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....

I'm not averse to advise in verse, unless of course it's adverse advice (or was that vise-versa....)

Zachary, my life's creation,
happy in your perambulation.
I daily watch your life unfold,
As if a story being told.
But someday I'll be dead and gone,
You'll have to know your right from wrong.
Perhaps taking from my advice,
On, "What To Do When The World's Not Nice?"
If you're alone and feeling sad,
in need of comfort from your Dad.
You'll hear a whisper in your ear,
"I love you son and have no fear".
Know it's I who speaks to you,
and watches over what you do.

Rising Son

The summer solstice means the days are longer,
Your cry is slight at first, but then it's stronger.

And early vivid sunlight hits your eyes,
The sun has risen; thus the Son must rise.

As you attempt to yank me from my bed,
I shield my face, you kick my nuts instead.

Your voice rings forth in obstinate soprano,
Before too long, you're at your toy piano.

I'd drag a rusty blade across my cheek,
I'd snorkel in a cesspool for a week.

Or shove a red-hot poker through my spleen
If you would only sleep past 6:15

Working

In order to better make ends meet, I will inevitably need to go back to work. Making ends meet is one of my favorite cliche's. We all want to make ends meet. We endlessly struggle to avoid the emptiness of that breach.

What, you ask, lies in-between those disconnected ends of pecuniary responsibility?

This.

The Boy With the Golden Tongue

*DISCLAIMER* Lesley does not like the following post. She maintains that it's too wordy and complicated. Considering the history of my wife's opinion on all things, she's probably right. Be that as it may, I remembered my love for her or my son does not require anyone's approval.

All of you, try to understand, I want my love to tear through Zachary's skin and attack his bones. Truly, much of what I post on this blog will likely someday cause embarrassment to my son that he will no doubt describe as, "Mortifying beyond comprehension". Maybe he'll even hate me for it...

You know what? Tough shit.

He should have seen my Dad in sweatpants.

Which reminds me; We are now accepting donations to Zachary's "Therapy Fund"
*************************************************

"Dadda"


Many years ago Zach, your Uncle Kris described to me an interesting branch of philosophy that denies the essential existence of things. They don't believe that the world existed first and that mankind went around naming everything second. Rather, they believe that the existence of a thing is bound up in language, that, for instance, a tree was called into Being by uttering the word "Tree". This is tough stuff to get your head around because there's a place where reason fails you and something else is required. But I know it's true Zachary. I know in my heart it's true.

Because you spoke me.

Do you understand, boy? Please understand this someday. I was a disparate collection of blurry fragments until you uttered me into the world. You spoke me. You said "Dadda" and called forth a Dad out of the teeming formless void. The word "Dad" blurred the myriad distinctions in the impermanent march of ceaseless change and instituted my emergence: a somebody, a Dad in service to his Son. You Dadded me. The who of who I am coheres in your world. I am the plaything of your speech.

The mouth of the Child gives birth to the Dad. You made me a man, little boy, with the sound of your newly emerging voice.

So this morning, today, Father's Day is not just about me. Its about you.

You are the boy with the magical golden tongue.

The Young and the Restless

I am aware that selective ignorance is a cornerstone of child rearing. You don't put your kids under constant surveillance, it just frightens you. Every 5 minutes they will discover some new creative way to make your hair fall out. Parents should sit tall in the saddle and look upon their troops with a noble, benevolent and extremely nearsighted gaze.

Despite knowing this, I must admit the "Nannycam" at Zachary's daycare is just too cool. For those of you interested on watching all the daytime drama unfold send me an email with a request for the link and password.

Last episode recap:
Zachary unexpectedly proposed to Nikki at recess where they made plans to nap on conjoining blankets. But later he called off the wedding when he discovered her sharing crackers with the new kid during lunch. Heartbroken and in a moment of weakness, Zach fell off the wagon both figuratively and literally when he succumbed to his old vice and hit the bottle for the rest of the afternoon. Meanwhile, Paul shocked viewers by miraculously coming out of his 3 hour coma only to catch Tiffany red handed playing with his favorite toy.

Next Week on the Young and the Restless:
Playtime takes a dangerous turn when Amy accidentally falls from the jungle gym. Zach rushes off to find the teacher but is restrained by Amy's ex-BFF Adam. He's left to wonder, "Was it just an accident?". Also, old jealousies come to the surface when Naomi confronts Theresa about hoarding all the "good toys". Will they finally resolve their issues, or will deep secrets push them farther apart as tensions rise? The answers to these questions and more, next week, on the Young and the Restless.

Swabbin' the Poop Deck

Hop on the bed son before the carpet melts into water and hungry crocodiles. Grab your tennis racket and call it a paddle. What do we care about words and their referents? Free all things from their chains and cast away. Tennis rackets want to be paddles too. Beds yearn to be fearless ships on the edge of the world, in search of new continents.

The walls of the house crumble while the roof blows straight up into some super cool infinity.

Onward! Ho!

WAIT!! Where's the lovely lass, Lesley?

Look there! She's hopping across crocodile heads like that crazy guy in Activision's Pitfall. And she almost made it too except her pants got snagged on that last corc's big dirty tooth. A pantless voyage then. Ha ha!

With the full crew intact, we cast away on the breath of Poseidon into worlds unknown.

A Sky Gone Crazy With Stars

I had a professor once tell me that I had a lovely mind that effortlessly saw the world in metaphors. Today, that lovely mind split open and oozed it's life out upon the cold and relentlessly harsh and unforgiving pavement.

Today, metaphorically speaking, I died.

On the up side, I know what it feels like to die. On the down side, I can tell you that it unequivocally sucks.

Allow me to explain.

"Sit here for a moment while Daddy goes to the bathroom", I tell my son while rushing in through the front door upon our return from the grocery store. In once graceful, well practiced motion, I plop my son down on the floor, place 5 bags of groceries up on the counter top and unzip my pants- all while jogging a B-line for the bathroom.

I quickly get down to business. Typically I like to talk to Zach through the bathroom door so he doesn't get scared from the sounds of horrifying death and dismemberment coming from my body. I sing him songs, or time permitting, tell him a story to keep him occupied until I can return to my parental duties.

Today was a story day.

As I'm washing up and longingly looking at the toilet, wishing I could sit for another 5 minutes knowing it will likely be the last time I get to relax for the next 3 to 7 hours, something occurs to me. Zach is quiet.

Now those of you who personally know my son need no explanation of the enormity of this statement and therefore fully understand my immediate concern. But those of you who don't should be aware that silence goes with Zachary about as well as toothpaste goes with orange juice. He feels making a racket in the presence of a little peaceful silence is his social obligation, and one with which he accepts with alacrity. Be it at a grocery store, bookstore or funeral.

The icy tendrils of panic begin to creep into the fringes of my cruelly creative mind.

"Is he choking?" I wonder to myself as I quickly dry my hands.

I walk into the living room to a sight even my over-active adult-ADD imagination was not prepared for.

The front door is open. Zach is gone.

I quickly dash out the door and plunge myself into the wild and dangerous jungle filled with speeding assholes, horny pedophiles and murderous maniacs.

In a fraction of a second I scan the scene. Not on the patio. Not in the front garden. Not in the street in front of the house.

Panic tightens its grip.

I run to the sidewalk. Not under the car. Not up the street

Tightens.

I turn my head. Not down the street.

Tight.

I can see 100 meters down our street, which is likely the way he would go. Nothing.

The world splits open.

The icy tendrils that have a firm death grip on my brain have now seized control of the rest of my body. I can't breathe. I notice my vision blurring and my throat is burning.

Trying to look everywhere at once, I am dimly aware that I am now standing in the middle of the street and shaking uncontrollably. Neighbors have gathered. Apparently I am screaming.

"Whats happened?" one of them asks.

"My Son." I say panting in despair, "he's gone"

Immediately everyone splits up in search of the wayward child. One gracious woman stays behind to help me off the pavement where I had just collapsed. "How long?" she asks me.

"5...minutes... maybe less"

"How far do you think your son can crawl in 5 minutes?"

A groan escaping my lips is the only response I manage.

Like cool honey dripping from a spoon, I can feel the sweetness of life forever leaving me. Growing in it's place is a sticky black self hatred that threatens to consume me. Memories pour over me in a flood.

You tugging on my pants for attention that never comes because I'm watching a basketball game on T.V.

You touching your palm and pointing at me, your own way of saying, "I want" and "You" and getting nothing but a curt "No" for a response because I'm too busy washing the dishes.

You crying when I put you in bed, not caring that you're probably not tired, I just want a break.

I hate myself for ever ignoring you.

I hate myself for every discomfort you've ever suffered.

I don't deserve your perfection.

Your are a bright shining star in the dark empty space of my life.

Suddenly an angel dressed as my neighbor taps me on the shoulder and brings me from my stupor, "Here he is! I found him in our front garden."

With shaky hands, I take my son and give the angel a slobbering snot-soaked smile of gratitude.

Zach, clueless to the entire event, points back in the direction of the garden where he was playing and points to his palm.

"Anything you want son," I whisper to him as I walk over to the garden, "anything at all".

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I look down at you.

All I see is a sky gone crazy with stars.

1,000 words

G.R.O.S.S.

Meeting of the Get Rid Of Slimy girlS club minutes:

9:30 Meeting called to order. Dictator-For-Life Zachary (D-California) proposes resolution condemning existence of girls.

9:45 Minority Whip Kacy (D-Umbass) abstains from vote. Motion fails.

9:46 Patriotism of Minority Whip called into question.

9:47 Philosophical Discussion

10:15 Bandages Administered. Dictator-For-Life rebuked for biting.

10:16 Forgot what debate was about. Medals of bravery awarded to all parties.

1 year old

Winston,

I'm not a poet, not nearly.

I have neither the eloquence nor the skill to convey what is in my heart today and for this I hope you'll forgive me. I want you to understand that my failure here is neither from lack of inclination nor lack of trying. It's simply that it is difficult for me to think when all I can do is feel.

I want to tell the entire story of your life; every moment of the 365 days since you first lay in my arms and I shakily whispered, "I'm your Daddy. Nice to meet you."

I want to lay out all my wishes for you. All my hopes and blessings. I want to tell you how much you've changed me, how much you've taught me in a year. Perhaps I learned more in this year than in my entire lifetime.

But the task is too great, my feelings too overpowering. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Another day the words might come. But today, I can only tell you what I can tell you, and that will have to be enough.

One year and roughly nine months ago, your mom and I entered a strange new world. Phrases like Poker Night, bar hopping and margarita with salt were erased from my vocabulary and replaced with expressions like Lamaze classes, breathing coach, morning sickness and mucus plug. I anxiously watched as your mothers' body spread and stretched, her organs nudged one another over to make room for the new life. An amazing anatomical dance just for you.

The first time I laid eyes on you, I'd like to say that my initial thought was "I love you." but I'd be lying.

I loved the idea of you. But the actual you, was a stranger to me. For 41 and a half weeks you were all I had thought about, every day, every night. I sang to you the best I could. I read to you. I made brilliant, grandiose plans for you. I dreamed of you. I awoke thinking of you and nothing but you. I assumed all of those things would add up to knowing a person.

But when I looked at you, I knew I had been mistaken.

And so my first thought that February evening was, "Who is this?"

I don't know these eyes, I don't know this nose, I don't know these ears, I don't know this cry. Who is this little boy in my arms, trying to make sense of the world. The fluorescent lights, the women in scrubs, the tearful Grandmother, the exhausted mommy who wants nothing more than a large glass of wine? Who is he? Who is he going to be? Who is he going to be to me?

The first night in the hospital, the three of us were alone together. I was terrified. Excited. Panicked and happy. And then in the wee hours that I stared at you, it struck me-- you weren't a stranger at all. It was another time, another place; a relationship I can't quite put my finger on. But it was real and some piece of me was struck with the recognition.

That's when I realized, the face may be unfamiliar but the relationship is not new at all. Teacher and student. Together again.

The student being me.

Here I want to convey this remarkable spirit, this unrelenting joy you radiate and how it has defined you for the last twelve months. But again the language is just out of reach.

I close my eyes, trying to see the combination of letters and commas, periods and spaces that will bring your personality to life, but everything just seems fuzzy and off. A cloudy alphabet soup.

Instead of words, I see images: You waving at the refrigerator. You laughing at a tree. You smiling at a hurried businessman on the street, making him forget the cell phone at his ear and the attitude he wears like armor-- just long enough for him to stop talking mid-sentence and smile back. A brief moment of your attention is enough to change someone's entire heart.

Oh, how I want you to stay this person. This person who isn't afraid to clap for a mailbox or laugh at the clouds. But I know I can't make you. I can only allow you to be who you are at that moment. Gone as soon as it arrives.

I press my eyelids closed again because I want to see who you are at One, lock it into my memory forever. Even if I have no words in my head, I do have the images.

I see your 5 teeth and the hair that just starting to be long enough to curl in random places when you come out of the bath.

I see your perfect pale skin and the smooth soles of your feet.

I see you grabbing my nose in the morning, poking my face or pulling my hair until I agree to start the day.

I see your face covered in cookie crumbs. Or sweet potatoes. Or wet, soggy specks of Gerber goo.

I see you chasing the dog under the table, crawling nearly as fast as he can run on the hardwood floors. I see you grabbing at him as he passes, then slowly opening a moist palm to discover a handful of fine black fur.

I see you laughing at the recessed lighting in the kitchen, an inside joke between you and the 60 watt bulbs.

I see you jumping. Jumping when Mommy walks in the door from work. Or simply jumping because it's the single best thing in the whole entire world and you can do it higher and longer and with far more passion than anyone, anywhere, ever.

I see you laying your head on my chest when the fatigue is just too much to fight, even for you, the amazing non-sleeping baby. I see myself lowering my nose to your head and inhaling, wanting so badly to remember the warmth, the smell, the feeling.

And always, always I see you smiling.

I struggle with the knowledge that these images will eventually be lost to me. The details now so sharp will become eroded and eventually erased with the inevitable passage of time.

Yet I know that I am merely shouting at a sunset. Begging it to stay. Knowing that it can't. I search for the strength to simply sit back and enjoy the show. To embrace the understanding that, like a sunset, your rich color, life and vibrancy will continue to become more and more beautiful with each passing moment.

I'm realizing that sometimes that enough. Sometimes that's everything.

Happy Birthday Son.

Love,

Dad

Man Bites Blog

I know. Iknowiknowiknowiknow. I haven't posted in ages. I suck, you hate me and wonder why I have to dork so hard. I really have been meaning to post more, but (INSERT RANDOM LAME EXCUSE HERE) and I'm sure you all understand.

So to appease Zachary's rabid fans and their seemingly endless appetite for amusement at his expense, I present the following videos. Some of these are older, some are very very recent. All of them should be new to you. Enjoy!

Zach discovers water is wet


Zach finds his penis


Zach gets busted

Caution

For liability purposes, just about every child's toy or clothing article comes with some sort of warning. Usual suspects aside (a bottle of tylenol, Draino, and fireworks), most warnings are somewhat frivolous and therefore we do not bother to take them seriously.

For example, are we really concerned that a 10 month old is going to remove his dirty diaper, bury his face in the urine (or worse)-soaked cotton and suffocate? No, but perhaps Huggies is just covering their own asses in the event of a diaper-assisted suicide.

Today, however, the line was crossed. Kacy found a new Warning that was so dumb, it deserved a post. This warning was printed on a 1.5" by 3" plastic sticker that was attached to a shopping cart play set.

Here is what it said - verbatim:

CAUTION

Remove this sticker before use.
Leaving sticker attached to fabric
creates choking hazard.

Ummm.......?

Child of Ungoliant

Zach had another near death experience today. This in and of itself is nothing unusual. Except today it wasn’t his typical blatant disregard for human life exercised in the form of licking an outlet, eating loose change or pulling the dog’s ears. No, today he was just an innocent bystander. Today, death came looking for him.

I walked into my son’s bedroom to find him ignoring his toys and inquisitively looking just over my shoulder at the back corner of the room.

“Hey Squirt, whatcha’ looking OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT”

Apparently while my family was away for Thanksgiving, Shelob decided to move out of Mordor and take up residence in Zach’s bedroom.

Now, I don't mean to brag, but I am proud of the fact that very few things actually scare or intimidate me;

Heights? No problem.

Snakes? Pshaw.

Standing naked in front of a large gathering while giving a ill-prepared speech? Easy.

But if I unexpectedly come across a spider, I shriek and quickly dissolve into inconsolable hysterics like a schoolgirl who has unexpectedly come across Zac Efron.

Armed with nothing more than a box of Kleenex, I ignored the natural instinct to soil myself and took a defensive stance. Throwing caution into the wind, I quickly positioned my body between the Boy and the massive, egg engorged, pulsating spawn of hatred from the underworld.

Akin to the parent who somehow finds superhuman strength to lift a car that’s rolled onto their child, I dug deep and found the courage to attack.

An epic battle ensued where I fought valiantly but was ultimately ambushed, paralyzed and left for dead only to be found by Orcs who took me captive in the enemy stronghold of Cirith Ungol.

I’ll gloss over the details at this point, but let me just say that I escaped, was reunited with my family and I’m fine.

The above picture was indeed taken in Zachary’s room but in Washington, not San Diego. The guest star of today’s blog was actually a black widow- These are small but still very dangerous to children. Lets just say if he could choose between getting a bite from a Widow, Cobra or Coral snake he would be ill advised not to go with the either of the latter two. No, I didn’t get a photograph of Shelob. I almost died. Cut me some damn slack.

Nightmares

Not too long ago, Zachary woke up in the middle of the night screaming. I ran into his room and said, "What's up Winston? You okay?" The look of fear on his face spoke volumes; You left me alone, in the dark. And I'm scared.

I scooped my boy up into my arms and he immediately fell back to sleep. But as I rocked my baby in the wee hours of the night, I began to wonder:

Can a baby have a nightmare?

After a brief philosophical discussion with my wife, I have settled on the conclusion that if you are old enough to experience life, then you are old enough to have nightmares about it.

"What," I pondered at my slumbering son "could you possibly have nightmares about?"

Before the thought was completed in my mind, I imagined Zachary looking up at me and saying,

Daddy?
Do you remember when I was 8 months old and I accidentally broke your camera lens?
Do you remember how you yelled?
I felt so bad for making you angry and I was sorry for what I did
But it didn't matter
You yelled anyway
You kept yelling and yelling and after a while it was as if you weren't even angry about the lens, but something else all together

Why don't you write about those memories Dad?
Where are the photos of those moments?

"Well son," I whisper sadly
you don't need pictures or stories to remember those times
Those are the ones that are always there with you
Waiting to come out,
from hiding under the bed
or peeking from behind the closet
Whenever you're alone
In the dark
And scared

The Art Of Parenting

The proceeding picture is one I took of Zachary shortly after he realized that I wasn’t going to let him eat the squashed bug he had just discovered on the floor. Unsurprisingly, he launched into a well-researched, beautifully constructed and brilliantly articulated, hissy fit.

That got me thinking; if little Winston here wasn’t the tender age of 9 months old, he’d probably be kicking the intellectual shit out of me right now and I’d eventually have to let him eat the damn bug.

The writing’s on the wall. I’m simply no match for this kid. I’m Doomed. Helpless. Hopeless. We’d both be a hell of a lot happier if he just always got what he wanted.

But as I was getting ready to pour myself a stiff drink and settle into the inevitable roll of “Deadbeat Dad”, I saw a peculiar book in my bookshelf.

“The Art of War” by Sun Tzu

“Ok” I thought, “It’s worth a try”.

I opened the book and started reading. 2 pages in, I was amused. 10 pages in, I was in awe.

The formula is simple. Just replace the word “enemy” with “child” and BAM! You have the single greatest Guide to Successful Parenting ever printed on paper or bamboo.

Chapter Summary:

1. Laying Plans: Evaluate your competitive strengths and weaknesses against your (child)


2. Conflict (Waging War): Making the winning play requires limiting the cost of conflict with your (child).


3. Strategic Attack: When engaged in a competitive situation with your (child), strength comes from unity, not size, of your forces


4. Tactical Dispositions: Defend existing positions established against your (child).


5. Energy: Use creativity and timing when engaged in a conflict with your (child).


6. Weak Points & Strong: Recognize opportunities that come from the relative weakness of your (child) in a given area.


7. Maneuvering: How to win confrontations of direct conflict when they are forced upon you by your (child).


8. Variation and Adaptability: Be flexible in your responses to your (child). Respond to shifting circumstances differently.


9. The (Child) on the March: Evaluate the intentions of your (child) in order to anticipate their maneuvers against you.


10. Choose The Terrain: Understand the (child’s) general areas of resistance.


11. The Nine Situations: Nine common situations in a competitive campaign and the specific focus you need to successfully navigate each of them.


12. The Fiery attack: The (child) may use the environment as a weapon and the appropriate responses to such attack.


13. The Use of Intelligence and Espionage: Develop inside contacts to acquire current information about the (child).

So there you have it. Raise a child, take over the world.

Piece of cake.

The Ball In Your Court

One night in late October, Zachary was wide awake about 2 hours past his bedtime. In his hyperactive deliriousness, Zachary began to act a little odd. As he sat on his bedroom floor in the wee hours of the night (i.e. 11pm), he began to play with his plastic snail. And by "play", I mean beat into submission.

As parents, Kacy and I were just baffled to watch this playtime unfold.

Had someone spiced the mashed banannas that evening? Was our sweet little baby developing ADHD so soon? No, as it turns out, he was simply warming up for the "real toy". The Baseball.

Conception and Misconceptions: Pregnancy, Birth, and Raising a Baby

This is Lesley. Please lower the bar. Okay then.

This week, Zachary turns 9 months old. Hence, he will now have spent about equal time in utero, and out of utero (this isn’t exactly true, because in pregnancy counting includes 2 weeks of ovulation, where Zachary was genetically only half the man he was to become).

But, close enough.

More to the point, I have now spent equal time in pregnancy and post partum. Prior to and during this whole experience, I had some definitive perceptions about what this pregnancy, birth, and being a mom would be like. Like any scientist, I collected sources, reviewed them for accuracy, and then formulated my own hypothesis or theory. My sources were plentiful: books, parents (including my own mom), movies, and childbirth classes, ect.

Some of these perceptions turned out to be true, and some, not true at all. Thus, this series will be to accurately evaluate (and in some cases debunk) those ideas that we unsuspecting new mothers hold as truth, and nothing but the truth (aka Factcheck.org).

Since Zachary does really take up all of my spare time. This will need to be done in a four or five part series.

#1: Hollywood’s depiction of morning sickness. (i.e. Knocked Up, Saved, Juno, ect.)

MYTH!!! All of those unlucky mothers out there who have gone through “morning” sickness KNOW what I am talking about. First, let’s talk about what Hollywood did get right: morning sickness is not limited to morning. Whoever cooked up that misnomer ought to be shot. Mostly because unsuspecting new pregnancies like me believe that names are meant to be accurate. If names were accurate, then morning sickness is really all-day-all-night-sickness. But, here is where Hollywood gets it wrong.

Scene from Knocked Up: A newly pregnant Kathryn Heigl is interviewing someone for TV. Suddenly she starts to feel a bit ill, and then she runs offstage spewing into a can.

Why this is scene grossly under prepares the newly pregnant mother for what is really to come. It implies that (1) nausea comes on suddenly, (2) the rest of the time you are fine and (3) you have the capacity to function beyond an infantile state.

Here is the reality. When you have morning sickness, you are nauseated ALL of the time. You don’t just suddenly think, Huh, I’m really not feeling so hot, maybe I’ll go vomit now. Nooooo. You've been hit with a 10-week case of Salmonella poisoning. You learn every curve and detail of your home toilet during this time, and probably the tiling patterns of your work bathroom too.

Second falsehood propagated on the silver screen: when your head is not in the nearest receptacle, life is fine and dandy and you are functioning like a normal person. HA! Do you function normally during a bout of food poisoning? Thought not. The best part of each day is after you’ve finished a round (yes, a round) of vomiting and you get that 10 minute recovery feeling where you actually think you might be able to eat something now….once your nose stops burning.

#2: The second trimester is the best part, you’ll glow.

Mostly true, except the glowing part. The second trimester IS the best of pregnancy, but saying that you’ll glow is really stretching it. I think that “glow” is mistaken for the look of complete relief that morning sickness is only occuring a couple hours per day. A more accurate depiction of the second trimester is this: Here is the stage with the LEAST amount of problems…

Here is a picture of me transitioning from the second to third trimester. That is a look of relief!

More to come...

Zach Crawls

I have suspected that my son has been mobile for a few days now. However witnessing his stealthy quadrupedal kinesis in person, let alone capturing the event on film, has thus far eluded me. It all started harmlessly enough: Zach would be sitting peacefully in the center of the room on a blanket while I sat a few feet away with my laptop checking my email. An instant later, Zach is playing with a fork and the electrical outlet.

How the hell...

Naturally, I assumed the dog had picked him up and moved him. Either that, or Zach had somehow ripped a hole in the space-time continuum and teleported to the cupboard containing the cleaning materials and knives. Simply unthinkable was the possibility that my son, my BABY, of a mere 8 months of existence had so rapidly developed his motor skills and triumphed over his epic battle against ataxia.

In the minutes that followed I would rescue my son from his blatant attempts at suicide no less than 7 times. I would piously return him to the safety of the center of the blanket in the middle of the floor, an astronomical 6 or 7 feet away from any potential life threatening mischief. Yet somehow, every few seconds I would find him in some new unexplainable location, like digging through the trash, sticking his hands in the toilet, or eating dog food.

So there I was, sitting on the couch with our friend Annie, when I saw the impossible happen:

My son crawled.

Sounds impossible, I know. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes (didn't we just bring him home from the hospital like, a week ago?) but here is the mocking evidence of my ignorance to the passage of time