. . . and then there was pickle.

OK, so J & D came over for dinner the other night, and Judy took some purty pictures which she has been so kind as to upload over at Pickle's Paparazzi.

I also just recently discovered what I think may be the coolest and most cleansing site on the web. It is called Postsecret. People send in homemade postcards with a secret written on it and they are anonymously collected posted and published. They range from the astonishingly touching to ridiculously funny.

Highly recommend.

Pickle's Papa

I had heard most of the warnings of what parenting would bring, but as a big strong man I never thought about, nor expected, parenting to require so much physical strain or endurance.

The repetitive wear and tear of doing the same actions over and over again . . . and then over again takes the patience, focus, and durability of a long distance runner.

The one that is getting me today is Daddy Elbow.

For those of you who don’t know - this rarely diagnosed condition is a bruise and tenderness of the elbow created from the repetitive bottle feeding of one’s child using the armrest as the resting point of your elbow in the arm ‘V’ baby headrest position.

I currently am making the cringed, pursed lips face every time I bend or set my elbow down, but this is far from being the only physical strain that taking care of my child has put on me.


This is a short list of my new-found ailments:

Bjorn Back

Diaper Change Dry Hand or Antibacterial Cracking

Public Appearance Depression or Lack of Shower Blues

Baby Wont Sleep Pink-Eye

And last but not least, Oh My God Why Wont She Let Me Put Her Down Bouncy Walk Sway Thing Back



Nobody warned me about these . . .

And if any expecting parents are reading this - I highly recommend endurance back training.

Pickle’s Papa

Well, as it turns out by marriage, and then by another marriage - I am somehow related to an amazingly famous and wealthy beyond regular terms individual whom (despite my previous inability to do so) I will refrain from naming.

On our vacation we stopped at the amazingly famous and wealthy individual’s brother’s house to visit and pick up the sister-in law and brother-in-law who are not so amazingly wealthy or famous. The in-laws' in-laws have two very beautiful boys – one of which is about five months older than The Pickle.

The afore mentioned gazillionaire has no heirs and will most likely be leaving the fortune to these boys, and as I sat there watching them play I couldn’t help but wish that she would accidentally become impregnated by this eleven month old Quasimodo.

This is not to say that the child is deformed, but I must tell the story of how he crawls . . . or rather, doesn’t.

Q, as he will be referred to henceforth, does not crawl. He sits on his butt, legs outstretched before him and does a shoulder lurch to one side. Putting his weight onto one hand he hops his butt forward while pushing down and pulling himself forward with the heels of his feet.

All he is missing is a hump.

The family is completely ok with this behavior, and enjoys the humor of it fully – but damn if it isn’t funny lookin’.

My point is - as the unscheduled play-date went on, I couldn’t help but buy into the idea and dream of The Pickle marrying into unbelievable wealth. To quote Chris Rock, “I’m not talkin’ rich – I’m talkin’ about wealth.”

There she sat, actually playing with someone that would never have to worry about money in their entire life – aside from maybe accidentally pissing away a couple hundred mill on a bad investment . . . and still not have to get a J.O.B.

I really did turn into a horrible daydreamer and am fairly certain I had the same look on my face as the father in ‘Arthur’ – the Dudley Moore movie when he finds out the reason Arthur doesn’t have a job is because he is independently wealthy.

In that cool, honest, fatherly tone he tells his daughter, “You have my permission to marry him.” It didn’t matter what kind of human being he was or how he treated his daughter.

It’s scary how much money matters. It is so base and animalistic to want your child to be secure in the most primal of senses.

We all know how hard life is, and wouldn’t it be great to have money not be a concern. In that Forrest Gump, “well, that’s one less thing” kind of way.

The worst effect that thinking like that has is the way it plays on your own insecurities.

The Wife and I are in a fairly decent position to provide for The Pickle, but when you start thinking about being wealthy as a goal or even an option – all of a sudden being able to pay for college doesn’t seem that impressive anymore.

What are the realistic expectations for the provision of comfort and security to enable your child to launch off into their own lives?

I certainly don’t know anymore.

My parents believed in food, shelter, and teaching right from wrong. These days those seem to be a given, and the pressure on providing opportunity as a parent is almost overwhelming.

It is our job to get them into the right schools. It is our job to make sure they are exposed to the finest in culture and society to allow the opportunity for the utmost in upward mobility.

What the hell?

Am I not changing diapers? Why am I thinking about this?

Because I bought it.

Whether I like it or not - I’ve swallowed the poison pill, and have come to accept that money can buy happiness. And now I have come to understand the stepping-stones and traditional ladder to success of today’s culture . . .

But wouldn’t it just be nice to marry in.

And that’s why I said to my in-laws’ in-laws, “she has my permission to marry.” . . . and that has triggered a horrible sequence of analyses about what I want for her and why.

In my ideal I just want her to be happy. Unfortunately the way I have been programmed - I now think the easiest way to be happy is for her to come into money . . . and the more, the happier she'll be.

I can’t think of anything more illogical and unfair to attempt to superimpose into her dreams.

I also don’t understand how I got this, because I assure you my parents never taught me to value money, power, or stature. This must be one of those “picked it up at school” kind of things.

So I’ve got another thing that’s wrong with me that I need to hide or fix before screwing up my kid any further.

But if I picked it up at school, what is to say that she won’t do the same? Especially with the schools we’re planning on sending her . . .

irony

We are all told that the most important thing to want for your child is their happiness, but I’m starting to wonder if the way they’ve told us to get them there isn’t all fucked up.

Pickle’s Papa