Zachary Attack

Dance Class

Holy shit I love you.

I took this picture and beamed with pride while sitting among a covey of bitchy, smug, pretentious mothers who were appalled by your "boyish" behavior in front of their precious little snowflakes.

It was awesome

Snuggle Bug

On Father's Day I snuck into your room.

Climbing in your bed, I whispered Snugglebug, and—without waking—you draped your arm around my neck. I can’t believe there’s such a thing as you, you with your tiny arms. I can’t believe you’re three. I can’t believe we live between the sky and the grass in this world so full of gods.

Once, when your mom left for work with her hands full of bags and clipboards and lunch and things she couldn’t keep the door from SLAMMING behind her. Moments later, I heard the rain of your bare feet running into my room. You climbed in bed with me, cuddled and clung to me, and whispered Snugglebug. I acted like I was asleep so I could hear the pace of your breathing slow, so I could feel the tension in your clinging drift away.

In your bed, I listened to you breathe and wondered about sleep. Where were you? In what dream did you find yourself? Were you a swashbuckling pirate? Maybe you were a bird soaring over puffy clouds scattered through endless skies? Or were you running, afraid, through a maze of corridors with no solution? I imagined us in the distant future, sitting together on a bench. It’s late, and we just returned from some somber event, and you lean into me, grab my arm, and put your head on my shoulder. I am old and tired but not without a little future left in me. I kiss your head, whisper Snugglebug, and your shoulders relax.

This is the way my memory and imagination mingled with your dreams on Father's Day.

Got A Little Captain In You?

The Siege and Sack of LEGOLAND U.S.A.

Women and children scatter in fear as Captain Zach Sparrow storms the front gates

The terror continues at the Junior Driving School where he deliberately runs down every living creature in sight

The captain celebrates his victory by performing the most elaborate booty dance in the history of booty dances



The plunder of goods begins and Zach throws up his gang sign (Representin' Westside Indies)


Gettin' on the good foot during a sea chanty

Zach utters a hearty seaman's laugh and begins to play

and play...

...and play

Finally, the captain pauses for a quick bite to eat

Catching the hint, the crew leads Zach to the local Tavern for a more tasty snack

After a long day of pillaging, stamina begins to wain

Catching a ride with his First Mate (Slappy Saggingsails), Captain Zach Sparrow celebrates another successful raid of Legoland U.S.A.

Food Fight

My wife and child are notoriously picky eaters. Thankfully, Lesley eventually outgrew this phase on her own (by "eventually" I mean "recently" and by "phase" I mean one of 30 years), but Zachary has not had the luxury of experience nor does he harbor sufficient wisdom to overcome this idiosyncratic tendency.

That is to say, feeding my son is a nightly horrifying ride from the 10th through the 13th circle of hell.

The evening typically begins innocently enough with a chase through the house that requires a coordinated effort between Lesley, the dog, and myself using Navy Seal Ambush Tactics that funnel him into the dinning room (10th circle), restraining him in his high-chair (11th circle), subjugating him to intense psychological coercion to insert the food in his mouth (12th circle) and swallowing said food (13th circle).

Then it gets ugly.

This is a paraphrased excerpt from a random night at the dinner table:

ME: *holding spoon full of applesauce* Just one bite?
Zach: *shakes head vigorously in protest.*
ME: Please?
Zach: *Kicks spoon across floor and overturns plate for good measure*
ME: *smiling* Fair warning son, I orally dosed animals for a living.
Zach: *employs a look of challenge*
ME: *smile broadens- restrains child using the MMA Gogoplapa submission move* On three, ready? One... two... *CRAM*

That's pretty much how every bite of every meal goes down in the Williams household.

I still feel as if the potency of my problem is getting lost in translation here. Perhaps the word "picky" isn't conveying the severity of the issue. This is a kid who won't eat cake (presumably because it's made with flour and eggs). CAKE. What kind of kid doesn't eat friggin' cake? Ice cream is too cold, brownies are too chewy and cookies are too round.

And that's just deserts.

Now try to imagine his hatred of fruits and vegetables. Don't blame yourself if you're having a hard time envisioning this, you're not alone. Scientists say that the human mind has difficulty comprehending immense qualitative and quantitative values like the size of the Universe or in this case, a hatred that burns as hot as the fire of a thousand suns.

The picture at the beginning of this post? I snapped that shot as a tribute to my victory over my son and actually getting him to eat something on his own accord (granted he was eating Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream- besides, mint is a vegetable right? RIGHT? SHUT UP. WHO ASKED YOU ANYWAY)

Over the last year, doubt has been encroaching upon my judgment. How far is too far? Am I causing permanent emotional scarring by subjecting him to nightly mental anguish? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much?











(we can do this the easy way or the hard way son)

I've repeatedly brought my concerns to the attention of his pediatrician (whom I will refer to here as Doctor Retard) who always responds with well practiced condescension that only a professional in his position can deliver. Here is a recent conversation:

DR: Be sure to eat vegetables yourself. Don't set a double standard.
ME: No go. His moms' eating habits are as bad as his.
DR: Let the child select vegetables to prepare each night
ME: Do Cheetos count as a vegetable? No? Hmmmm. That may be an issue.
DR: Sneak vegetables into other dishes.
ME: Have you been listening to me?
DR: Try changing the presentation or preparing the food in a different way.
ME: Ummm
DR: Don't make food into a battle of wills
ME: Awesome. That's the best advice I've heard all day. Thanks doc!

Armed with a new tactic I went home to prepare dinner in an air of triumph. I sat Zachary down, determined NOT to battle wills. Then...

Nothing.

He just sat there. Stubbornly and predictably ignoring his food.

I was stumped. My WILL was to get him to f-ing eat. If we don't battle wills, then I lose and he wins. This was about when I realized that for a pediatrician, Zach's doctor knows very little about kids. Not battling wills was definitely out of the question. It was time for a hard-nosed, tough love approach.

Not going to eat what's for dinner? That's fine. No, you can't have a bottle. No, you can't have Cheetos. Well, I'm sorry I guess you'll just have to go to bed hungry. Much to my surprise, he went.

The battle of wills had begun.

Day one passed without much fuss as it was business as usual. Zach wasn't eating. No big deal, he skips meals all the time. But by evening I had a sinking suspicion I was playing against a worthy opponent.

On day two I was beginning to appreciate some of Zachary's more subtle moves within our mental chess match. It was here that I began to question the wisdom behind starving a growing child.

By day three I knew I was over-matched. I no longer feared for his physical and mental health as much as I was fearing for my own. I was really feeling the pressure and I was sure I was going to crack at any minute. Could this be what Doc Retard was talking about? Maybe Doc Retard knew all along that the boy is too clever for the likes of me. I can't win.

By that evening, my grip on reality was in serious question as I had convinced myself that Zach had some private stash beneath the floorboards and he was smuggling foodstuffs into his crib via elaborate tunnels. Later, Zachary's Union reps informed me that apparently eating is an infringement upon his moral and spiritual beliefs. And his choice to only eat Cheetos or milk from a bottle is his right as a God fearing American. Why do you hate America? Terrorist.

(UFCW Union Representative)


He's gone whole days without eating before, but this was getting ridiculous. His pediatrician assured me that the boy would crack first. But I wasn't so sure. Maybe I just have a weak spot for elephants accusing me of domestic terrorism. Could I be wrong? Are empty calories better than none at all? How can I enforce healthy eating on my son when his mom is just as bad? And who am I to judge? Are my habits much better? I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.

We consulted the family therapist (read: Zachary's Grandma) for advice. But she was no help at all. For some strange reason I still don't quite understand, she thought all of this was quite funny.
Whatever.

But then all of a sudden just the other day while we were at Legoland, without coercion or leading of any kind, he asked for and consumed three bites of ice cream (see first photo). I can't tell you how excited I was! Then not even 10 minutes later, he asked for an orange. A REAL ORANGE. Like, you know, the fruit.

He ate the whole thing

No MMA submission moves needed. Victory is mine.


(special thanks to Dooce for the inspiration behind this post)

Slow

When I was in the 5th grade I couldn't read. Well okay, that's not entirely true. If I was given a harangue or story to read, I could effortlessly oblige without making any mistakes. But when asked what a passage was about, I would just stare blankly as if I hadn't comprehended a single word.

Because I hadn't.

I specifically remember one time in Ms. Dillans' 5th grade class. I was asked to read a paragraph regarding two men stranded on a raft in the middle of an ocean arguing over whose turn it was to do the fishing. While my mouth had been dutifully forming the sounds of the words translated from images of letters in my brain, my mind was busy contemplating why they would eat a high protein meal when they had no water (protein, of course, requires a lot of water to metabolize and would cause further dehydration) and how they might use their rubber jackets at night as funnels to collect condensation from the air for drinking. Before I knew it, the passage was over and the Ms. Dillan was asking me what it was about. I responded by mumbling something about cellular osmosis and diffusion gradients.

Even in the 80's it wasn't politically correct to use the words "idiot" or "stupid" or "retarded", not even if those words were being used to describe yourself. Today they use abbreviations like ADHD, LD, AS and CAPD. But back in the 80's, the PC term everyone used was simply "slow".

I was slow. I knew it, my teachers knew it, my friends knew it.

Even my mother often has to admit that I was a slow child. What else can you say about a 9 year old boy who couldn't remember his right hand from his left without thinking about the way a dog turns around before lying down, the direction of whirlpools and whirlwinds, the side a cow is milked from and a horse is mounted from, the direction of a twist of oak and sycamore leaves, the maze patterns of rock moss and of tree moss, the cleavage of limestone, the direction of a hawk's wheeling, of a shrike's hunting, and of a snake's coiling, the lay of cedar fronds and of balsam fronds, the twist of a hole dug by a skunk and by a badger (remembering pungently that skunks sometimes use old badger holes)? A normal kid would just remember his right from his left without all that nonsense.

I have never out-grown this affliction, but I can proudly say that I did eventually teach myself how to read.

Anyway this rambling and unorganized post, while symbolic in its irony, does indeed have a point.

While it's not set in stone, Lesley and I have tentatively come to the decision to home-school Zachary from the age of 5 until he is 10. This means that I would be in charge of delivering my son the bulk of the most influential developmental period of his life: his elementary education.

ME: the guy who, had he been born 50 years earlier, would have probably never finished 8th grade.

Yes, I'm aware of the shortcomings of home schooling. Yes, I'm aware of the social and academic pitfalls. I've listened to the arguments and I've done my own research confirming the validity of those arguments.

Why then, can't I stop being ecstatic at the notion of teaching my son?

I don't know ... but then again I've always been a little slow.

Play time!

Here is the church....



There is the steeple,


Open the doors and....





There are the people.... offering Wendy upon a sacrificial altar as a gift to the Pirate Gods.(Notice Tinkerbell kneeling in the front row)

Don't Forget

Don't forget,
don't forget that I believe in you.
Should you forget
Should you forget, let me remind you
that I am behind you.

You were a secret waiting to be found out
Soon be what everyone is talking about.
May you spread your love like laughter
and find whatever you're after.
Open all your windows and let your music spill out.

Don't forget,
don't forget that I believe in you.
Should you forget
Should you forget, let me remind you
that I am behind you.

May you dance like rain upon a still lake
You make this world a beautiful place.
No more crying, don't shun your light, keep shining.
Wipe your tears from your sweet face.

Don't forget,
don't forget that I believe in you.
Should you forget
Should you forget, let me remind you
that I am behind you.

Don't be afraid should things happen to change
because change can be a wonderful thing.
Should things fall apart,
be patient like a rainbow.
Because life is about loving,
and letting go.

Phreak of Physics

I have discovered perpetual motion. Well, okay no, that's not entirely accurate. I should give credit where it is due; I have created perpetual motion.

My son. He never stops moving. Ever. I'm serious.

Today I stood witness to him running in circles for a full 30 minutes after consuming a bite of hot dog and a small morsel low fat cheese.

Calories consumed: <50
Calories burned: >200

He ran and ran and ran as if he had chugged a full pot of coffee sweetened with a few hits of amphetamine. About 15 minutes into his high, I realized I was witnessing something special. I turned on the video camera to capture the action. My cameras' batteries ran out before he did.

I'm not kidding.

This, of course defies not only basic logic, but also the First and perhaps even the Second Laws of Thermodynamics. Impossible right?

Wrong. Aristotle never met my son. Zachary stands in paradox to the most basic forces in the Universe.

It's true. I've seen it with my own eyes. Believe me, I'm as stunned as you are. My son has the power to defy the most principle laws of physics. Who would have guessed? Not this Daddy blogger I assure you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to start writing my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize.

CALVINBALL!!!

Permanent Rule: The only permanent rule in Calvinball is that you can never play it the same way twice.

Primary Rule: All rules are subject to be changed, amended or deleted by any player involved. None of the rules are required or necessary.

1.0 The following words are freely interchangeable when applying the Primary Rule:
-Can
-May
-Must
-Shall
-Will
-Would

1.1 All players must wear a mask and/or uniform (article 2.1)

1.2 Any player may declare a new rule during the game. This may be done audibly or silently depending on what zone they are in (article 1.5)

1.3 The Calvinball (article 2.2) may be used in any way the player wielding it sees fit, whether it be to inflict injury upon another player or to sustain personal benefit.

1.4 Penalties may be delegated in the form of embarrassment, pain or any activity the Subjugator wishes to enforce upon the player in breech of rule.

1.5 The Calvinball field should consist of zones governed by a set of rules declared by players. Zones may appear or disappear as often as a player decides. For example, a Corollary Zone would enable a player to make a corollary to any rule already made. Or an Opposite Zone would enable reverse playability on other players (of course, this zone would be declared oppositely by NOT declaring it).

1.6 Flags shall be named by players whom shall also assign power and rules which govern said flag.

1.7 Songs and/or verses must be sung spontaneously through the game when randomly assigned events occur.

1.8 Score shall be kept alphanumerically. It should have no bearing on the game nor should it have any logical consistency. (Legal scores include 'Q to 12', '2 billion to @', and 'Nosebleed to Pelvic fracture'

EQUIPMENT

2.1 All participants must wear a mask or uniform

2.2 The Calvinball may be any spherical (or non-spherical) object of any size or weight. Common Calvinballs include (but are not limited to) volleyballs, soccer balls, whiffle balls, water balloons and bowling balls.

2.3 Miscellaneous & optional equipment include flags, brooms, tennis rackets, water hoses, house pets or anything else the players wish to include.


(Double-click image below to open new window)

42

What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is the significance of the number 42? Look no further friends of the internet. Zachary has it all figured out.

**double click image below to open video in youtube**

Cup of Thanks

I was feeling bored so I started thinking about how the environmental crisis would never be solved by mere practice alone because it needed to be accompanied by a revolution in consciousness but I wasn't sure if the revolution in consciousness would alter behavior or if changing behavior first would usher in the revolution in consciousness. Okay, I was bored AND feeling depressed.

Then Zachary started guzzling a glass of water.

See, Zach performs everyday acts with an intensity that tends to attract my attention. He just tipped his head back and- gulp gulp gulp gulp. Then he went and did that magic little thing kids do where they perform a sweetly simplistic act all shot through with profundity and ancient wisdom.

He pulled the tiny purple cup from his lips and made that exaggerated "Ahhhhh" refreshed noise. He held it 12 inches away from his face and admired it with sparkling eyes and a delighted smile.

He made me smile.

I think the cup smiled too.

Zachary's smile was not limited by the bounds of his face. Rather, he created an atmosphere that smiled. Everything in his orbit smiled with him. He set the cup on the table, leaned into it, and said earnestly:

"Thank you, Cup."

Lets step back for a moment: The animistic world, wherein all objects have souls and personality, has long been replaced by a world full of stupid dead objects. Scientific View elbowed its way into being the way things really are. But there is a price to pay for being so damn right.

We could stand to learn a few things from pagans and children- The cup contained the substance which quenched Zachary of his thirst. And for this, he was grateful and found the cup worthy of speech and good manners. Soon, for Zach, the cup will be stripped of its personified traits and be replaced by a hunk of dead plastic.

We call that cognitive development. Growing up. He'll have achieved a more complex level of maturity and he'll consequently score higher in terms of reality testing.

But imagine what kind of world we'd live in if we were all so grateful for Cups. What if we all thanked the chair for so dutifully embracing us after a long day on our feet? The kitchen table deserves your praise! It is not only that which holds your dinner aloft, but it also binds your family around it. What would happen to these various environmental crises if our notion of what is to be respected extended beyond a small handful of people? How would the world look? How would we act? Perhaps sorting and taking out the recycling wouldn't be such a chore or a hassle. It might suddenly be the least we could do. To excitedly walk these things out to the curb toward the next chapter of their service.

Thank you Zachary for reminding me, once again, of my foolish arrogance. I once believed that parents raised children. But it's not true. Children raise us.

My Own Little God

The hardest part about having kids, hands down, is the way they botch up all your plans. Just a minute. It's Zachary. He wants some scrambled eggs.

Okay. I'm back. You see there? It's not like it was hard to make scrambled eggs. The actual event of making eggs isn't the hard part. The hard part is the way my plan to write this blog post clashed with Zach's need to have scrambled eggs.

"Daddy. Outside?"
"I don't know Son. Ask your mother if you can play outside. I'm kind of in the middle of trying to wri-"

"Disnand"

"No, we're not going to Disneyland right now. I'm trying to- NO! STOP IT! DON'T SIT ON THAT! YOU CAN'T DO THAT TO THE DOGS HEAD! HE'S GONNA-"

"More candy?"

"Wha-? No, you just had a piece."

There's a weird kind of psychic pain that accompanies having your plans interrupted. It's not like having someone sit on your head. But still. It hurts. Because it's your will. It's like you want to do what you want to do but the kids- they destroy that. The kids destroy what you want. Just a sec-

"Excuse me, what?"

"I love you Daddy"

"Aw, I love you too, Zachary. And guess what. I'm gonna love you even more in 10 minutes after you let me finish writing this blog post."

See? That was sweet. It's not like I'm saying my kid is terrible. The point I'm trying to make is subtle. Even being interrupted to be told that I'm loved is a sudden readjustment to my intentions and it's bracing.

When you think about it, what you want could be construed as a definition of who you are. So kids are constantly messing with who you are. Zach just knocked a glass of red juice onto the keyboard. Zach just knocked a glass of red juice onto the keyboard. Zach just knocked a glass of red juice onto the keyboard.

Shit. I have to hurry. Last night, I was reading- the boy was sleeping, but you're still never safe- and I came across this Carl Jung quote. It really hit home, so I wanted to share it with you.

To this day God is the name by which- "I'm sure it's important Zachary, but I'm right in the middle of a really cool Carl Jung quote. Gimme two minutes."- I designate all things which cross my willful path violently and recklessly, all things which upset my subjective views, plans and intentions- "I don't care that Elmo just ate a banana. Just watch your video and, please, spare me the running commentary."- and change the course of my life for better or worse.

In other words, Gods destroy what you want and mess with who you are. They do this because there's so much more- worlds and worlds- than you and what you want. And kids are more than kids. They're little gods. Honor them.

Moments

Live the moments, my fellow Papas. Put down the newspaper, look up from the laptop, turn off the cell phone. Come home early from work. Say yes to walks around the block for no reason. Enjoy the Saturday morning cartoons. Let them stay up for one more story. Rub their backs. Dance in circles.


This moment--any moment--only comes once.

Daddy-Proof

While serving as Zachary's wingman at the beach the other day, I found myself involved in a discussion about blogging. One mom started off saying she didn't read blogs. (I mean, really! Who has the time for that?) And if she did, she sure wouldn't bother with a blog about raising kids. (I mean, I'm already living that life, yknow? Why rehash it?) And if she did read blogs about raising kids, she sure as hell wouldn't want to read a daddy blog. (I mean, what am I supposed to read about? Seeing their kid a half hour per day and griping about changing diapers?)

Instead of following my instincts and slapping the bitch, I found myself feeling conflicted. Naturally, I was disappointed that this is this woman's experience, one that is shared by too many other parents with absentee partners. However, I also wanted to wave my snot and urine -stained shirt at her and say, "Bitch, I'm right here. And there are tons of other fathers out here, whose hands I would gladly shake were I a little less sticky. How's about taking a stroll outside the gated community of Head-Up-Your-Ass Estates?"

Look, I know daddy bloggers aren't the usual case.

Not by a long shot.

We are a stark minority, so much so that we are often lucky to just be lumped in with the mommies when it comes to parenting. Not every dad has the option to care for his kids as much as we do, or gives much of a shit about washing clothes, weathering tantrums, packing lunches, and the usual crudgery that punctuates parenthood as we might. Fewer still are the men who will make the time to write about it, with vowels and everything.

Nevertheless, it gives me a hot pain in the nethers to spend everyday with my boy, taking care to listen to this and wipe that and pry apart the other things. And then I walk into a Target and see this on a onesie:


This, dammit, is why we need daddy bloggers.

Ahoy! Pirates

Zachary is all about pirates. What started as a nonchalant viewing of "Elmo and the Bookaneers" has turned into infatuation. He now settles down for nine hour marathon sessions of Pirates of the Caribbean movies and yells "Arrrggg" when he doesn't get his bottle delivered to him in a timely manner.

Yesterday, the ultimate playset arrived in the mail (courtesy of Nannykins and Bumpa).

To prevent him from self-exploding in excitement, we've been introducing him to it a little bit at a time. (i.e. this morning, we added pillows). In other words, he doesn't yet know the cannons shoot water!

Kicked in the Head- a tribute to Grandpa Vic

On a beautiful and sunny summer afternoon when I was 13 years old, my grandfather stopped by our house and found me inside.

On the couch.

In front of the television set.

I think I was watching 'Three's Company'.

For most of us, the severity of this situation requires no explanation, but for those of you not as familiar with my Grandfathers' idiosyncrasies, I cannot understate how irate he would become when confronted with laziness. As such, being the subject of his irritation could be quite intimidating.

I remember how he towered above me like a superhero perched on the back of a valiant horse on the verge of throwing a bolt of righteous rage down upon me.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?", He shouted in consternation. "IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY! You need to get out and ENJOY IT. When I was your age....!! Tomorrow you and I are going fishing. These days will pass you by fast, and you can't take them with you".

So just like that, for the rest of the summer, I spent almost every weekend getting up at 5 am. My Grandfather and I would drive out to McCloud Reservoir- and fish.

I remember while we were on the boat, how he would sit patiently and listen to my long winded soliloquies of my personal teenage soap-operas regarding God-knows-what. Undoubtedly bored out of his mind, he would offer advice in the form of an occasional grunt of disdain or nod of approval at select points of interest.

But there was one time, after I had given a lengthy and detailed synopsis regarding the finer points of the trials and tribulations of Jr. High dating, he unexpectedly looked up and said, "Kacy- guys like us, well sometimes we're just going to get kicked in the head by a horse." I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, that's pretty profound. Relationships, family and life in general can often be like a wild and untamed animal. Without showing the proper respect and delicacy they can rear-up and teach a painful lesson. I get it, yeah, I like that." I didn't say this to him, of course. I just continued to look down at my bobber and silently nodded my agreement.

It took me a little over a year to realize that while my Grandfather could effortlessly spin a yarn of comedic prose or hyperbole, he rarely spoke in metaphor. And what I mean by that is, about a year later, I actually stood witness to him physically getting kicked in the head- by a horse.

This got me thinking, "guys like us?"

How could he possibly include me in such an exclusive club that carries prerequisites of amazing acts of personal fortitude, demonstrations strength and resistance to pain such as I will never understand let alone employ? If I injured myself with a chainsaw like my grandfather once had, I'd cry like a little girl, soil myself and pass out. I certainly wouldn't remain conscious long enough to stitch up the gruesome wound myself. I mean, come on. This is a man who; using nothing more than some suture, a needle and a mirror, performed his own vasectomy.

"Guys like us"?

No.

My Grandfather stood alone. Without comparison or equal. A head and shoulders above the rest of us. But a result of the natural progression that follows in the wake of someone larger than life whom we admire and respect, I can't help but attempt to emulate him. His inevitable influence to this day, continues to guide me.

For my immediate and extended family, he was more than an iconic symbol of wisdom and strength. He was our protector. A constant reminder that most of the problems that we face in life can be overcome with nothing more than determination- well, that and duct tape. The infallible confidence that radiated from his person reached well beyond the lineages of his blood-bourn boundaries. Without an inch of exaggeration, he changed-for the better- thousands of lives.

With him gone I feel as if the last leaves of a strong tree have blown away in the wind, leaving the branches bare, and those of us below a bit more exposed to the world. Not unsafe, but vulnerable. It brings with it that equally disconcerting and reassuring feeling as one generation passes and the next comes to be, that life does go on.

He told me, 'you can't take it with you'. I realize now, that he wasn't talking to me but rather about me. About all of us and the experiences we share. Because ultimately, what we have to show for our time here- is one another.

No, you can't take it with you, but who would want to take it with us, when it's a greater privilege to leave it all behind.



Grandpa, your passing has taught me that even superheroes can die. But it's your life that I want to thank you for. You got me off the couch and took the time to teach me about relationships, family and life in general.

Wherever you are, I'm confidant you're still riding atop that valiant horse,

because I think it just kicked me in the head

Two

When I pick you up from daycare and we try to leave, little girls chase you down the hall and squeal your name. They wrap you in their arms and little gold stars twinkle and rain down on your beaming smiles. I think Look at you matter. Look at how much you matter in the world

I can’t believe you didn’t exist before 2 years ago. Who can fathom? You are so firmly entrenched in the world. You’re a stone tossed in my pond. Your ripples hit all my edges. It’s wrong to say there was life before you. Your mark runs through my entire biography.

Oh Son. You are 2 today. I want to tell you things. I am so filled with wanting to teach you.

Listen. There will be people in your life who make you cry and you will feel like shrouding yourself in a cloud of bitterness. You will want to walk about scowling and waving your fist at happy people. But here’s a little secret. The past? Well. You can change it. It can be changed and healed and re-written. It’s not some hard thing chiseled in a stone. Sometimes something reaches back and edits entire stories. Do you believe me? Do you believe that all our yesterdays can be changed by a today that flashes through our lives like lightning? Well, it can. I know it’s true. For you, little boy, are just this kind of past changing thing.

Many years ago I was not so happy. Once I stood on a dock that stretched out onto a frozen pond. I cried icicles, clenched my fists, and screamed until my throat hurt. I screamed at the dark and dared it to come get me. I wanted to run as fast as I could to the end of the dock and leap right into the darkness. I was not so happy.

But years later, when you were born, when you were no more than a couple handfuls of raging pink littleness, the very first thing you did was change everything. When I saw you I shuddered with my whole body.

The stone was tossed.

The room rippled. I gasped. The future filtered through your open eyes. Your wail rewrote the past. That shuddering ripple changed everyone I ever was. You ran all the way back to that dock and whispered in my ear Don’t you jump into the dark just yet, mister. You will one day be my Daddy.

And so I didn’t. Instead, I sat cross-legged at the edge of the dock in a vague cool atmosphere of unarticulated reason to live.

I walked home that night, oddly contented, in a rain of little gold stars that twinkled and beamed.

Homebrew Wrecked My Life: A fictitious poem

I've been brewing night and day for about half a year,
Seven hundred batches of a nectar strong and clear.
I've filled up every corner of this home that was so sweet,
But now my honey's gone and set my kettle on the street.

I spent Zachary's trust fund on a tank of stainless steel,
And sold the faithful doggie just to put the thing on wheels.
In retrospect I realize that I caused undue pain,
I should never have made the jump from Extract to All-Grain.

Homebrew wrecked my life today,
This brewer's name is Mud.
I'll give my brewing vats away,
And buy a case of Bud.

I've lined the walls with plastic, and epoxied all the floors,
Put in ultraviolet lasers to protect the beer from spores.
And everything was going great, the brewing never stopped,
Until Lesley found her walk-in closet completely filled with hops.

Homebrew was a blast until it finally wrecked my life,
I guess ten thousand bottles really aggravates a wife.
And when they started blowing up, they tore the house apart,
Now my baby's gone and wrecked the mash tun of my heart.

Homebrew wrecked my life today,
I've brewed my final batch.
I'll leave behind the homebrew way,
And start a garden patch.

Now I'm on the sidewalk with my last remaining beer,
The neighborhood is quiet, all the windows dark from fear.
A soggy pile of bricks and glass commemorates my house,
And me without a carboy or a siphon or a spouse.

I'm sorry for the state of things, you know I really am.
My passion was excessive, and my plans a little grand.
I'd gladly make it up to her, if I could find some malt,
I'd even name the special beer "It Was At Least Half My Fault".

Homebrew wrecked my life today,
She walked right out that door.
But since my baby's gone to stay,
I might brew just one more...

Zachary in Disneyland 2010

The kid isn't even 2 yet and already he's got the place mapped out better than his Father. The kid is also over 35". I made the fortuitous discovery that 35" in the minimum height requirement for the Matterhorn. The kid also has a love-hate relationship with thrill. We thought we'd test out his extreme sport's limit with a ride on the Matterhorn. He is not even two; he may be the youngest kid ever on this ride.

Since he has a love-hate relationship with thrill, we figured he'd either love it (squealing with glee) or hate it (crying with fear). Zachary continues to defy expectations with a most unexpected response....

Zachary's milestones have gone to plaid.

Kacy and I remember when milestones were weeks or months apart. 22 months ago, we held a newborn and wondered "how long until his first (insert random achievement)?" The milestones came slowly. His first smile took a month, his first tooth took seven months. But then, the milestones started coming more quickly. New milestones were happening every week, then every day, and now, it seems like some come every few minutes.

Using the timeless words from SpaceBalls, Zachary's milestones have, "gone to plaid."

For instance, he recently said his first clear sentence. The entire thing was perfectly articulated - equipped with a subject and a correctly conjugated verb. Unfortunately, I can't remember what the sentence was. It was flanked by two other milestones that I was busy pondering in the same thirty second window (that Zachary could aim his shoe at my head with perfect precision while I was driving and that Zachary recognized a giant blow-up Santa on top of an auto dealership, and was correctly scared of it).

So, although I cannot (and should not) repeat all the milestones for this post, I'd like to point out a few that I find particularly endearing.

(1) Zachary recognizes Starbucks and Costco as a place that enhances mommy's mood. He claps and says "Yay" each time we walk by either the Costco or Starbucks symbol.

(2) Zachary recognizes sadness in others. Mommy recently had tears after being pelted by a metal train (see above comment about throwing with perfect accuracy). Once the tears came, he stopped, put the third train down and said "Mama?" in the most angelic and concerned voice. Then he walked slowly over to me, sat in my lap and gave me a hug.

(3) Zachary has nightmares. We always wondered when these start, but we can say with certainty that Zachary has had nightmares since he was at least 9 months. He wakes up crying (very upset) and screams "Scared, Scared, Scared" while clinging to us for his dear sanity.

(4) Zachary tries to sing. His first song is "Read, read, read, read.... [we're pirates who love to read]." (Elmo and the Bookaneers with Tina Fey). He can only sing the read, read, read, read part, but he does so accurately.

(5) Zachary has learned how to play with others (well). Recently, he and another boy took turns pushing each other across the floor in plastic tubs.

(6) Zachary has learned his name. He can say "Zakwee" and now does so anytime he wants to do something by himself.

(7) And finally (and most importantly), he has memorized the layout and directions of Disneyland. He correctly points out the right freeway to get on to go see "Mi-ee-Moo" (read: Mickey Mouse) and reminds Mom of this every time he is on his way to school. Once in Disneyland, he can find the Tiki Room from any point in the park. Here, he is perched in the window of our room at Paradise Pier; pointing to the direction of Disneyland...and more specifically, the Tiki Room.

The secret symbiosis

An interesting mutualism has developed between me, Lesley, and Zach. As a result, Zach (mistakenly) believes his Parents are pretty damn cool.

For example:
It's Wednesday and Zach thinks he's going to school.
Nope, sorry dude. You're going to Disneyland.

It's Friday and Zach thinks he's going to school.
Nope, sorry dude. You're going to the Zoo.

It's Saturday and Zach doesn't know what day it is so he thinks he's going to school.
Nope, sorry dude. You're going to the aquarium.

It's Wednesday and Zach is actually in school.
He comes home to this.

Zach: "Is it Christmas?"
Nope not yet.

"My Birthday?"
Sorry not today.

"I'm awesome?"
Strike three.

Son, we could bullshit you and say we do these things because we love you. But as usual we're going to give it to you straight:
*whispers* None of this stuff actually has that much to do with you.

Don't get your diapers in a bunch, allow me to explain.

Take this tent-tunnel thing I just bought you today as an example: Before I purchased it, while I was driving home with it and later cursing and breaking my back while putting it together, I was distinctly aware of the possibility and even high probability that you would totally ignore it and just play with the box.

Did that deter me?
No

Why? Because I thought it looked fun to play in*.

I call this the secret symbiosis.

Is it a crime that we are enjoying your childhood as much as you are?Okay, that's probably a bad example. But you still see my point.

Yet, some will say that what we are doing is still spoiling you. Sending the wrong message.

I respectfully disagree. Our message is clear and appropriate:
Son, you are not the center of the Universe.

BUT YOUR PARENTS ARE.

Now if you'll excuse me, You'll be home in a few hours and I've got a puppet show to rehearse.

*Be sure to ask your Grandma Lyndell about the time she gave your Mom a Doll-house for Christmas.

Life lessons my son taught me just this morning

1) I like to totally dork out, at least once, every day. You adults act self conscious even when you're alone.

2) If I love someone, I show them and I don't hold back.

3) If I can't carry it, I don't need it.

4) I always follow my instincts and try not to get in my own way with too much thinking.

5) I'm not ashamed to cry.

6) I ignore what people say and pay attention to what they do.

7) I have the most fun with the cheapest toys

8) I never consider it a waste of time to re-read my favorite book

9) I've identified things in life that make me happy and I am constantly surrounding myself with them

10) Feeling pure joy should never be harder than hugging a blanket.

Watering the garden

As I write this, Zach is deftly displacing 50 gallons of water from the tub in which he is sitting (and likely urinating or perhaps even defecating), to the recently cleaned and once very dry, floor.

Perhaps I should check on him...

Nah, I'm sure he's fine.

Now then, where was I...

Oh yeah, I was about to verbally bitch slap those of you who keep bugging me to post more videos. But now that I listen to the unholy havoc my son is unleashing in the next room, I realize that some stories are better told without words.

That is to say, on very rare and bizarre occasions, all of you can be right and I can be... wrong. Don't let it get to your heads. It was probably just a one time thing.

Anyway, without further ado; A random TWO part video I took this afternoon. (it's too large to post in its entirety- you'll have to navigate back to this page to see the second half after watching the first part. click here for part 1 and click here for part 2)

The Hunt

It's 5am. While the rest of the family sleeps peacefully, Zachary is hatching an evil plan.

With the deadly stealth of a ninja, he slithers like a snake behind enemy lines. Completely undetected by his would-be victim.

Using the element of surprise, he launches into a lightning-fast series of strikes.

Like a crazed spider monkey, his onslaught is a flurry of arms, legs, hands and feet that blur with feverish alacrity. This 'Shock and Awe' tactic proves simply too much for the unprepared and defenseless victim to withstand.

After instilling a sense of bowel loosening terror within his prey, he regroups and quickly formulates a second assault.

...a more subtle approach.

Zach skillfully utilizes his charm to lower his victims' defenses, subduing and lulling her into a vulnerable complacency.

He slowly inches ever closer. Closer....

Suddenly, with an earsplitting bestial battle cry, he executes a second fiery attack

Going straight for the Achilles Heel, he looks to quickly end the battle with a devastating finishing move.


What's this? In a shocking and stunning turn of events, Zachary loses stamina and focus at the worst possible moment and falls asleep in mid-attack. In an instant, his inevitable victory is snatched away from him by the jaws defeat.

Devastated, Zachary is left to contemplate his failure.

Thankfully, the victim escaped with only minor injuries and lives to fight another day. Will she be prepared next time? We'll see....