. . . and then there was pickle.

Well. I did it. I am fairly certain that I will never sit in a purely academic classroom in the pursuit of a degree ever again. It only took me until the age of 32 to finally get it, but that’s right - I’m done. . . you may now call me master.

I have to say that I now have a different perspective and relationship to education and knowledge than I did when I started attending institutions of higher learning, when I enrolled at Berklee College of Music at age 15 for a ‘summer session’ all those years ago. I’ve learned a lot about learning.

When I began my education I had decided that I wanted to be a composer and teach music theory and history at the university level. My parents did not have any money, so I began my collegiate career at a local community college where I knocked out my Associates Degree on proper course. It is when I transferred to our major state university that my plans began to show flaws. I quickly learned that I detested university politics: especially in a conservatory setting. This is not to say that I was not in the loop. I performed at Carnegie Hall with the Cleveland Orchestra, and had a concerto of mine performed by the Cleveland Chamber Symphony. I even sang back-ups for Kenny Rogers and Andy Williams.

After 3 more years of study, and what was supposed to be my senior year I auditioned for a joint production between the music and theatre programs – The Three Penny Opera. Now, I went to school on a vocal performance scholarship – so I knew I could sing, but I had not been a true thespian, despite my winning best supporting actor my senior year of high school. Much to my surprise – I was cast in the lead. I was Macheath – never having taken a single acting lesson in my life.

I was hooked. I began to essentially live in the theatre. I soon realized that I had only been “acting” like a composer, and found my true calling.

This is the part that completely embittered me to academia. When I put my request into the university to apply for a double major – the head of the music department dropped me as a major. This was to prove some power-trip point as to the relationship and quality of students between the music and theatre programs.

Yeah.

I was no longer eligible to receive my bachelor’s in music which I had invested 5 years in. I was now going to have to put in another two years to get a bachelors degree because of politics. I did a year and a half before I started to get professional work and decided to ride the wave. Because as an actor if you’re getting work – you’re doing better that most MA holding waiters.

So I went to work, and did well, and started my own professional production company and it did well. In 2004 my old school invited me back to direct a show there as a guest artist in exchange for paid tuition for the remaining 4 classes I needed to take to get my degree.

I did it, and directed a truly unique version of Rosecrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. I enjoyed it, and finally got my BA. This is about the same time I was burning out as Artistic Director of my company. I jumped ship to our local amusement park where I ran the entertainment department for 1 season (after working as an actor there for 3 years).

In this process I realized if I was to ever to get to where I eventually realized I want to end up, as director of a large arts organization, I needed to get a degree in business management. I found a local program that has an 11 month intensive MBA program. So at age thirty-one with a baby on the way I went back to school to learn about business.

I had successfully run a company so I was fairly familiar with the basic principles – bring in more money than you spend, and do bigger and better things for more people.

My degree is a Master of Management, which is essentially an MBA with a focus on Organizational Development and Human Resource Management.

A lot happened since I started the program. I became a father, and am no longer sold on having to work in the arts. I have learned that management is management and if I am going to essentially be doing the same tasks - I may as well get paid to do it.

As life continues to meander onward - I never cease to be amazed at how my goals and ideals transform to fit the needs that I find most important. I can now think of nothing more important than being able to provide a stable environment for my daughter - especially now that I have the skills and education to be able to provide for her.

I think my ego would now be better served by vacations and a college fund than the self-serving aspects that I have always chased as an artist. They say that your life no longer becomes about you when you have children, but I disagree. I do not think that I am any less selfish. I am just trying to build my ego by making her love me instead of the hundreds of thousands of strangers that I wanted to have love me throughout the years on stage.

This week I gave one of the most important performances I have ever given when I presented my paper. It was the same night as the reunion of our ‘birthing class’ – and my professor let me go first so that I could leave right after my defense. What that meant is that The Pickle and the Wife were in the room while I rambled about Six Sigma applications and streamlining a value chain.

The Pickle was absolutely silent, and I was brilliant. This professor fails 40% of Capstones, and I got an 88% - and did it with my motivation in the back of the room.

The other sad aspect of this is that it is the beginning of the end of my time as a SAHD. I now need to begin the process of looking for a job. I will always appreciate this period that I have had as a student and father, and I guess it just proves that it’s never too late to start being a grown-up.

I only hope that she some day recognizes how hard the wife and I have worked to try to do the best by her. I love her so much.

Pickle’s Papa AA, BA, MMG

Well here it is - round two of those that have come to help keep my blog active while I am focused elsewhere. This next blog is from another new daddy-blogger, and one of my favorites. Thank You Denver Dad for taking the time to put together a post. So, Ladies and Gents - Denver Dad:

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"Look at all the horses," my father would say, as we rocketed passed yet another indistinguishable pasture or field at sixty-five miles per hour. All of us, my sisters, my mom, and myself would all look up and see a herd of cows, staring blankly back at us.

"Those are cows!" my younger sister would argue. At the time, she was too young to understand that this was one of my father's favorite games. And, despite having heard it a hundred times or more, the rest of us would smile, before burying our heads back in our books or pillows as we continued on our annual, summer car trip, hostages to my father's fear of flying.

I didn't really start thinking about the cows and the horses until recently, when my son started understanding that there were differences. Ask him what sound a bear makes and he'll roar. Ask him what a puppy says and he'll bark. Ask him what a kangaroo says and he'll just make a bouncing motion, because not really knowing what kangaroos say to each other in the outback, it was the best that we could do.

In another year, as my family takes car trips of our own, will I start pointing out cows and call them horses? I know it'll be tempting. Why is that? Why would I follow my own father's corny example and confuse my child like that? Isn't fatherhood unique? A series of challenges and experiences shared only by a father and his child? Or, is fatherhood universal, a shared experience that we all understand even if our stories and lessons and satisfactions are all specific to just one father and his one child?

Pickle's Papa was kind enough to invite me to provide a guest post while he's off trying to prove that he paid attention in all of his classes over the years. It's a real honor, as I find Papa's blog both a thought provoking and entertaining read, even if we do clash on the whole issue of men feeling comfortable to exfoliate when needed.

Not having provided a guest post to another blog before, I was a little stumped on what I was supposed to write about. I mean, I don't even know Pickle. I'm sure she's sweet and adorable and drools in a way that makes her even more adorable, rather than less, but on a blog about being the dad of a little girl, what could I offer?

This was an excruciating question. As I said, it was an honor to be asked to provide a post, so I didn't want to just phone it in. I needed to write something profound, something worthy of the privilege of being a guest blogger. And, do you know what I came up with? Nothing. Sorry, Pickle's Papa, I'm going to have to disappoint you and your readers.

The thing is, being a dad, whether you're dad to a little girl or a little boy, is relatively simple. You want what's best for your child. That's it. You want to protect and guide and trust your child at every instance when that protection and guidance and trust is needed. It doesn't matter if you're a dad in Ohio or a dad in Colorado, the challenges and rewards and fears and joys are all the same. Fatherhood is universal, as common as DNA, and every bit as mysterious, even when the mechanics of it all add up to the same basic traits.

I think that's why this "daddy blogging" and "mommy blogging" thing works. It's like a support group, vast and haphazard and disorganized, but still vital. We read each other's posts, nodding our heads with each new sentence, occasionally dropping in a line or two of advice or sympathy. "Yes, I know just how difficult teething is" or "My child doesn't sleep through the night either" or "Holy crap! Pickle totally checked you out?!? Dude!!!"

I think a lot of us parent bloggers are posting to vent. I think many more are posting just to share. And, still others are posting to be understood. It's an amazing leap of faith to post stories about your deepest fears and most fragile joys, so much so that I'm amazed it happens at all. But, the pay off is there. When someone sends you a message about how they understand your situation, maybe offers some advice, or maybe just passed on an amusing story, you feel the community that is around you.

That's why I'm here. Pickle's Papa asked if I would help out and I couldn't turn him down. I suspect that if the same thing happened, and I was asking him for help, he'd step up with a funny, slightly left of center post for my blog. It's what you do in a community, even if it is just a community of words.

We live in an interesting time. No other generation of fathers have been able to interact like this, across such distances, at such blinding speeds. We're all standing at the perfect intersection of technology and social change. I might not ever meet Pickle's Papa, shake his hand, and offer to buy him a beer, but I suppose it's possible. It's also possible that some time in the future Pickle will run into Chunk and they'll have a long, drawn out conversation about the foolish things their father's did to them. The great thing about the internet is that ours is the first generation of parents that can plan for that meeting. The "people in the midwest" and the "people in the Rockies" aren't abstract any more. They're real, because even as imprecise and inaccurate as the internet can sometimes be, we've meet them and learned from them and understood the universal experiences we are all sharing. I know I'm naive, but I think that makes us better people and better parents. And, if we're lucky, it will make for better children.

Thanks for letting me pollute your blog with my rambling, Pickle's Papa. I appreciate it.

For those of you who dont know - I am in the process of finishing a graduate degree and am going to be in the library for the next week or so, and have asked some folks to have fun - and keep my blog active while I am in absentia. The first of these is my mother. So without further ado -

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Pickle's Gamma

I was born in 1949 and when I was about 4 or 5 yrs. Old, my dad was out of work for a while (for reasons not important to the story) (added by Pickle's Papa - he had a contract out on his life). So, Pickles Great Grandpapa was a trendsetter SAHD! I’m sure that there were more than a few raised eyebrows when daddy and I went to the grocery store together in the middle of the day. I bet the neighbors had a lot to say when little Susie down the street’s father was left in charge of her and the house while her mom went out and earned a living! You know, I was pretty young, so I don’t know what went on with the adults, but from my point of view, it was great!

You see my mom was a clean freak (dad wasn’t) so when my dad was on duty, he had time for play. We had a swimming pool, and a swing set and a lot of other cool toys (did I mention I was an only child?). All the kids would come over and we would have a 40 (give or take) year old kid to play with...and he was an entertainer! He could make Lincoln cry (a penny); he could tie a Camel cigarette (non-filter) into a knot, untie it and smoke it...no holes...honest! He ate ants and he told jokes, he kept a lot of the “bullies” in the neighborhood out of trouble by planting a garden and then putting them in charge of keeping the “bullies” out of it. (He gave a lot of the food to them too ). It seemed they were really the poor ones (this is inner-city Detroit).

He cooked and baked too. I remember a cookie he made one time that you dipped one end in chocolate and the other in coconut that was really great! I’m sure he didn't score any points with my mom and the other moms too when he said “If you can read, you can cook!” He made spagetti, but of course, his mom’s maiden name was Francesca CeeCee...so he knew how it was suppose to be done. The more stuff there was to chop up and put into something the happier he was. Truth be told he was a better cook than my mom.

One of the fun things I remember from that time was when we had a big snow storm. We lived on a dead end street and had an alley (almost no one knows what those are now) behind our house. He tied my cousins’ and other neighbors’ sleds to the bumper of the car and took us for a sled ride down the street and through the alley and back down the street. There must have been about 10 sleds and the reason I know that it had to have happened at that time is that if my mom had been home she would never have let me on a sled!

I do remember another day that dad and I were down in the basement working in the woodshop (don’t tell Pickle’s Grandpa, he still thinks I know nothing about tools or how they work and I plan on keeping it that way) when little Johnny and Johnny’s mom appeared outside the basement window and Johnny’s mom said “Now, Uncle Jimmy (my dad) will watch you while mommy goes to the beauty shop and I will be back soon!” She then opened the gate to the back yard and let little Johnny go in to play. So while he may have been a subject of fodder at times at least one of the neighbors trusted her child with him besides my mom!

Pickle’s Papa only had about 3 years to get to know my dad before the smoking and drinking got the best of him and he died at age 63, but dad and I had a very special relationship and I am sure a lot of it was because of the time we were afforded when I was very young. I appreciate that to this day.

I’m sure that people may have had a lot of negative things to say about him at that time, but he was about the most ‘manly man’ I ever knew. I don’t even know if there were homosexuals back then (that’s a joke). He just loved me and took care of me the best he could at the time.



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Thanks Mom - PP

OK. So when did it become all right for straight men to own exfoliating soap, squeeze fruit in public, and color co-ordinate shoes, belt and slacks? (and yes I said slacks)

My Father’s Day post got me thinking not only of the changing roles of father, but the changing role of men in our society, and I’m not talking about the standard metrosexual model chasing single. I’m talking functional husband, father, goes to work guy.

I now travel in a circle of men that ten years ago I woulda pegged every one of as a closet fag – even with the front-carriers and wedding bands (maybe especially because of the front-carriers).

Now, I know homosexuality.

Wait . . . that didn’t come out right. I have both a music and a theatre degree hanging on the wall. See, that’s so much better, and yet it says the same thing.

Somehow, in all of my exposure/submersion in homosexual culture, I don’t think that my well-tuned ‘gaydar’ could judge the regular daily behavior of most men now.

I don’t know when this happened, but I think someone came in the night and stole all of our penises. I don’t want to scare you, but ‘Married With Children’ was once reality TV.

I am not saying that we don’t still love the ‘pun-tang’ as they say, but somewhere along the way we stopped thinking that a Camaro was the way to go if we wanted a girl to act like she’s drunk enough to sleep with us. We still watch sports and drink beer, but we are now pro-active in finding the coasters and can actually taste the difference between Budweiser and Sam Adams.

And - OH, MY JESUS!!! If I see another man burst into tears on television (especially that fuckin’ Dick Vermeil ) I think my testicles will shrivel up and die – just as a matter of principle.

(Ryan . . . hey, Ryan. Put down the cell phone, and the copy of US magazine - he was a football coach that burst into tears at every press conference)

Now, I am not some machismo uber-guy. I have my fake Pradas and Burts Bees men’s line products lining the cabinetry – but I just don’t know how we lost our edge. Yes, that’s right . . . I said it.

We used to be in a position of authority by being able to act stupid, and strong – nowadays we publicly admit that we mix brown sugar and coriander seed on a Turkey broil. . . . . . . . and no woman is going to respect that.

If anything she may end up being as threatened as Lee Iococca was when his first female executive looked at him and said, “no, sir, the cars really do suck.”

We had an identity. We held a strong negotiating position, by refusing to acknowledge that we were actually capable of recognizing other perspectives and the emotional impact of our actions.

Damn you, Kermit The Frog!!! If only you wouldn’t have tipped the emotional cards by letting them know about that . . . being green thing. . .

My big point is that now that we’ve acknowledged that we have emotions and are capable of aesthetic and social judgment – we really need to establish a new set of parameters for what we are as a group – because otherwise we will continue to infringe on ‘the feminine’ and begin to step on the toes of those “estrogen rockettes” who are intimidated by our “natural heat.”

I am certain that on some primal level this is occurring because we are recognizing the true ways in which a man now provides for a family, and that in the same way that the Camaro was a symbol of stability and success a generation ago the Segway is today. I’m just fuckin’ with you on that one, a Segway is just a cry for help – but you know what I mean.

We will always change and adapt for the simple reason of ‘pickin’ up chicks’, and these new trends would not have continued if the ladies didn’t encourage it . . . you know what I’m sayin. And for those of us that are married with kids – it has now become a general part of what we do to create a sense of security and value to our existence and ego.

This ‘feminine’ has always been a part of what we are, but now the expression of it shows our success. Like the fops of the renaissance the successful male of today is again plucked and perfumed, and shopping and Crate and Barrel to show off the wonderful plume of his peacockdom.

The key is that we have got to find the thread that gives us an identity that simultaneously bonds us together while giving the opposite sex a sense of security in their femininity – that we’re not coming to steal what they are. I don’t think that we can become an androgynous race of people. There are way too many chemical differences between us; however, I do think that our sexuality needs to find a way to be tied to us in a non-role based way.

What I’m saying is that - I am the mom in my house by the last generation’s perspective. I do not want my daughter to see that caregiver role, or any other behavioral aspect of my persona as the key defining features of the opposing sex. We all know that our relationships with the opposite sex are based on the examples and relationships we have with our parents.

It is what we learn as right, at least to start with. I want The Pickle to see men as people first – without all of the assumptions and baggage that I know I have toward women and men.

I am not completely sure as to how to do that yet, but I’m going sit back, have a facial, a half-caff non-fat caramel latte, and read Better Housekeeping to think about it.

Pickle’s Papa

I just don’t know how to feel about this whole refection on fatherhood thing.

My world is all kindsof upside down from the one I grew up in. On Father’s Day we are to celebrate fatherdom, but what is that? What is a father?

Because I’ll tell you, the things I am most proud of - and do on a regular basis to support this family were all ‘mom’s jobs’ when I was a kid. Does that make me less of a father?

I doubt it, but it does make me struggle to create an identity for what I am.

I do the laundry. I keep the house immaculate. Do the dishes. Change all day-time diapers. Feed and keep the baby alive and happy while my wife is at work.

I have a penis. There is even proof of this fact now, without a public display. And yet to a vast majority of the public, what it is that they celebrate on Father’s Day - has nothing to do with the general role I play.

Yes, I will be a guiding factor in my child’s life – but the way our family’s roles have played out does not fit the traditional mold. It isn’t like we are going out of our way to prove some sociological point. Necessity is the mother of invention – unless she makes more money, and then dad will have to do it. . . but nowhere near as well as a woman could - according to the general unspoken reaction to our situation.

I cannot tell you how many women have given me the suspicious up and down gaze or just been outright rude in conversation about the role I play. I have had a woman standing next to me – refuse to look at me when discussing a neighborhood play group because my wife was standing there, and obviously I wasn’t worth exchanging information with – even after I stated my role. . . would not talk to me because I’m not a mommy.

Well the truth is, I’m a hell of a lot closer to being a mommy in her definition than I am to being a daddy.

And it goes both ways. The wife is always getting flack (or even just dirty looks) from women for going back to work so soon (four weeks PP), and there are always the questions and comments that drive right to the point.

When my mother was here on Tuesday she asked, “so when you go back to work, is The Wife going to be able to stay at home?” Now that may seem like a harmless question, but when you’re up to your ears already in suspicion and social condemnation all you see is that no one believes in you. It completely devalues what we both are already struggling to try to do - by saying there is a ‘better’ way to do it.

If I were The Wife my mother probably would have asked, “So is The Husband looking for a better job so you don’t have to go back to work?”

Why can’t we just act as a cohesive team in fulfilling all of the needed tasks to ensure the sustenance of our family? There is no way that I will be able to make the same amount of money my wife can making more Americans with her law degree as I will in arts management. So why is the burden of finance put on ‘Father’?

Parenthood is hard enough when you are in roles that have established support systems. The Wife tried to find a support group for new moms through our health care provider, and they have three weekly meetings, none in the evenings or weekends. There is no organized stay-at-home dad play-group in all of Cleveland.

Sometimes it feels as though the world is actually working against you.

Is it so unfuckingbelieveable that a man could care for and nurture a baby and child? Or that a woman can earn a livable wage?

Because I grew up in this society - I spend most days not feeling very much like a father. I feel more like a mother because of the role I play.

We all draw up an image of Father when we say the word. . . Maybe it’s not so simple.

There is a Buddhist saying, “fishermen employ nets to catch fish, and once the fish are caught they disregard the nets. Men employ words to capture feelings, and yet once the ideas are found - men cling to the words.”

The word ‘Father’ has a built up connotation that no longer captures the essence of what I am to my daughter and to this family. Nor do I think ‘Mother’ comes close to what The Wife has become.

These words like all others are constantly being re-defined, and The Father that I am and will become will be defined through the eyes of The Pickle, and that is what I need to remember and stay focused on – because she doesn’t know its wrong for Papa to do the laundry. She just knows I do it because I love her. . . and that is what I want to celebrate with my fatherhood and My First Father's Day.

Pickle’s Papa

Ok, so I know that we are all inspired by other bloggers – and that you don’t necessarily have to give credit, but I would like to give a shout-out to Denver Dad whose post “There’s Sick, and then there’s SICK” inspired this post. I tried to comment on it there, but for some reason the site wouldn’t accept my comment (probably couldn’t get past the ‘in-good-taste-ometer’, and like a fermenting puss pocket I just had to share my story with the rest of the world.

As a side note I am now a huge fan of Denver Dad and read way too many of his posts today – even though I had other things I should have been doing.

Here’s the gist . . .

I had my first awkward moment with The Pickle last week.

When I get around to showering, which seems to be less and less these days, I want to make sure that The Pickle is safe – so I drag the bouncy seat into the bathroom and set it outside the shower so I can hear if anything upsets the standard pattern of the universe.

I was going through my OCD ritualistic pre-shower routine, and soon after I had stripped down – I was talking to The Pickle when her eyes left mine and went down . . .

My four-month-old daughter completely checked me out . . .

–no subtlety at all, just staring at my package. . . so that was weird, and I quickly faced the bouncy seat toward the wall and completed shower-time in an awkward state of uncomfortable embarrassment.


The truth is, I never thought that any type of sexuality would even be in the ball-park of our relationship for decades to come – yet for some reason the second I saw her looking in that general area . . . It was like Adam in the garden realizing he was naked.

All I could think of was the ocean of uncomfortable conversations that lay ahead, and how someday she too will not want me around for bath-time. It was the first moment that I knew there was a true separation between her and I, and that someday I was going to have a daughter, and not a baby.

I don’t know when this is going to happen - or if she will instigate it or I, but I had my first taste of ‘not wanting my girl to grow up syndrome.’ Tonight is bath night, and as I am writing this The Pickle is being bubbled and de-smudged mere feet away, and I think I need to go pinch her butt.

Pickle’s Papa

OK, so The Pickle got sick.

What's even worse is she gave it to me. If you read my previous post on my health you'll probably realize that me with a stomach flu is like a hemopheliac with a small stab wound.

So it has been real interesting trying to take care of the girl while working through the same issues myself.

It all started on Tuesday when my mother came for a visit. The Pickle has been known to projectile if left on her back too long after a meal, or not given adequate burpage. So the first shirt my mom lost wasn't that disconcerting. When we got to the third time around I began to be concerned; however, because she has begun full-blown teetherdom I just assumed - we all know how well that works (thank you Benny Hill) - that it was because she had swallowed an exorbenant amount of drool and had an upset tummy belly as we say in these parts.

The truth was soon to be discovered as I too began to feel the ill effects of 'the bug.'

For once, I will show self-restraint in descibing the scenario which was to follow, but suffice to say, Thank Shiva, The Wife was well - because I dont think I would have had the energy to manage The Pickle by myself.

I am not sure where she picked it up. It could have been The Zoo, or the Pediatrician's or our Friend's house. The irony of my recent sequence of blogs regarding how you have to expose your child to the world for their own good is not lost on me, and I guess that this is the price one must pay to have a well rounded child - but I think we're both getting thinner by the minute.

The good news is that The Pickle seems to be getting considerably better and is even enjoying some quality tummy time this morning. I, however, have yet to enjoy any tummy time.

Well I must sign off now.

Really. . . gotta go.

Pickle's Papa

Here it is . . . I’m in the club. I have one more day a year that I get to milk the system for a gift. The question is – What to ask for?

I know that this year will set the tone for all that are to follow, but I also know that The Pickle wont remember this one anyway – so if there’s a year to explore the outer realms . . . this is it.

If I wanted to ask for edible underwear – I could get it. This is a powerful position, but as they say, “with great power comes great delirium.” I know that later on in life I will get a vast array of ties and stupid novelty gifts - so my first thought was to take advantage of the opportunity to utilize this bonus gift this year for a practical cause – a tool.

But the kid in me, loves the frosted side.

How can you pass on the opportunity to blaspheme the name of fatherhood – the one year where you can walk away with impunity?

Would it be too much to ask for condoms? or perhaps a subscription to Playboy to cut down on any temptation I may have – y’know, just to be safe I could ‘work stuff out on my own . . .’

This could be so much fun.

I know, I could request that for the entire day everyone should refer to me as ‘El Capitan’, and come up with some intricate salute involving a fart sound and chicken dance, and yes – it would be worth the time to teach it.

I could always embrace my recovering catholic nature and play the guilt card. I could wait until the last minute and request a meal that I know The Wife couldn’t get the ‘fixins’ together for, and then milk it for a month’s worth of smaller favors or a key trump card in battle situations.

The truth is that I’ve already asked for my first Father’s Day present, and I did what any red-blooded American would do . . . I asked for a leaf blower. An electric leaf blower.

I couldn’t help it.

I took inventory of what I needed most in the world, and somehow an electric leaf blower is what tops the list in my universe. This could either be a testament to how amazingly comfortable my existence has become – or how pathetically short-sighted my execution of gift requestion has become.

This is my first Father’s Day, and my lasting testament to this event will be my environmentally conscious leaf-free yard.

Why not a stripper?

I feel that I am letting a valuable opportunity slip away from me, and yet I somehow think that the leaf blower may be more of an appropriate representation of what fatherhood is, and the life that this new role has in store for me.

Besides, how would I explain twelve random issues of Playboy to The Pickle someday? And I know that I would still have them in the house - because The Wife wont throw anything away. . .

Well, happy Father’s Day – and if you’re on West 11th Street in Cleveland . . . I’m the one with the leaf-free yard without the haze – except for that whole steel mill thing.

Pickle’s Papa

Hey mister, I said – I’ve been to the zoo.

And very few things could summarize man’s intense struggle for love and understanding more than Albee - or taking your four-month-old daughter to the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo on get in free if you live in the city day.

I didn’t know ahead of time how crowded, or ghetto my experience was to be, but I assure you that it not only met – but exceeded my expectations. It was a beautiful day and it brought out the wide array of people that are out looking for anything free on a Monday.

It amazed me how many complete families seemed to be there, and what the per capita tooth to mouth ratio was within those families. I know its pompous of me, but even after working four years at an amusement park – I was surprised at vast array of dysfunction I saw expressing its love of Kangaroo sex and poor hygiene.

I did not know how The Pickle would react to the crowd - or the animals, but I thought that it would be a good first try as she recently began to recognize and attempt interaction with our pets.

I was right. She truly enjoyed herself, and loved the big aquariums and butterfly room. She sat turning her head and watching them fly about. It was pretty awesome.

She didn’t freak out once, and there were changing table’s in the men’s bathrooms – how awesome is that? It was an unplanned trip while The Wife was at work. We piggybacked with friends of ours that live a couple doors down and relatives of theirs that were in from out of town.

I carried her most of the day in the bjorn, and pushed the stroller full of bags. At some point Judy wanted to try the bjorn – and I got a complete break from both stroller and baby.

The only drawback was the horrified sensation I had at watching what some parents not only allow their children to do – but actually encourage. I watched a father lift his toddler over a fence to get a better look at a crane. There was also the father that was talking about the texture of the giant turtle while his six or seven-year-old son was grabbing and knocking the shell of it through the fencing.

What the fuck?

I kept wondering how their genetic strain ever made it out of the wild if this was their approach to the animal kingdom? As I looked at this ocean of missing links I could not help but be struck with the realization that natural selection has been turned off. I think that somehow mankind has found a way to make sure that although no child will be left behind (right . . .) these entire families seem to have gone through the entire evolutionary process without ever having acquired conscious thought or at least reasonable judgment.

I don’t know if this should serve as a model for me to use with The Pickle as examples of what not to do, or to simply deny their existence. Stupidity seems to be a disease and although I don’t want The Pickle to catch it – it boils down to the question, do I let her build up a tolerance to it and give her the proper tools to recognize and defend herself and her judgment from being infiltrated by it, or try to insulate her from it?

If you have ever read any of my previous posts you know my response to this, but today I was truly horrified by these people because sometimes you cant even imagine how poor a decision can be until you see an example of it, and perhaps ignorance is bliss. I don’t know.

I do know that I today I will refrain from telling you, THE STORY OF THE PICKLE AND THE DOG!!!

Pickle’s Papa

So every friend I’ve ever had hasn’t abandoned me now that I’m a parent . . . just the good ones. That’s a joke.

One of the odd things that has happened is that even the people that have made the leap with you - treat you weird. I don’t know if it’s them or you, but something has changed – and I’m not trying to underplay the whole parenthood thing either.

One of our dearest friends that has been around since pre-engagement, and was essentially The Wife’s ‘maid of honor’ (in that loose we got married in a park with eleven people kind of way) came into town for the first time last week. She is a dancer/actress that I met an amusement park many years ago when we were co-stars in the western shoot-out show. She then moved to NY where she is a hostess at whatever the next coolest restaurant in the city is while getting interesting parts in off-off-off-off Broadway stuff.

Her and her kindof fiancé (he's an attractive greek boy that stopped having sex with other women and moved in with her - pretty much a done deal) live in Astoria and she has been ‘the one’ of our longer-term friends that has been most excited about the arrival of The Pickle. She has penned many an all caps e-mail exclaiming how many weeks and then days ‘til she will be in town to “squish our baby.”

I don’t know if it was a scenario like waiting to long to lose your virginity, and then being disappointed in the reality of it – or just a case of friends growing apart, but there was definitely something missing when she came to visit.

It was weird.

She was a nanny in college, and I cant imagine what had changed that much that either she or we were not aware of – but some comfort level between us was missing. We had all been very close, and have had plenty of time together in sporadic visits to the city or home on her part and we’d always maintained that weird bond and trust that you have with a friend.

I think I just got it. I’m not kidding – a real epiphany in the process . . . and my wife said this wasn’t just like therapy.

It wasn’t her – it was us. Because of the fact that we wanted to impress her so much we were performing our family instead of being our family. She had so much more experience with babies than me that I was trying to show off . . . and making sure I didn’t make any mistakes instead of just relaxing and letting her be the part of our family that she already naturally is.

I have always been a performer, and one of the ways that I know that someone is my friend is that I can just be myself around them - and this role of parent takes me out of my comfort zone with so many of the people that I had (up until now) been so over impressing. I want so desperately to ‘do a good job’ and have everyone love and respect me for it - that I cant just let the people that matter most just enjoy the wonderful family that we are.

Maybe I just need to get more comfortable with what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure from now on the rules will always be in a state of flux. I dont know.

Maybe my friends all just need to have kids too – so that I know they are all in over their heads just as far as I am, and then I will be able to relax - and not worry about them seeing what a flailing in the dark kindof moron I am most days.

No, I got it – I need to get out of the way and realize that its not about me.

Pickle’s Papa