. . . and then there was pickle. - pickle_ponderings

I'm back

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Fri, 29 Sep 2006 15:27:19 -0400

My show is now up and running. I am back to being at home on a regular basis, and will now return to my self-indulgent semi-poignant ramblings.

We made it through this stint without actually having to take The Pickle to day-care, and although it has been a significant strain on the relationship with the MIL, the wife's stability at work, and the overall cleanliness of the house - it looks like we are going to avoid and early entry into snot-fest '06.

It's not even that I didn't think that day-care would not have significant positive effects or that it wasn't a really solid place for infant care, it's just that I don’t trust anyone with my baby.

I know that no one has the same instincts or understanding of The Pickle's needs and routine. That's not a judgment on anyone. It is a fact. I just have trouble accepting that her comfort has to be sacrificed to enable other people to have time with her.

I know there's more to it than that, but it is often my first reaction when I see people making what I generally refer to as 'rookie' mistakes. I need to let other people learn about The Pickle to make it possible for them to give the proper care to her.

How to get experience without a job, and how to get a job without experience, or in this case how to get experienced childcare without working your child over.

I know that this is just the beginning. Someday I am going to be expected to stand in an aisle and hand her off like a lace wrapped football to some Joe Shmoe who wants a tax-break and regular sex from her.

It's just such an awkward process. It is my job to prepare my child to eventually care for and provide for herself. Yet at this moment it is solely my job to protect, provide, and care for her. The question is: when does that transition begin? When do we start sacrificing our child's comfort for their development?

I think the answer is birth. I just don’t like it very much.

I don’t want anything to hurt her. I don’t want her to have one moment of discomfort more than inevitable. But Inevitable is a funny word. Inevitable. Inevitable.

She just had her first real cold.

I have learned from personal experience that cold medicines don’t heal you - they just cover up the symptoms. I have twice ended up with pneumonia in my life due to my body being so filled with cold medicines it no longer knew it was sick and decided to stop fighting. My brother has a house full of kids that have been pumped full of antibiotics from the time they were hours old that they have never bothered to develop immune systems and are constantly sick.

Over the last three days I have fought through crying, snot, sleeplessness, and coughing to let my daughter's body learn how to fight a cold.

I need to learn to do the same thing with her being as I have done with her body. But it is not easy.

Pickle’s Papa

ok. I'll post.

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 21:15:00 -0400

As per Mad Momma . . . I must post.

Some random thoughts.

My daughter is standing on her own in the crib . . . and the house is still not baby proof.

To my family: something I learned in grad school. In managing relationships it is ok to set high expectations; however, when you place a hoop to jump through - don't move it after the expectations have been met. It tends to create a disgruntled work force.

To my production: set designers should be taken out into the street and slaughtered like cattle.

To my administrative position: I dont type.

To my wife: Talk to your mother.

To myself: Get over it.

In general:

I like rediscovering friendship. I recently had an unexpected solo camping trip in which I was surprisingly paired up with an old friend, the bird trainer whom I once shared a stage with, and that I spent the summer's free time rebuilding my '76 280Z. His wife was a cop, mine was finishing law school - we had our futures together as kept men, and then he moved out into the country and vanished.

As I was facing the perils of a weekend alone in the woods I looked over to my right in line at the campsite check-in, and low and behold stood an actual friend.

I will skip the dirty details of how I ended up in this perdicament for my therapist, but needless to say - it was a good thing I was rescued by someone that was interested in my story and having me tag along on the day long canoeing excursion that I was going to do by myself anyway.

Brandon now has a son, 15 months old, and we had much to commiserate on. It turned out to be a great trip for completely different reasons than those originally planned.

But needless to say I hate my family more than words can express. Every fucking one of them except my father - whom everyone else says is crazy, and I am starting to think is the only sane one of the bunch . . . yes, you too mom.

ON Cleveland:

It is really hard to be a loyal Cleveland sports fan. I hate us being the character in the story line that we inevitably become season after season. Even in the games where we are supposed to get excited about now - I cant help but see the rest of the story line play out before me. At half-time this week of the Browns game - I already knew we were going to lose. Even though no one else did, why? because we're Cleveland.

True - we have Ohio State Football, but I can already feel the Michigan upset in the air.

I hate becoming emotionally invested in this shit, but every year I still end up being shocked that we dont walk away the victor. I have only once not been let down, 2002 Buckeyes, and I never actually expected to win that one. We were'nt as good of a team as Miami.

So many Browns and Indians teams should have gone all the way over the years, and yet - here I sit in Cleveland. The Browns have more all around talent than most any team in the NFL - yet, without any semblance of an offensive line I remain a Cleveland sports fan.

I am bitter, and overworked - and looking for a win.

ON ART:

I need a drink. I forgot how hard it was to make this shit pallatable. I loathe the way we, as artists, have to kiss ass and lie to make the lights come up. I also hate how every one else working on a show seems to be an imposition on the work I'm doing rather that an aid. For god's sake - just let be do my bad british dialect, and get out of my way.

In the mean time- The Pickle comtinues to grow. I continue to become salty, and The Wife tolerates me less and less.

Good Times.

Pickle's Papa

Theory vs. Practice

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 12:20:00 -0400

So I had this whole parenting thing pretty much worked out when it was all I had to do, think about, and take the time to climb up on my soap box about.

I am now running around from rehearsal to meetings, memorizing a book, and building a strategic plan for a program from scratch while I am supposed to maintain this idealistic super-parent plan that I hypothesized about when I was still human.

See, nowadays I’m lucky if I have the time or patience to recognize that I have a daughter – let alone analyze the best practice scenario of how I should rear her.

Several weeks ago I knew exactly how and what I was going to guide The Pickle through the landmine filled path that is her development. Today I am wondering if I am going to be able to recognize barbed wire from a building block.

I have always been a very effective multi-tasker, but I know that no matter how you look at it parenthood isn’t something you can schedule in. It is a 24 hour a day job that requires your full focus and cognitive ability in an unpredictable and inconvenient time-frame.

I have another week of full-time rehearsal before we go into performance, and I am just trying to make it to opening without completely undermining all of the work I put into my relationship with, and understanding, of my daughter.

Every day I feel further and further removed from the intuition which once guided my care of her. I knew from morning until night what she needed when, and why she was doing what she was doing.

Today I come home and look at her as a new and growing mystery from which I have somehow lost the key. I know that this is a norm, but it is a new one for me. I suppose I, like everyone else in the world, wanted to share every moment of growth and wonder living through the eyes of my child.

She is beginning the path of separation. I know it is nothing compared to her leaving for college, but it my first taste of knowing she is a person all on her own – and it’s not the easiest idea to accept.

I want to see every moment of discovery, every fall to comfort, and every dream to help build – because I need all of those things from her too.

Pickle’s Papa

Working Life

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 13:04:23 -0400

OK. I may not be blogging as much as I used to. This whole employment thing is really putting a damper on my free time.

It is amazing the amount of work I’ve already had to do just to get my office in a position to functionally accomplish work in here again. I once ran a company from my home office, but that was a while ago, and the physical needs of going to grad school vs. running a business are significantly different.

I have spent the last four days cleaning, re-organizing, and throwing away more nostalgia from my previous incarnation that I just no longer have the room to keep. I really let this place go to hell.

I dusted about an hour ago and I still haven’t stopped sneezing.

I have also gone through and created a whole new electronic system of organization that is quite impressive including a weekly work log and year calendar with all significant dates already denoted.

You’d almost think I was organized if you came in here.

At the moment I am genuinely looking forward to winter – as my office is in the loft, and I am sweating my *alls off. It is only in the mid-seventies. Good thing this is usually the most comfortable room in the house in winter.

So we’ve been looking into daycare, and wow, is that unreasonable. It seems as though infant caregivers require that you sign up for full-time care regardless of your actual need. We have a pretty good daycare center at the end of our street, yet they would want us to pay for a full week’s care even though we would only want to put her in 2-4 days a week on a varying need base.

Even on the days she would need to go in it would usually only be for 5 hours or so. I think they’ve got a racket goin’ on.

I don’t know.

Anyway, I thought I should let you all know that my postings will be slim for the next couple of weeks as I am in full-time rehearsals during the day, and scheduling every possible groundwork meeting around that I can.

I am busy. Pickle is happy and the wife is enjoying a four day weekend.

I will be brilliant again soon.

Pickle’s Papa

Making Ends Meet

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Mon, 21 Aug 2006 02:20:00 -0400

Necessity is the mother of desperation, and today I spent the day working with Ryan installing satellite TV in strangers homes. Not that if I knew any of them it would have made my job any easier, but at least then I would have had an excuse for my incompetence.

I have always been ‘handy’, but there is a big difference between working on your own project and being a professional technician. I am not a professional technician.

As I am still unemployed, not having heard back from my recent interview yet, and feeling the tug and twinge of the impending need for income – I ventured forth to do what most people do every day.

I left my home to go do a job.

I have led a spoiled, sheltered, idealistic adulthood that has enabled me to believe that one should be paid to do what one is good at and/or loves. Jobs have little to do with that premise.

A job is an exchange of your life for money. That is my rough summation of the concept. I’m not used to expending energy against my will. In fact I am not really used to expending energy at all these days.

My recent vocation, daddy, is more of an effort or exercise in will, determination, and logic. I am not used to the idea that my physical discomfort has an equal and reciprocated value in dollars.

Because today I was uncomfortable, and was so, in the pursuit of money.

This is a lesson I learned long ago in the mailroom of a best left forgotten newspaper where I was once the fasted ad stuffer this side of the Mississippi.

It is amazing how seven years working in your chosen profession will erase your memory, and work ethic.

I don’t like work. I love projects.

Today was a horrific reminder of how much I want to find a job in my field. I was once an excellent worker, and as I have aged and been spoiled - I am now perhaps the laziest man on the job that has ever lived.

This is not the historical path for me. I have always focused my OCD onto whatever task lie ahead of me – regardless of the job’s relevance or gratification. I think in my maturing understanding of the value of my soul and time, I have come to the acceptance - that toward many actions in this world . . . I just don’t give a shit.

I don’t care if you enjoy your television experience, but I do want to be able to wipe my daughter’s ass with hypoallergenic wipes - and today those two concepts somehow became related.

I am one in a thousand that discovered my calling, worked toward an education in my field – and built a resume and ties to the professional community that would allow for a sustainable career in the arts. I did so without wealth or family ties.

For the first time in my adult life I seem to find myself being pushed out of the center of my comfort zone in the working world. I know that I have said that this was a reasonable sacrifice to make for the support of my family, but when the act itself in upon you – it doesn’t feel very good.

And it isn’t that I look down on anyone that does anything but what I’m trying to do for a living. I think we all have different ways and approaches to satisfying our needs for personal fulfillment and the balance of financial support.

Ryan is one of the more intelligent people I know. He has a deeper understanding of all things scientific and mechanical than I could every hope to. He also has the vision and problem solving ability to walk into these people’s houses and within five minutes come up with an executable plan for the most time and cost effective solution to their unique situation.

I don’t care.

I think it may be the difference between a sculptor and a painter; or a gardener and a tree trimmer. I am definitely a gardener. I love to plant seeds and cultivate the right chaos for the right corner. Other people like to look at the chaos and whittle it down to a manageable and beautiful form.

The world needs both, but I haven’t been able to match my skill for developing a crop with the reality of feeding my growing herd.

Perhaps it is the same in parenting. It is the balance of the cultivation and the pruning that can make the stunning shape.

The trick is that as parents we don’t get to pick one role or the other. We have to do both, and I think that is what I am missing in my life. I need to relearn the ability to prune if I am to find the balance in my form.

Pickle’s Papa

Poetic Justice

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Fri, 18 Aug 2006 10:13:58 -0400

The other day I was going through some of my old papers and such when I discovered a notebook of old writings and poems from high school. I was struck by how much, and little, my ideals have changed in almost twenty years. Hopefully my writing has improved.

This poem struck me as very relevant to a lot of my current questions regarding the development of a value system. I think I wrote this just about the time I realized I had one.

Life by the Lyrics

Elenor taught me
compassion for man.
The old fool on the hill
gave me patience at hand.

Comfortably Numb
taught me to set my goals as a human,
and Animals taught me
that life was confusion.

Lucy gave me dreams
when all seemed dim,
and Vera was there
to be my true friend.

The bombs did fall
as depression set in,
and the worms did crawl
as my dreams caved in.

The music told me
that life wasn't pure
and it told me that nothing
was ever too sure.

But it told me too
that if my heart was true,
anything I wanted
could be mine.

With hope, dreams, and
a life of pure goals;
no matter what happens
never sell your soul.

Because what you've seen before
will soon come again,
and that who was your enemy
will soon be your friend.

You can have everything that is,
and everything that will become
and everything, everything
under the sun.

I learned to live
and to be true to me,
because if I didn't
who would I be?

I set my goals to my conscience
not to society:
Least comes to money
chincy it may be.

Second to that
comes egotistical possessions,
and anyone reading this
could surely learn this lesson.

Then comes to others
that I do satisfy,
and now comes the toughest
that I fail, but consistently try.

Third is my country.
Second is me.
First and yet most ignored
is my sense of humanity.

It was my parents who actually
taught me right from wrong,
for you see it was them
that hummed me the song.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was crafted at the hand of Florence, AZ's 1982 first prize winner of the third grade poetry competition. It wasn't actually that poem that won me the prestigious honor, but I do think it was written about the time I was creative writing editor of my high school newspaper.

Yeah, I was that good. It's amazing I didn't end up writing for a living. Nowadays I kind of write so I can keep living.

Pickle's Papa

Television

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 13:43:14 -0400

I am a horrible parent.

At six months old I have abandoned my child to the guidance and supervision of Baby First TV. I even went so far as to sacrifice my subscription to Playboy TV to get the channel in the door within our TV budget.

I can’t decide if this is a noble sacrifice or a pathetic example of how misguided I really am. I do love the channel. It is perfect for her cognitive development at this point; without commercials to plant the marketing disease in her yet.

The issue is that it is still Television.

She is already being conditioned to sit in front of the color-changing box and listen to the music. I really don’t like this, but I know it is doing a much better job of stimulating her development than I could without it.

I keep telling myself that the lack of commercials and regulated use will be a great developmental tool, but the truth is I am already using it as a crutch to my laziness. I am already plopping her in her exersaucer, and walking away.

That’s bad.

I need to be an active participant in her TV watching experience, but it is so easy to let it do all the work. What am I supposed to do? Stop being a lazy bastard just because I’m a parent? Oh. Well, I guess that would be a ‘yes’ then, huh?

I grew up without television as a child, and when we re-assimilated to functional society my parents went a wee bit overboard on the whole TV experience. In other words from the moment I woke up ‘til the second I went to bed there was the constant voice of a stranger in the living room.

It is still the case today in my parent’s house. Whether it’s the Weather Channel or Headline News – it’s always something.

When I was little - it was music, and for the majority of my adult life that has been the case. When I lived alone instead of turning on the TV, I would usually put on music and read - but these days it seems there is always the sound of someone talking at me coming from that box.

I don’t want The Pickle to think that is a good idea.

I need to figure out how to balance the positive aspects of the medium with the drawbacks of loss of input control, and numbing the nervous system to the subtlety of the general life experience.

I don’t know at what point the television stops developing auditory processes and starts teaching how to not listen, but I know it happens. I need to listen to her reactions, and gauge when to turn it off.

And here I thought this was going to make things easier for me. It’s scary to think that this box is going to be her first non-parent ‘teacher’, and with all of them in the future – we need to use our discretion and guidance to lead the knowledge she will glean.

If worse comes to worst then I guess I may be forced to read to her – Who knows?

Pickle’s Papa

Sinking Ships and the like

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 18:47:13 -0400

There is something to be said for the idea of going down on a sinking ship. We all hold the captain who rides his vessel down to the depths of Davey Jones’ locker in the highest regard, but there’s a funny thing that happens to you as you get older, have kids, and realize that death is real - and some decisions you make will have dire and irreversible consequences.

I now have a daughter.

For the majority of my life I have taken the big risk, and refused to quit. I did this even when all indications were that I was wrong, and probably screwing up my life. My biggest proof of this fact is that I spent my twenties building a career as a professional actor in Cleveland, OH.

This was not the easiest path. . . nor the smartest of moves.

I have track marks on my arms from selling my plasma, and probably will until the day I die. I did that when I knew I had to take acting jobs to build my resume that didn't pay me enough to eat. Those marks are a constant reminder of how hard it was to get where I am.

These days I am older and less motivated to prove that I can do something just to be hardheaded. And I now worry and wonder about my daughter, and what will drive her big choices.

I based most of my decisions on whether or not I felt people believed I could accomplish a goal. If someone ever told me I couldn’t do something - you could bet the farm I would see it through.

The reason I became this way was my father. My old man is a dreamer. But there is a big difference between a man who dreams and a man who works to see his dreams become reality.

My father would rather fantasize about his heart’s deepest wishes than act on them - because when he was younger he had his dream crushed. It’s a lot easier on your heart to dream than to fail.

As a child I bought into all of my dad’s schemes. I wanted his dreams to change the world the way he imagined that they could. But every time he would begin the process of launching his latest idea . . . he would become distracted by his next obsession.

It broke my heart over and over again.

As a child I vowed to finish what I started, and I have seen things through against insurmountable odds and logic.

I do not think that this is solely a process of instinct. I was trained to hate quitting.

Soon my daughter is going to hate her piano lessons. There will be classes and cliques that will lead her to want to walk away, and my reaction and support of her in these choices will inform her view and value of completing a task once assumed.

I am a success today because I refused to quit, but life sure could have been a lot easier – and I certainly don’t want my daughter to have to suffer in the same ways I did.

Each generation is supposed to make advances. I want my daughter to understand the satisfaction of crossing the finish line without having to have a single-minded obsession or disregard for common sense.

Maybe she’ll get it right.

Like so much of the burden we put on our children – I want her to be able to do what I was unable to do. I want her to understand that it’s just a ship. I want her to pick the right one, and to carry a life preserver because we all get wet. But the truth is that when she does want to walk away from her goals - I am going to see my father in her eyes.

How am I going to react, and what is the right thing to do?

My success has been the road less traveled. I know that if I had listened to logic or anyone that supposedly ‘knew something’ I never would have had my career, but does that make it right for her . . . and how could I pass that drive on anyway?

In all of this I have overlooked the one most important fact: the love I have for this child. I know that when she finds her dream within her heart it will be all I can do to give her the support and guidance of one who knows how hard reality can be and hope her ship has an easier path than mine . . . or my father’s.

Pickle’s Papa

Family Resemblance

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 08:32:09 -0400

Well, I suppose I can admit that I guess I am no longer creative at all, but merely read other people's blogs and either expand on their posts or do an offshoot inspired by something I've read. I'm ok with that, and this is yet again another example. After reading this post on Creative Type Dad I was reminded of this fantastic story.

This is a true.

A colleague of mine’s husband had their toddler/potty training daughter in the mall when she expressed her desire to go to the bathroom.

Everything was going along fine – sans the potty.

The bathroom was fairly busy with the sounds of many men going about their business outside the cramped stall where he was trying to convince his daughter to go.

This is when she uttered the most horrific phrase that any man has ever heard in this situation:

“You’re not my Daddy.”

Uhmmm.

“Where’s daddy?, You’re not my daddy.”

. . . yeah. So as the angry and malicious crowd gathered outside the stall ready to pounce - the man did the only thing he could do . . .

Gasp in horror.

I don’t think any man has ever feared for his life more as he dressed his daughter and tried to make his way from the can. She continued to say the dreaded phrase as they walked out of the stall when he was stopped at the door by several men who wanted proof that the girl was, in fact, his offspring.

Soon security arrived and despite his protestations the girl continued to utter the same phrase over and over – “You’re not my daddy.”

After great anticipation and phone calls and the final arrival of mommy the police finally accepted the fact that the girl was his.

As soon as Mommy arrived the girl gave in and admitted her game. When asked why - she simply said, “I don’t know . . .” and smiled.

You know that smile.

So beware all fathers out there. Just remember at any given moment your daughter can have you strung up by your testicles in public.

I'm just glad she looks so much like me. Nobody would believe her and they'd understand why she would want to distance herself from me.

Just thought I’d share that horror story.

Pickle’s Papa

Daddy Elbow and other ailments

noreply@blogspirit.com (Pickle's Papa) — Mon, 07 Aug 2006 20:00:12 -0400

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