05/25/2006
Crazy Wives
The first six months I knew my wife she was a logical, sane, stable human being. I considered this a positive and one of the most refreshing aspects about her. I had had many relationships and was fairly certain that there was no such thing as a chemically balanced female.
Law School changed all that, and since about her second semester I have heard repeatedly, “I know I’m not making much sense right now, but as soon as we get through . . . (fill in any sequence of events since) . . . I’ll be better.
I no longer believe that she is going to “get back to normal”, as time has shown me – I am starting to believe that this state is ‘the norm.’
Much like men will open doors and provide oral sex (without encouragement) during the courting phase, I now see that women will act as if they have some control over their emotions and general judgment to catch their man, and then bam like a rug out from under ya in a bad vaudevillian skit - she’s crying because . . .(fill in personal experience here)
This is not to say that some women are not stable – I’ve seen them on TV. They are usually the ones that play the ‘best friend’ of the guy that’s chasing the ‘popular beauty’ and then in the moment of direst crisis realizes that he’s been chasing the wrong girl . . . I thought I married the best friend.
Uh huh. . .
And they just keep raising the stakes – not unjustified, don’t get me wrong. My wife has every reason to be crazy:
1. She’s married to me.
2. She hates her job.
3. She just had a baby.
4. She can’t be with the baby.
5. Her mother is crazy.
6. I’m crazy.
7. She’s a woman.
Any one of those things alone could push somebody over the edge, but she’s got all of them to deal with at once.
The thing is, I have become so numb to her erratic behavior - that I don’t know what I should be feeling anymore . . . or, if I should just ignore her completely; however, I saw how well that worked for my father - and he didn’t get laid for 15 years.
The truth is that I know I should be feeling a great deal of sympathy for The Wife. She is in a fairly bad emotional place right now without any real relief in sight (Hilton Head, JULY!!). She didn’t have the birth she wanted. She was traumatized, and four weeks later she had to go back to work.
The problem is that what ends up happening is I walk around on egg-shells, being made to feel guilty about the fact that I am the one at home with the baby - trying to hold together my insecurities along with her emotional collapse.
Being a stay-at-home-dad and a full-time graduate student is not an easy task, yet I am constantly made to feel that I am not allowed to whisper a word of complaint - without the offer of a trade being made in a second.
The entire process has made me aware of the double standard in sexual stereotypes. If I were the one that had to go back to work, as most fathers do, I would be crushed to have to leave The Pickle every day. Yet, I know that the sympathy that would be allotted to me at the workplace and in the home would be nothing compared to what The Wife gets and expects on a daily basis.
It makes me bitter and resentful for all the dads that have to go to work every morning as though that were natural either. Separation is painful no matter who you are.
The problem is that it’s driving The Mom loopy, and slowly pushing a wedge between us. We are currently both looking at each other in our ivory towers . . . waiting for the other to climb up and tell us how amazing we are - while looking at the green grass on the other side of the fence.
My true jealousy stems from the fact that she had the foresight to establish the whole ‘crazy wife’ thing ahead of time. Which puts me in a position of weakness. So when one of us decides to compromise, I am going to have to tell her how amazing what she is doing is – mainly cuz it’s true.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/19/2006
To The Great Fear of Dogs and Babies
Of all of the things that concerned me before I brought The Pickle home, the one that has proven to be the least significant is how the dogs would react.
Let me state: I do not think that this fear was without justification, nor do I think that the battle is won - but as a mere analysis of where we stand to date . . . I am amazed.
The reason that there was great apprehension is quite simple. We have horrible dogs, or more appropriately we have one horrible dog and another angel that was put on earth and into our house to make the other one look even worse than he normally would be perceived. . . Harold (the beagle) and Maude (the husky mix).
To say that Harold is rambunctious might be the understatement of the century. True. We just began this century, but I think it may hold up.
Harold came to join our family on Christmas Eve, 2003. He was my present to my wife as she sat wrapping gifts in the home we had just closed and moved into days before. For years we had said . . . “some day we will own a home, and have a puppy – and his name . . . shall be HAROLD!.” I know, it’s . . . one of those - sharing a dream – things. we couples . . . do . . . whatever.
OK. So we got a beautiful baby beagle at Christmas, and he is my wife’s dog – but I picked him out. Are you putting the blame game together yet?
He is an untrainable, hard-headed, occasionally violently defensive member of our family, but damn if he isn’t cute – and we unfortunately love him too much to simply cut our losses.
My wife and I both were both raised with dogs, and we were both bit by them - and they were put to sleep. I am kind of hoping to avoid that.
The thing is . . . Harold is better with the baby than he is with us. I don’t know. I am worried that as she becomes more active, and mobile that their relationship will change, but for right now he has a baby and he couldn’t be happier.
The main problem with Harold is that he is very protective of his resources, and territory. I know that as the baby grows we are going to have to do something to define roles as they change.
Everything has failed so far to get Harold to understand that he is not in charge, but I am hoping that he too will mellow as he gets older – or he could just be like the rest of us and get cranky.
I do not want to wait until he bites her to take action, but so far he has exceeded all of my expectations. What is to say that he won’t continue to?
My gut instinct is to take him out to the country and let him chase a rabbit, but I know I could never do that. I am caught in the middle of my optimism and my paranoia – perhaps the two strongest delusions I have.
The Mom and I have had a dozen conversations about training options, things we can do . . . and the basic truth is that we haven’t done anything.
I have heard a million horror stories, and know Harold is a prime candidate to act out at our daughter to defend his toy, food, or spot on the bed – and yet I am like a deer in the headlights waiting for him to change on his own. I feel helpless because I can’t get rid of the dog, not that I would even want to, - and I don’t know what to do as she grows and ‘invades’ his space and stuff.
Just worried on this one. – yes, I’m looking for advice to help keep from having to hang my dog out to dry.
Sorry, I already had the picture . . .
Pickle's Papa
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Strength In Numbers
I’VE LEARNED SOMETHING!! – and of course, my overblown ego and arrogance cant help but pass on this valuable insight.
Here you go . . . Don’t go out into public - with only one infant.
Aha! See . . . you thought it would be something stupid, but as it turns out – its something improbable.
We are lucky enough to have friends that gave birth 6 weeks before we did – and I cannot profess the magnitude of awesomeness that having two babies allows you in public situations.
It’s like the ultimate trump card for awkwardness, and stuck-up people who just want to eat their meal in peace (and give you dirty looks). You’ve got a whole other family there to defend your judgment, and from my experience – rarely do both babies cry at the same time. . . so one couple can always play the role of “No, YOU just don’t get it” from a safe distance of positive parenthood.
And breastfeeding in public – its like a gang of boob-mongers. Who’s gonna argue?
The truth is that it has been a great experience. We have a standing Sunday morning breakfast date which has provided for an . . . “Oh my god, You too?” situation - while exposing our children and ourselves to a supportive re-entry into society.
Its been a great way to get The Pickle comfortable in social situations at an early age while creating a safe environment of understanding for us as we explore 'the family' needs in public situations, because as I am sure all of you know . . . you never know what is possible until papa needs to strip naked in a Cracker Barrel bathroom.
And that may be the first stage of understanding for me on the path to social exploration - finding safe ways to take The Pickle out onto the limbs of experience.
Pickle’ Papa
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05/18/2006
Holier Than Thou #3
The last post of mine my brother will ever read.
See . . . in my family we’re all fu**in' crazy, but one of the unspoken rules is that you don’t get to tell anybody else how whacko they are – because then they will have the right to tell you how screwed up you are, and I’m pretty nuts too.
So, Tony . . . stop reading here.
This is the part where I vent about how I think he’s completely screwing up his kids. I cant tell him this directly, of course, because then he would have the right to tell me the same . . . but he really is, I swear.
I come from a family where we are quite competent at taking the ‘fun’ out of dysfunction. I will give the complete story of my childhood in a later blog, but here’s the gist: My father is a genius – one of the real ones, but he’s also really crazy. He was a systems analyst (computer geek) in the late 70’s when he smoked a lot of pot, talked to god, and moved all four of us from Detroit into the Arizona desert to “start a mission.”
What actually happened is that he wholly embraced his hermit nature, and raised his family in the middle of the desert with as little contact with the outside world as possible. I grew up without electricity, running water, or social contact until we moved to a suburb of Cleveland, OH - just before I entered the 7th grade.
There are aspects of this rearing that I think provided the strongest possible base for human existence, which cannot be attained in today’s world - and has been invaluable to (what I believe to be) my success as a person and artist. On the other hand I know whole-heartedly that it is also why I am so completely whacked, and have had such difficulty assimilating into functional society.
As a group, my family is amazingly intelligent, extraordinarily creative, witty, and morally just. We also have absolutely no functional ability within group/social situations or long-term, non-intimate or non-familial relationships.
My brother is now taking his children down essentially the same path we had.
What makes this ironic is that as children – he was the one that took issue with the way our father was raising us. He is four years older than me. He took issue to the level of moving out when he was fifteen. He moved into town with friends - at fifteen . . . did I mention fifteen?
Yet somehow he has now created a complete world of isolation for his own three children. His wife home schools and the only people they are allowed to come into contact with are people that they associate with through their church. These kids are no longer toddlers. They are 9, 7, and 5.
One of the few positive aspects of our society, as a whole, is that our culture will provide an honest sounding board for your behavior, performance and being (excluding American Idol). We have a societal Catcher In The Rye – they’re called peers.
I am terrified that these children will eventually have to deal with the cruel reality that is society - without any of the internal tools of survival (both emotional and legitimate) in a world that doesn’t look at you through a mother’s eyes.
It almost appears to me that he has taught his children the perfect form for a breast-stroke, but has done nothing to prepare them for the water.
I believe that we, as parents, have a responsibility to prepare our children to be able to survive without us someday. Every bird needs to be able to fly out of the nest on it’s own, and if you only train in controlled environments, then how are you supposed to trust that they can actually fly straight in the wind that they will inevitably face outside of the nest?
This is what I believe to be the biggest flaw in my family’s genetic code. We as a family have, for as many generations as I have observed, justified our behaviors with an intricate system of, ‘you lie, and I’ll swear to it.’ We live in little bubbles of denial that keep reducing our control group until we are as good, smart, or beautiful as we keep telling ourselves that we are.
The more criticism we get - the more we shut ourselves off from the outside world, and see everyone outside our bubble as an enemy that doesn’t know what they’re talking about. It’s like living in a cult where the only goal is to believe that you’re right – doesn’t matter what about.
Any time someone justifies their behavior with separation and exclusion – it makes me nervous. If you can’t justify your behavior and beliefs in the face of opposition then there is something wrong.
I am one of the few people with my last name that have learned this lesson by actually venturing out into the real world into working and social situations where comparison is inevitable, and public embarrassment/scrutiny is a way of life, and now that I am a parent I am terrified of falling into the same familial traps. Through therapy, and years of working as a professional actor I have been forced to take an honest inventory of who I am, and what my true nature is.
In the home I grew up in self-realization was the one constant lie . . . denial was and is standard operating procedure.
There is not a single person in my family that hasn't pumped themselves so full of overblown, impossible, illogical delusions of self, potential and place in the world - that ensuring isolation is the only way to keep from running head on into a complete crash of self-image.
It is amazing how everyone gravitates toward jobs where they work alone or in specific areas where they are ‘the’ person. We don’t play well with others, or perhaps we just don’t like admitting that others play too - possibly better or in different ways than we do.
I have been forced to adapt, yet my animalistic ‘bear’ instinct - is to grab up my family and hide in a cave in the mountains, just like everyone else. What interferes with this reaction is reality. The reality that I refuse to do what my father did to me. I need to prepare my daughter for living - not protect her from it.
I believe that the world is a hard and scary place, but I will be doing her a disservice if I don’t slowly dip her feet into the cold water bit by bit to get her acclimated, rather than trying to sew a patchwork bodysuit that I know will never hold-up under a lifetime’s submergence.
I know that my brother would have an equally logical and passionate discourse on justifying his family situation, and his opinion on MY failed responsibilities as a parent.
That’s the issue - parents are even worse than opinions (being like a**-holes) because each one of us has even more than one . . .
Pickle’s Papa
p.s. - any family members that read this and feel motivated to comment - please e-mail me instead. I do not wish to turn this blog into forum for family discussion. It's where I get to vent. If you want to tell your side of the story . . . start your own blog.
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05/16/2006
My daughter is a superhero
My daughter is a superhero, or maybe a professional wrestler – but I know she is definitely larger than life.
I too suffer from the delirium that The Pickle is going to be the awesome balance of Mozart and Einstein with just enough of a touch of The Williams Sisters to land her in her Ivy League school’s athletic hall of fame to go along with her combined music and academic scholarships.
I know all of this is going to happen – because she can hold her head up so well, and is already so alert and interactive.
It should be obvious to everyone that meets her that it is only a matter of time before the worship, accolades, and envy of the world will befall her accordingly due to her superior character, talent, and moral fortitude.
I know some day she is going to disappoint me and the world is going to be as cruel as it has been to all of us, but for right now I am clinging to the amazing potential of her life – because right now, anything is possible. You can’t tell me that she’s not going to be the first woman president. You can’t prove me wrong when I say that she can do anything – because for this one moment – it’s true.
And that is the amazing thing about this brief moment, and why we are now working out superpowers, costumes, and names. . . because anything is possible.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/15/2006
Holier Than Thou #2
Throughout this blog I have repeatedly taken an approach of self-deprecation and self-mockery, but if the truth be told – I’m an arrogant a** that really does think that I know what I’m doing – and that I am going to be a better parent than any of you - and certainly any of these morons I see on TV that do amazingly stupid things to their children.
The problem with this is that I simultaneously fear one moment’s slip of judgment or lack of attention and then I too will fall into that horrible pool of publicly hung-out-to-dry bad parents. I am constantly reminded by my small foibles what a thin line it is between me and those poor bastards on Live on Five.
I mean, anybody could strap their two year old in with only a lap belt - and then run a red light at high speed into the side of a bus - as one local lady did recently . . . killing her son.
Maybe that’s a bad example.
Or the foster parents that locked their kids up in cages . . .
OK, so . . .
It seems as though the bar has been set so low now, and that there’s such an absence of positive child rearing - that we as a culture are judged more on how ‘at least we’re not that person.’ - instead of the adherence to any positive models that could exist outside the historically accepted structures.
Somehow the term ‘Family Values’ has come to mean church going, anti-abortionist instead of values regarding the building and sustaining of a strong family. You can teach responsibility and the importance of right and wrong without it being a politically or religiously motivated.
Families on the outside of 'Red State' ideals have to find new terms, and new systems if we are to have credibility. It is obvious that society as a whole needs a new way of teaching values. As more and more of the population falls out of our society's historic roles - we need to find a way to teach right and wrong outside of the church. It is the only way to ensure that good, sound, moral judgment has a chance of infiltrating the day to day decisions made by parents and children. Our society needs it, and the evening news is my constant reminder.
Obviously this wont cure stupidity, or poor judgment (and I ceratinly dont think liberals are the only ones misguiding their children) – but at least then there will be a system to guide the decisions that many families are no longer getting from the Sunday sermons.
I do not know the answer to this, and I certainly dont want govermental moral guidance - I think we've already got enough of that as it is these days . . . but something has got to give or we will soon be as morally bankrupt as the rest of the world already thinks we are.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/14/2006
They Lied
At no point did I ever make the conscious choice to stop doing drugs, stop chasing every woman I came into contact with, or read parenting magazines – matter of fact I am pretty sure I was never planning on reading parenting magazines, at all . . .
I distinctly remember not remembering much distinction, and yet one day I woke up and didn’t know who to call to get acid anymore, and I’m in the arts - so I should know.
This whole living thing is really putting a damper on my self-image as a reckless thrill seeker - especially as a stay-at-home dad. I can’t even begin to tell you how hard it is to get invited to an ecstasy gang-bang with a newborn, and a wife who really wouldn’t understand.
I’m just sayin’, y’know. . .
And it wasn’t even until I was monogamous that I thought that it was even possible, yet somehow I find having to come home every night and emotionally and physically be married seems to take more energy than I generally have to give in the first place– so the entire concept of chasing or dealing with another woman is just more than I can even fathom.
And then came the biggest crash . . . the baby.
There it goes, the last bit of coolness I might have had stashed in my ability to pull-off lightening bolt side-burns . . . gone.
Nope. I’ve got white milk burp circles on the shoulder of every black shirt I own. Not cool.
I don’t know how most people grow up, but I always thought there was a plan. That perhaps there were choices made along the way, but maybe it’s just a long sequence of compromises, and most are made without a conscious choice.
You find out one day that you need to get up every morning – so you stop doing the things that keep you up all night.
You find out that you like waking up next to the same woman every morning – so you stop doing the things that would drive her away.
You find out that you never want your child to stop looking at you like a hero – so you start doing the things that make you one.
Pickle’s Papa
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Non-Pickle Mother's Day Blog
As we approach Mother’s Day I cannot help but join the parade of bloggers everywhere by celebrating the women that have made all of our lives and children’s lives possible.
I had been fairly certain that it was a subject that I was going to avoid - as I have recently read several blogs that pretty much summed up anything I could hope to say. What changed that was my experience Thursday night.
After class got out I had the rare opportunity to do what we sometimes refer to as “ruining oneself.” The mom had the baby out on the town with her sister who was only in town until Saturday morning. They also had morning plans without me – which meant I could sleep off any damage uninterrupted.
I ventured out to Becky's - the true center of this tale - as well as the people that I have spent so much of my life with there. The bar is centered between three of the most significant locations in downtown Cleveland to my development as an adult. The university where I got my undergrad degree, the main theatrical center where I produced and acted in many shows, and it is also one block from the law school, which graduated my wife. I also managed a coffee shop, right out of school that was four blocks from the bar, worked as a limo driver out of the same complex, and for a short stint I even worked at Becky's directly.
Needless to say we have history. I have spent many a sobering morning watching the sun rise through the glass block windows facing 18th street, and the owner is one of the few people that I can truly call a friend - Tim. He was the first sponsor of the first show I ever produced, and without him I doubt that my career would have ever gotten off the ground.
The most bizarre aspect of Becky’s is that I know the history of that bar better than most anyone, and yet in all my 13 years of hanging out there– I never met Becky. The bar was purchased by Tim’s mother for his sister, the legendary Becky, in the mid-eighties - and she soon moved to North Carolina. The bar was then run for a short period by Tim’s older brother but was wisely shifted to the control of Tim in the early 90’s.
Thursday night, in one of the four times I actually walked in the door in the last two years, I was introduced to Becky. Becky was in town because their mother is in the Cleveland Clinic and not doing well. She had a heart attack, and is unfortunately untreatable until they clear up a major intestinal infection. The outlook is not currently positive.
As the night went on we all told stories of the woman who’s purchase had interwoven our lives, and really created the relationships that we all had.
I have only met Tim’s mom a couple of times, but she is the consummate bar owner. She was truly fascinated by people and wanted to know everything about you, and of course - could convince you to buy a round for complete strangers before one in the afternoon (which I did).
The night wore on, and as eight double Jack and Coke’s will do at two in the morning, we all started reminiscing about the women that shaped our lives, and I couldn’t help but gain amazing perspective on the value of a mother’s impact on not only her children directly, but all of the people that they effect through the way their values and acts effect everyone that they come into contact with.
I sat there hearing awesome stories of a woman I couldn’t recognize on the street, from her children who were facing losing her on Mother’s Day – and I was so moved in gratitude that she gave me the opportunity to have the relationships that I have gained and that place that was a home away from home for so many years.
One of the ways that Becky described her mother was that in their house – there was always an extra bed, and a place set at the table for someone that needed somewhere to stay. Through that nature – I know that her children helped to create a place that made me feel at home when I was facing the brutality of life in the city.
And as I drove home at 3:30 in the morning it clicked as to why I was so moved – because I knew that as an adult I grew up in her home too.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/13/2006
From Pets to Parentdom
Now I was pretty sure I was gonna be a good father. And you may ask yourself . . . well, why is that?
And I would reply . . . because I have pets.
And aside from a really rough stretch with the fish and water quality management - I have been a pretty-darn-good-pet-owner.
When I was 25 my girlfriend at the time, in an effort to get me to assume some type of grown-up responsibility, sent me to the APL where I found what has been the closest thing to my evil arch nemesis that my feeble sense of drama can envision – Lucky. The cat.
Lucky started out as a puppy – you may not understand that concept, but believe me when I say that I had never seen a cat that had more of an affectionate disposition than the sweet orange and white monster that came to take over my bachelor life.
I learned the truth of parenthood’s unbreakable, but damageable relationship through my hard knock failures in balancing my wants and needs with Lucky’s need for food and his unique sense of justice and toiletry vendettas.
I suppose I could have dropped him off on the side of the road at some point, but much like my parent’s marriage, even when it was horrible – at least it was something. I never gave up on Lucky – despite the fact that after weekends away, he would eat his dinner and puke in my shoes. When I wouldn’t get up to feed him at 4 am – he would pee in the shower, or on the tile, or in the closet, or . . .
The thing is, we eventually came to an understanding. I know when I have to change the kitty litter. He knows when he’s gonna get dinner, and as we added a friend for him to beat up on (Aritstotle), and two dogs (Harold and Maude) which are a great diversionary tactic for his animosity - and now a baby -
Lucky was the first member of my family, and he was the testing ground for all of my feeble first-round attempts at daddydom.
It is amazing how many lessons my cat taught me that I will be screwing up - by trying to use on my daughter, and I hope she will forgive me as much as his purring lap-time tells me he has.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/12/2006
Driving me crazy
When did I become that driver?
I remember laughing at ‘baby on board’ signs wondering, “who in the hell is gonna change the way they drive just cuz you’ve got a little booger eater in the back seat?”
Now I find myself white-knuckling it through bad traffic - screaming at strangers, “YOUR POOR CHOICES ARE PUTTING MY DAUGHTER AT RISK!!!”
Cuz that’s cool.
I view every cut-off as a personal attack now, and wonder why they don’t have a special ‘driving infant to grammy’s house’ lane? It seems logical. I’ll paint the signs.
I dread my first fender bender with The Pickle in the car. I am liable to beat some teenage girl on a cell phone to death – and then what kind of father would I be?
I spent a fair share of my regular employed life driving in one fashion or another – newspaper trucks and limos. I’ve been responsible for other people’s lives before. I was a professional. Now I cling to the far right lane like a bad swimmer clings to the wall in a wave pool.
Don’t these people realize that my daughter’s life is a whole lot more valuable than their punctuality? . . . and I take punctuality VERY seriously.
I don’t know, maybe I can put big foam bumpers on the side of my car, and I know – I am going to put a baby on board sign in my window . . . then they’ll understand.
Pickle’s Papa
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05/11/2006
Dingo ate my baby
INCOMPETANT!!!
That is what I expect my daughter’s first word to be - when she can muster up the will and take it no longer.
One of the miracles that is the pickle - is that I have not, by some strike of dumb luck, killed her yet. At least once a day I find myself saying, “HOLY S**T!!! – What am I doing?” as I catch myself in some random act that would make child services mouth water.
This morning we somehow averted a burst stomach through the balanced use of Mylecon and prayer - as papa had inserted the super-sized Avent bottle and stopped paying attention to how much the pickle was eating until 6 ounces of lovingly pumped breast milk had gone into a belly - which should really only hold 2 to 3 of those lovingly pumped ounces (my wife reads my blog). It was at this moment that I took the bottle out of her mouth that I had my daily ritual exclamation . . .
I will give her credit in the fact that it took her a good minute to realize that her abdomen was in peril. It was at this point that the wailing began, and papa’s emotional self-flagellation ensued.
This emotional state of mine has become habitual - as yesterday my inadvertent attempt to strangle my daughter was given the old ‘wrench-in-the-works’ by a half-hour crying fit that would have led a normal father to think that something may be wrong – but no - it was not until the car reached its destination that I discovered that I had in fact strung up my daughter in her car seat like some old west bandito - through a bad angle and a over-assertive strap job.
Then there’s the time I was struggling to put on a onesy, when I swear one would have thought I had torn her arm off (from the popping sound that came out of her shoulder) as I pulled her arm through the hole. She didn’t make a sound. I on the other hand was inconsolable.
The hardest to admit is the time I took three steps toward the Target entrance before realizing I was about to leave a sleeping baby in the back seat.
What the hell kind of father am I? And if I am supposed to be so smart, how in the hell hasn’t everybody else already found themselves in serious dutch with the law for random acts of stupidity regarding their children.
At some point teenagers lost all credibility with me – because it just seemed way too common for everybody to blame their parents for everything that’s wrong in their lives – well, yet again, I may be altering my opinion - as I have come to suspect that there is a good chance that everybody’s parents really did screw them up.
I am fairly certain, from my performance to date, that the pickle is doomed.
The most I can hope for is sympathy – like that that I am starting to feel toward my parents now that I realize how much of an a**-hole I was in holding them to some superhuman standards in how they raised me.
I know I am going to make mistakes. The question is, which ones? I only hope I do a good enough of a job to make sure that she faces a whole new set of traumas than I did, and is a strong enough individual to put it all into perspective.
Until then I just need to try to keep syringes out of her crib, and stop baby bowling - no matter how much fun it is.
Pickle’s Papa
11:40 Posted in Pickle Perdicaments | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this
The story of the bee
The bee sits at the edge of her bouncy seat, mirrored by his silent sidekick the blue raccoon. They are both held in place by retractable arms that sit in constant eyeshot of the pickle as she whiles away her time unaware of the emotional threat - happily listening to the pinging melody of ‘the wheels on the bus go round and round . . .’
The bee first made its appearance at the grandma’s house and was such a hit that we bought an identical bouncy seat for home as well. Little did we know the torment and torture we were submerging our poor daughter in.
You see the bee is in fact colorful and smiley and overwhelmingly interesting to the pickle, but unfortunately the bee is an inanimate object - and this tends to piss off the pickle and cause torrential outbursts when the bee refuses to respond, dance, sing, or climb into her mouth of its own volition – the entire time being mocked in silence by the ever present blue raccoon.
The battle started when that thing that sporadically waved in front of her face and occasionally bopped her in the head was realized to be, in fact, her own hand. It was soon after that she grew intensely interested in bopping everything near her and occasionally grasping these objects for fleeting moments until a spasmodic loss of control resulted in the bopping of the head with whatever object happened to be held.
The love-hate relationship that has developed between my daughter and the bee is a tale for the ages. Homer could only scratch the surface of the joy and betrayal that etched the young heart of my beautiful girl.
The bee sits in mocking silence throughout all of her elaborate coos and bellows attempting to gain some form of reaction . . . but to no avail. If you look in the attached album you will see an example of the struggle . . . and the hollow core of a girl left in torment and exhaustion after yet another failed attempt to achieve love and understanding in a cruel world.
Pickle's Papa
10:30 Posted in Pickle Perdicaments | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this
05/10/2006
Stop making plans.
I am a card holding OCD club member. I make lists, have folders, and everything in my world is a part of a system and has a place. I created a binder for my honeymoon to make sure I could relax, and the trains must run on time.
That was before the pickle.
I have been learning the art of compromise – AKA ‘giving up hope’. I now have general lists as to what I would like to get accomplished on specific days, and prioritize them accordingly – and as of yet, nothing has gone according to the plan.
Now, I’ve run a company – so I know how plans change, how projects turn into the opposite of what they were intended to be . . . but I cannot recall another life situation where everyday I awake in a bewildered state of ignorance and pensive apprehension of the path that could maybe, possibly unfold that day.
I know what I have to accomplish. I have the hierarchy complete, and yet somehow between wanting to sleep as long as possible and the mom coming home there lies a grey area of utter confusion.
Everyone tells me, “you have to build a schedule.” The pickle doth protest.
I must admit that I went in with unrealistic expectations. I did know they were unrealistic, but it’s in my nature to attempt more than I’m capable of in every situation.
The Pickle has yet to come to any consistency aside from the nightly sleep.
Pickle sleeps from about 11 or 12, to 5 or 6 am, and has since she was about 5 weeks old. I know most of you are squirming in your chairs right now saying how can I possibly complain – but here’s the key: that’s on mom’s watch – IT DOES ME NO GOOD!! I would be sleeping anyway because the mom is on the night shift.
What does affect me is the fact that though the pumped breast milk is fairly constant at about 8 to 10 ounces daily – I don’t know if she’s going to eat 6 ounces or 15. This is when the facial twitches start . . . I don’t know if I should make any supplemental formula or not, because if I do - I should mix it evenly throughout the entire supply of breast milk that she will be eating that day, but no – I cant, because I don’t know how much she is going to eat. My god – what if I end up having to feed her straight formula? She’s liable to give up the boob completely and starve in the wilderness.
. . . and then . . . there’s the sleeping.
Yesterday was a perfect example. I had three very specific goals. I needed to hit Trader Joe’s, do the laundry, and read two chapters of Strategic Management before class last night.
Do you think I did that? Do you think I got those things done?
I ended up driving the mom to work – which helped with the shopping because her office is right by Mr. Joe’s, but that meant I had to pick her up at the end of the day as well – cutting into valuable dryer time.
There was no sleeping to be had, and the few moments of quality time that she had with her friend and sometimes arch nemesis ‘MR. BEE’ was allotted to my new blog. That was dumb. I spent my day juggling her and the highly sophisticated laundry system that I’ve designed with the help of several NASA scientists involving an intricate folding system that I don’t have time to get into here . . .
Where was I?
No. I didn’t get my reading done for Strategic Management – and the irony is not lost on me.
Pickle’s Papa
10:13 Posted in Pickle Ponderings | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this
05/09/2006
Holier Than Thou #1
OK. So I have always believed myself to be smarter, more organized, talented, and wiser than anyone my age or situation. It is what has allowed me to justify doing things that otherwise would have seemed really stupid - if in fact I did not on some level believe myself superhuman or just plain superior.
This whole parenthood thing is really throwing a wrench into this theory which has motivated most of my choices in my adult life.
Here is the main issue: I have always believed that the path I have taken is the best possible journey for me. I always knew that I would not have been able to accomplish the things I have - if I had been resonsible for anyone other than myself ie. wife, kids, pets, etc. The issue is that now that I have my daughter - everything else I have ever done pales in consideration, and all those people I made fun of for having kids and getting jobs in their early twenties have perked my jealousy.
I cant believe that I am theorhetically now going to lose ten years of my life with her, on the back end, because I waited to have her.
I always used to say that I need to be ready to have children, both financially and emotionally. The carreer path I chose made financial stability not an option, and I dont think I'm ever giong to really be a grown-up in the the traditional sense. My brother started his family when I was just finishing college, and after his first was born he said what now I believe to be the smartest thing he may have ever said, "You're never ready to have children."
I would trade every accomplishment in my life for one more second of sharing in the pickle's life.
I think I have my first true regret - That I didn't start having kids when I was twelve.
and that's when logic kicks in . . . you can't plan the perfection in the chaos, you can only ride the wave and hold onto the wonder when it stares into you.
pickle's papa
11:52 Posted in Pickle Ponderings | Permalink | Comments (1) | Email this
05/08/2006
Here's the situation
So this is it. This is where I've ended up. Here they are, the entire cast of characters. Lucky and Aristotle - the two cats, Harold and Maude - the Beagle and Husky mix respectively, and (of course) mom and pickle. We all live together in a really cool, really small house in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. My entire adult life has now been spent living in Cleveland. I never had an aversion to this, but I always thought that I'd end up in more of a transient lifestyle. But here it is - this is where I am starting my family.
I spent my early twenties working as a professional theatrical actor here in town, and started my own production company when I was twenty-five. The company did very well, and I got really burnt out by thirty. I had been working as an actor still in the summer (the off-season) at a local amusement park - and when I reached critical mass as Artistic Director I jumped ship and accepted a low-level, seasonal management position at the amusement park. In conjunction with this I decided to go back to school and get a Masters Degree in Business Management. Kindof a bizzarre turn for someone who was supposed to be a rock star. I have an Associates Degree in Music and a Bachelors Degree in Theatre.
I wasn't supposed to be where I am. I know - we all say that, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with. I dont feel any different than I did when I was 16 - yet now I'm supposed to know something, and soon act like one of 'them' in the big sense. I am a natural born actor so I'm sure noone will be any the wiser as to my true disfunction, but there seems to be so much more at stake now - because now I sit holding another person that I am wholey responsible for.
I am amazingly lucky in that I get to spend the first six months of my daughter's life with her every day learning who she is and what kind of father I can be. I attend evening classes while the mom works during the day. In August I need to re-enter the work force when I finish my degree. I intend to find an entry level position at a large arts organization and build my resume for the next 10 years so eventually I can get hired to run an arts facility somewhere.
The mom is the one with the law degree, but unfortunately for our finances - she's also the idealist. She isn't liscensed as of yet. Mainly because she hates lawyers. She sticks to the world of immigration where she tries to make more Americans as a paralegal in a small firm. She's a fairly impressive woman - except for putting up with me.
Together we have made the most beautiful creature I have ever laid my eyes on.
I have three and a half more months to entrench myself in fatherhood before I get swept off to the working world. Not that school is a piece of cake. I still have to finish two classes, including my Capstone project - but at least I get to look at her while I'm doing it.
As time moves on I am sure that I will expand on the pre-pickle scenario, but for right now - this will give you a cursory understanding of the world we're living in.
We have the biggest hopes and dreams for her, and dont even know where to begin in the ways we can screw it all up.
pickle's papa
21:35 Posted in Pre-pickle Past | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this
The Sign On
Hello.
Here'e the gist: I am a 32 yr. old white male that has led a fairly decadent and irresponsible life. On February 9, 2006 I became a father for the first time, with my wife of two and a half years. I am a control freak with poor communication skills - so naturally I've ended up in management. The problem is that this project is beyond my means and as a method of therapy and self-indulgance I am beginning this blog as a venue to vent my fears, frustrations, and ego.
I would like to say that I will respond to any comments that I may receive, but the truth is - I have enough trouble failing at the relationships I currently mismanage. I hope that you find this entertaining, at the least, and perhaps we will all learn what not to do through my failings. I thank you for reading - as I venture forth into this next impossible phase of my life.
pickle's papa
19:20 Posted in Pickle Ponderings | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this