the mail out. He turned the key, opened the box and tried to put his hand in the box to get the mail.

He couldn’t get his hand in the box.

“Dad,” he said, “the box is too full. I can’t get anything out!”

I looked inside. The boxed was crammed completely full of catalogues.

I wrestled a few of the catalogues out, let Tommy and Chris pull out the rest, and then we continued to McDonalds. While they were running and climbing around the play space I counted the catalogues that arrived just that day.

There were 22 of them.

I spent the next 20 minutes with my cell phone calling each of the catalogues and asking to be removed from the mailing list. Most of them were gracious and willing to take my mom’s name off the list. But each one of the operators said the same thing:

“Sir, we’ll be happy to take you off our list. However, our catalogues are printed and addressed up to six months ahead of time. You’ll get two or three more catalogues before the change will really take effect.”

That’s great.

And of course it’s the holiday season. Yes, right now. Don’t believe me? Go to your local Costco – the Christmas items are already out for sale.

What that means for me is that even though I’ve been frantically canceling all these catalogues, they will continue to arrive in ever increasing amounts until at least 2006. Christmas is the biggest season for catalogue sales, and I’m sure those ‘pre-printed lists’ run all the way through the holidays. They wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to get their stuff in front of a deceased shopper over Christmas, would they?

It makes me a bit sad to see these catalogues roll in. I know my mom, if she were alive, would be happily flipping through them, pulling out pages, getting her ideas ready for Christmas purchases. I can almost see her, sitting in her wheelchair by her gas fireplace, shawl draped over her shoulders, her favorite classical music playing as she looked for gifts that would delight her grandchildren. She would often tell me how much she enjoyed trying to find that special gift that would surprise and delight the kids.

She was almost always successful.

Go ahead. Call me a wimp, a baby, a momma’s boy. I miss her. And it will be hard this Christmas when those special gifts for the boys don’t arrive. The boys won’t know, I don’t think. But I will. And I won’t be able to call her Christmas night and tell her how excited they were as they opened her packages. I won’t be able to describe the expressions on their faces. And I won’t be able to send the photographs to her and show her just how happy she made them.

So the catalogues will keep coming. And every day I’ll go to the box and let the boys take them out. Maybe by next March things will be back to normal – at least in terms of the volume of mail we’ll get there.

In the meantime, Chris and Tommy get the pleasure of running the house with wide eyes and huge smiles.

“Mommy, guess what? We got eleventy-two magazines at the post office box today!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Tommy's tale

As Emily pointed out, I promised last week that “in my next post” I would tell you about an interesting thing Tommy did over the weekend. Well, I had every intention of doing just that. But then I had to get that TV thing off my chest, and of course I wanted to help Torie and the TCU students.

So now it's time to deliver Tommy's tale. I’ve been kicking around ways to tell the story. The more I think about it, the more I’m not sure I can capture the true essence of it. It’s almost one of those ‘you had to be there' things.

Still, a promise is a promise, so here goes.

Some of you who have kids have, probably, been there. Those who have children in their future, well, you may very well get to experience this as well.

Without further ado…

It was last Saturday afternoon. Fall is in the air and it’s time to get the yard prepped for winter. We have some nice landscaping, but it requires a fair amount of maintenance. I’m out there trimming shrubs, pruning trees, working up a sweat. I’ve got my gloves and sunglasses on. The results of my labor are scattered all over the yard. There is a lot of cleanup to do – I'm guessing a dozen plastic yard bags will be filled before we're done.

Fortunately for me, I have help. Chris and Tommy are on the job. They, too, have their work gloves on – about five sizes too big, but they have them. Sunglasses as well. It’s kind of cute to have them working with me, even if it takes half again as long to get the work done. They are so earnest and try so hard, and take huge pride in scooping up some tree trimmings and dumping them in the bag. They love to ‘help Daddy’ and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By and by Chris and Tommy tire of this chore and drift away. Chris goes off to ride his bike. Tommy hangs in a bit longer, then disappears into the house. I don’t think much of it – MBW is in there somewhere – and continue to clean up the yard.

After a few minutes I notice Tommy looking out at me from one of the upstairs window. It’s the bathroom window. He must have had to go potty.

I continue to clean up. Every so often I glance up at the window, and Tommy is still there. Watching. Smiling. I smile, wave a gloved hand. He smiles and waves back.

And continues to stand there.

Well, I can see him, and he can’t do much to get in trouble there, so I continue to work, glancing up every so often. All appears well.

After a few more minutes I hear MBW shriek. I look up at the window. Tommy’s not there. So I go in the house, up the stairs and head to the bathroom, where I find

Everything

Covered

In

Poop.

Seems Tommy went in to use the potty and “had a little problem,” as he put it. Whatever the problem was, it led him to experiment with poop as a sort of paint. Delicate strokes of poop trailed expressively across the sink and vanity, over the tub and shower surround, across the recently tiled floor, and of course rubbed vigorously into the rug.

For good measure, he covered a fair amount of himself in it.

The sight was disgusting. The odor was very complimentary to the sight.

I’ve seen my share of nasty diaper blowouts over the past five years. This looked like a diaper bomb went off in the bathroom. I’m surprised the walls were still standing.

MBW was frantically scrubbing Tommy and was, justifiably, pretty upset. I tried to help, taking Tommy into the downstairs bathroom shower, getting him cleaned up and back to normal. I went back to try to help MBW clean the upstairs bathroom, but by then she was just about finished. She was pretty well steamed.

But the bathroom really sparkled!

If you’ve read this blog for awhile you know a bit about Tommy. He is a very spirited three-year-old. He absolutely has a mind of his own and is not easily deterred. While this behavior is extreme, even for him, if I had been traveling and MBW were to ask me over the phone, “Guess who covered himself and half the bathroom in poop?” I’d never say Chris.

Of course Tommy spent a fair amount of time in his room in ‘Time Out’ after that little episode.

When it was all over I had to suppress a chuckle. Leave it to Tommy.

Who knows what he’ll do next?

A special welcome to everyone who has visited this blog from the Southern Living message boards. Special thanks to luvmyhunny for posting the link there. I don’t know you, but thank you for the plug. Welcome to The Family Man blog. If you’d like to learn a bit more about this blog while you’re here, I’ve put links to some of what I consider to be the better posts on the sidebar under the heading Family Album. Please leave a note and let me know if you enjoyed your visit here.

To the other readers who’ve been stopping by for awhile, I’m interested to know what previous posts you’ve enjoyed. Let me know so I can add them to the family album.

Coming in the next few posts I’ll tell you about an interesting phone call I recently received, an idea I have, and a sports-related story.

Plus whatever hijinks Chris and Tommy manage to create!

It’s great to be The Family Man.