Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Not much to say
It's been a hectic week at work and at home and I'm not feeling like I have much pithy or otherwise to say. So, I posted a bunch of new photos below instead. I'll try to give an update tomorrow night, on the eve of our weekend journey.
In the meantime, enjoy the Taggart family photos, featuring the smiling sisters of Ella and Lindsay.
In the meantime, enjoy the Taggart family photos, featuring the smiling sisters of Ella and Lindsay.
We get a lot of these everyday. It sure makes the challenges of parenting a lot easier to take!
Oh, that's why she's so happy at dinner! (and I realize I did these backwards)
Friday, June 24, 2005
The days are getting shorter
A couple of days ago was the first day of summer -- a day I would describe as bittersweet in my book, especially as a young person (still in school) but old enough to grasp the concept of days getting longer and shorter. You'd arrive at June 21 or thereabouts and the summer opened up in front of you with limitless potential for doing everything and nothing -- 2+ months of freedom until school started again. Is there anything quite like that "last day of school" feeling, and when in your adult life to you get to experience that? When you quit a job maybe.
I was buying Ella an Icee (nee Slurpee) last week, on Friday, and there was a kid about 12 at the counter, scraping together change from his pockets and his friend's pocket to buy a $1.95 ice cream cone or something. He only had $1.70, but the convenience store dude wouldn't budge. I knew this was the kid's last day of school -- I'd seen his classmates from the nearby junior high at the park where I took Ella. I didn't want him to start his summer on the short end of the stick, so impulsively I gave him my Icee change -- about 50 cents. He was surprised and thankful -- now that's a good way to start a summer, getting unrequested spare change from an "old" dude at the corner store. (Or was it my need to seem cool to today's youth? Let's hope not)
Back to daylight. The summer solstice represents the longest day of the year, meaning each subsequent day for the next six months is getting a bit shorter. The darkness is growing, even as you pursue summer frivolity. A cynical view, certainly one appreciated by the scentifically oriented, but not the masses, I would think. Ah, the dense masses, schlepping down to the shore or going on a family road trip, blissfully unaware that the daylight is slowly slipping through their grasp, even as they try to seize the summer for all it's worth.
God, that last sentence is pompous and ridiculous.
I thought I could come up with a way to transition this blog to a discussion of my childhood OCD tendencies: ranking and rating and counting everything in my room and putting things in "order," keeping track of how many nights in a row I'd slept with my stuffed guinea pig (even going as far as stuffing him in the bottom of my sleeping bag during slumber parties), washing my bike weekly or more often, concocting elaborate Nerf hoop games with stations and records, reading books compulsively and repeatedly, copying sports lists (Heisman winners, World Series champs, etc.) from the encyclopedia, reading the Guinness Book from end to end, etc. Now that I've gotten into the actual writing, I'm not sure I see the connection. Perhaps it has to do with my efforts to exert control over something/anything in my divorced family environment. Almost cliche, but still true I think: when your family life gets pulverized and you don't know how to deal with the harrowing emotions, you seek control over anything, like the order of the baseball cards (by team [in order of preference], and then by position [catcher, pitcher, 1B, etc.] and year and knowing exactly how many you have.
Later in life, maybe focusing on the days getting shorter gave me an illusion of control/power too -- hey, I an aware of the consequences of the earth's relative angle to the sun based on the tilt of its axis! You other people don't care about this, but I know what's happening to my days! I know where those minutes of daylight are going!
Or maybe I was just a nerd...but certainly a nerd with former compulsive/control issues. Where have those gone now? What's changed to make this once freak of order largely indifferent to clutter and chaos? My sock drawer -- organized by color -- is the last vestige of my boyhood behavior tics, or is it? To be considered.
I was buying Ella an Icee (nee Slurpee) last week, on Friday, and there was a kid about 12 at the counter, scraping together change from his pockets and his friend's pocket to buy a $1.95 ice cream cone or something. He only had $1.70, but the convenience store dude wouldn't budge. I knew this was the kid's last day of school -- I'd seen his classmates from the nearby junior high at the park where I took Ella. I didn't want him to start his summer on the short end of the stick, so impulsively I gave him my Icee change -- about 50 cents. He was surprised and thankful -- now that's a good way to start a summer, getting unrequested spare change from an "old" dude at the corner store. (Or was it my need to seem cool to today's youth? Let's hope not)
Back to daylight. The summer solstice represents the longest day of the year, meaning each subsequent day for the next six months is getting a bit shorter. The darkness is growing, even as you pursue summer frivolity. A cynical view, certainly one appreciated by the scentifically oriented, but not the masses, I would think. Ah, the dense masses, schlepping down to the shore or going on a family road trip, blissfully unaware that the daylight is slowly slipping through their grasp, even as they try to seize the summer for all it's worth.
God, that last sentence is pompous and ridiculous.
I thought I could come up with a way to transition this blog to a discussion of my childhood OCD tendencies: ranking and rating and counting everything in my room and putting things in "order," keeping track of how many nights in a row I'd slept with my stuffed guinea pig (even going as far as stuffing him in the bottom of my sleeping bag during slumber parties), washing my bike weekly or more often, concocting elaborate Nerf hoop games with stations and records, reading books compulsively and repeatedly, copying sports lists (Heisman winners, World Series champs, etc.) from the encyclopedia, reading the Guinness Book from end to end, etc. Now that I've gotten into the actual writing, I'm not sure I see the connection. Perhaps it has to do with my efforts to exert control over something/anything in my divorced family environment. Almost cliche, but still true I think: when your family life gets pulverized and you don't know how to deal with the harrowing emotions, you seek control over anything, like the order of the baseball cards (by team [in order of preference], and then by position [catcher, pitcher, 1B, etc.] and year and knowing exactly how many you have.
Later in life, maybe focusing on the days getting shorter gave me an illusion of control/power too -- hey, I an aware of the consequences of the earth's relative angle to the sun based on the tilt of its axis! You other people don't care about this, but I know what's happening to my days! I know where those minutes of daylight are going!
Or maybe I was just a nerd...but certainly a nerd with former compulsive/control issues. Where have those gone now? What's changed to make this once freak of order largely indifferent to clutter and chaos? My sock drawer -- organized by color -- is the last vestige of my boyhood behavior tics, or is it? To be considered.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
City by the Bay
I'm fortunate enough to be able to commute by ferry once or twice a week, and I usually ride my bike to and from my house and the office on those days. Nothing like working up a nice sweat before sitting down for a day of editing!
But anyway, on one recent beautiful Bay Area morning I brought along my camera to capture the trip across the San Francisco Bay. It was incredibly clear, with dazzling blue skies already (fog comes in July, don't ya know?), and the salt spray pelted me on the back deck as I leaned out into the wind to snap (do you still "snap" if it's a digital camera?) a few photos. See below for some of the results.
The ferry is a nice way to go -- longer than BART but more relaxing, with friendly regulars who all know each other. I haven't qualified yet; I went up to buy tickets a few months ago...after at least three or four months of ferry travel..and the woman says "Look at the new guy causing trouble" when I had to pay by check or something. So, I've got a ways to go. Oh, and did I mention you can buy booze? Maybe that's why people are so chatty on the 5:35 p.m. trip -- liquid social lubricants!
Unrelated note: tonight when I got home I had the most amazing 10 minutes with Lindsay as she lay on our bed. I talked to her and played and she smiled and grabbed my fingers and looked at me and giggled. Baby giggles are, plain and simple, one of the most adorable, addicting sounds on the planet. I already have my answer to "What's your favorite sound?" should I somehow end up on "Inside the Actors Studio" with James Lipton. I cherish these moments with Lindsay -- the term "bonding" is cheesy but it comes to mind and it certainly fits. Damn, I love that kid.
But anyway, on one recent beautiful Bay Area morning I brought along my camera to capture the trip across the San Francisco Bay. It was incredibly clear, with dazzling blue skies already (fog comes in July, don't ya know?), and the salt spray pelted me on the back deck as I leaned out into the wind to snap (do you still "snap" if it's a digital camera?) a few photos. See below for some of the results.
The ferry is a nice way to go -- longer than BART but more relaxing, with friendly regulars who all know each other. I haven't qualified yet; I went up to buy tickets a few months ago...after at least three or four months of ferry travel..and the woman says "Look at the new guy causing trouble" when I had to pay by check or something. So, I've got a ways to go. Oh, and did I mention you can buy booze? Maybe that's why people are so chatty on the 5:35 p.m. trip -- liquid social lubricants!
Unrelated note: tonight when I got home I had the most amazing 10 minutes with Lindsay as she lay on our bed. I talked to her and played and she smiled and grabbed my fingers and looked at me and giggled. Baby giggles are, plain and simple, one of the most adorable, addicting sounds on the planet. I already have my answer to "What's your favorite sound?" should I somehow end up on "Inside the Actors Studio" with James Lipton. I cherish these moments with Lindsay -- the term "bonding" is cheesy but it comes to mind and it certainly fits. Damn, I love that kid.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Mind your manners
I heard a piece on NPR recently, in the "This I Believe" series, where a guy was talking about politeness and common courtesy -- you know, the kind of thing where the person driving the car you let in waves at you as part of the general courtesy of the road. It made me think of the 1991-92 NBA season, when I was a stringer for UPI covering the Charlotte Hornets.
For the grand sum of $25 a game, I got to drive the 212 miles from Chapel Hill to Charlotte for all home contests, where I sat in auxiliary press row and filed game stories on deadline. Standard hero lead: "Kelly Tripucka scored 23 points and Larry Johnson added 19 points and 8 rebounds to lead the host Charlotte Hornets past the Cleveland Cavaliers 94-90." It was hardly worth the money -- I probably spent more in gas money and abuse of my car, but it was a cool, earn-your-stripes, pay-your-dues kind of experience. 22 years old and covering an NBA team! Not that my stories were published many places...I can't even say if I saw them anywhere, as UPI was in its death throes at the time. (Apologies if I'm repeating myself -- did I blog this already?) Anyway, the road manners thing: I spent so much time in my car that winter that I picked up on some habits of truckers cruising on I-40 -- like flash your taillights to say "thanks" to someone who let you in, etc. I felt like part of the Brotherhood of the Road -- the truckers, the traveling salesman with their clothes on a rod in the backseat, etc. Hey, when you are pulling down $25 a game and living off seafood scraps from your day job as a waiter/bartender, you find entertainment and solace where you can.
Ah, the day job. I was employed at a place in Durham called Fishmonger's -- an attempted duplication of a beach seafood joint, complete with butcher paper on the tables, paper plates, plastic utensils and the strong odor of seafood from the fish counter. The owner was a sweet guy named Gary Bass (no joke), who was full of kooky cuisine notions (corn cob "slices" that required a huge table saw to cut) but was terrible on the follow-through. There was Bernard (pot-smoking cook), Al (a bartender who played nothing but Bela Fleck in the upstairs oyster bar), Mike Horowitz (a freakishly fit waiter/bartender who loved the same music I did [lots of 3rd Bass and Red Hot Chili Peppers and Seal that summer/fall], drove a cool camouflage VW van, made a mean double espresso and tragically died at age 23 of brain cancer), Robert (dishwasher, kitchen helper, jack of all trades who may or may not have spent time in jail for murder), Deirdre (college pal and short-time roommate who got me the job -- one of the sweetest, coolest women I've ever known) and some other random people I can't remember at the moment (the guy who ran the fish counter -- what was his name? -- who insisted on using some all-natural crystal/rock deodorant thing that failed miserably). I waited tables downstairs -- lunch often -- and bartended upstairs at the oyster bar, usually on Friday nights when oysters were $3 a dozen. On a good day working a lunch/dinner at the bar double, I could make $150-$200 in tips. I learned how to shuck oysters and eat them with lots of horseradish, clean a flounder and crack crabs, pluck a live lobster from a tank, deep fry onion rings, appreciate good beer (the place served Pilsener Urquell, Bass, Guiness and Harp, not college crap) and more. It was a great place to land as I figured out what the hell to do with my life...even if me, my clothes and my car smelled like the sea for about nine months.
I think Fishmonger's is gone now...as are all my Fishmonger's T-shirts, and those cut-off thrift store khakis I wore just about every day. But the memories remain.
FYI: the 91-92 Hornets went 31-51, led by Kendall Gill and rookie of the year Larry Johnson, the #1 pick overall in the 1991 draft.
For the grand sum of $25 a game, I got to drive the 212 miles from Chapel Hill to Charlotte for all home contests, where I sat in auxiliary press row and filed game stories on deadline. Standard hero lead: "Kelly Tripucka scored 23 points and Larry Johnson added 19 points and 8 rebounds to lead the host Charlotte Hornets past the Cleveland Cavaliers 94-90." It was hardly worth the money -- I probably spent more in gas money and abuse of my car, but it was a cool, earn-your-stripes, pay-your-dues kind of experience. 22 years old and covering an NBA team! Not that my stories were published many places...I can't even say if I saw them anywhere, as UPI was in its death throes at the time. (Apologies if I'm repeating myself -- did I blog this already?) Anyway, the road manners thing: I spent so much time in my car that winter that I picked up on some habits of truckers cruising on I-40 -- like flash your taillights to say "thanks" to someone who let you in, etc. I felt like part of the Brotherhood of the Road -- the truckers, the traveling salesman with their clothes on a rod in the backseat, etc. Hey, when you are pulling down $25 a game and living off seafood scraps from your day job as a waiter/bartender, you find entertainment and solace where you can.
Ah, the day job. I was employed at a place in Durham called Fishmonger's -- an attempted duplication of a beach seafood joint, complete with butcher paper on the tables, paper plates, plastic utensils and the strong odor of seafood from the fish counter. The owner was a sweet guy named Gary Bass (no joke), who was full of kooky cuisine notions (corn cob "slices" that required a huge table saw to cut) but was terrible on the follow-through. There was Bernard (pot-smoking cook), Al (a bartender who played nothing but Bela Fleck in the upstairs oyster bar), Mike Horowitz (a freakishly fit waiter/bartender who loved the same music I did [lots of 3rd Bass and Red Hot Chili Peppers and Seal that summer/fall], drove a cool camouflage VW van, made a mean double espresso and tragically died at age 23 of brain cancer), Robert (dishwasher, kitchen helper, jack of all trades who may or may not have spent time in jail for murder), Deirdre (college pal and short-time roommate who got me the job -- one of the sweetest, coolest women I've ever known) and some other random people I can't remember at the moment (the guy who ran the fish counter -- what was his name? -- who insisted on using some all-natural crystal/rock deodorant thing that failed miserably). I waited tables downstairs -- lunch often -- and bartended upstairs at the oyster bar, usually on Friday nights when oysters were $3 a dozen. On a good day working a lunch/dinner at the bar double, I could make $150-$200 in tips. I learned how to shuck oysters and eat them with lots of horseradish, clean a flounder and crack crabs, pluck a live lobster from a tank, deep fry onion rings, appreciate good beer (the place served Pilsener Urquell, Bass, Guiness and Harp, not college crap) and more. It was a great place to land as I figured out what the hell to do with my life...even if me, my clothes and my car smelled like the sea for about nine months.
I think Fishmonger's is gone now...as are all my Fishmonger's T-shirts, and those cut-off thrift store khakis I wore just about every day. But the memories remain.
FYI: the 91-92 Hornets went 31-51, led by Kendall Gill and rookie of the year Larry Johnson, the #1 pick overall in the 1991 draft.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
A vision of 2013
I was setting up a play date for Ella today over at her friend Grace's, and when I called, Grace answered. After confirming the time with this precocious (?) 4-year-old, I asked if she wanted to talk to Ella.
My life in eight years when Ella is 13 flashed before my eyes. Ella snares the phone from me, marches into her room, plops down on her beanbag chair and proceeds to talk about god knows what for about 10 minutes with Grace. It's like I faded into the upholstery and she did not even care if I was in or out of the room or what I did. It was about talking to her pal. I'm sure the teenage years will unfold with many similar scenarios.
Ella on the way home from swimming lessons: "I wish Nicola and Lindsay were home when we got there. I'm getting kind of bored without them around." Yeah, me too. I'll be glad to see them on Saturday afternoon. Nicola's grandmother died last night, peacefully in her sleep. The service is Tuesday, but we won't be going. Nicola got to say her goodbyes and do her grieving down there with her family, which is what's important.
Selfishly, I'm glad they'll be back for Father's Day and I won't be spending it in Vista; nothing against Vista, but I'd miss seeing Ella on "my" day and having all the family together.
Nothing too pithy to say, but hey, I've blogged like three days in a row! Amazing.
My life in eight years when Ella is 13 flashed before my eyes. Ella snares the phone from me, marches into her room, plops down on her beanbag chair and proceeds to talk about god knows what for about 10 minutes with Grace. It's like I faded into the upholstery and she did not even care if I was in or out of the room or what I did. It was about talking to her pal. I'm sure the teenage years will unfold with many similar scenarios.
Ella on the way home from swimming lessons: "I wish Nicola and Lindsay were home when we got there. I'm getting kind of bored without them around." Yeah, me too. I'll be glad to see them on Saturday afternoon. Nicola's grandmother died last night, peacefully in her sleep. The service is Tuesday, but we won't be going. Nicola got to say her goodbyes and do her grieving down there with her family, which is what's important.
Selfishly, I'm glad they'll be back for Father's Day and I won't be spending it in Vista; nothing against Vista, but I'd miss seeing Ella on "my" day and having all the family together.
Nothing too pithy to say, but hey, I've blogged like three days in a row! Amazing.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Home silent home
It's awful quiet here, as Nicola and Lindsay flew out yesterday afternoon on short notice to be by the bedside of Nicola's dying grandmother. They made it in time, and today Frances woke up and saw her granddaughter and great-granddaughter there, which made everyone happy. They know it's her time, and they're OK with it and hoping for a peaceful end.
It all happened rather fast on this end -- an e-mail Tuesday morning saying she was on the decline after a weekend fall where she broke her arm/elbow, and then a doctor saying it might only be a day or two before she passed, and Nicola and I talked about her going, and off she went.
110 days of Lindsay's life, and I've been with her for every one. Today is day 111 (interestingly, my dorm room number in college), and I miss her smile and squeals and her bright eyes in a very real way. I used to be one who looked forward to my time alone, apart from the obligations and drone of family life. I don't mean to make it sound bad like that -- it was just nice to get away, or be at home alone for a little bit. Maybe it was my circumstances, or my stubborn last vestiges of immaturity. Now...it feels different. A night of VH1's "100 top kid stars" is relaxing (and brain deteriorating), but my right place is with Nicola and Lindsay and Ella, not here rattling around. Two hours off playing hockey on the weekends is enough away time, thank you; I don't need business trips or guys weekends (well, maybe eventually). I want my girls back!
While I pine away from the Little One and my sweet wife, I do get to spend the next two days with Ella. And I'll probably hit a movie one night with Eric and play hockey Saturday. If I must be alone, at least I can make the best of it!
Music playing: Best of Smashing Pumpkins
Book Reading: Tender at the Bone, Ruth Reichl
It all happened rather fast on this end -- an e-mail Tuesday morning saying she was on the decline after a weekend fall where she broke her arm/elbow, and then a doctor saying it might only be a day or two before she passed, and Nicola and I talked about her going, and off she went.
110 days of Lindsay's life, and I've been with her for every one. Today is day 111 (interestingly, my dorm room number in college), and I miss her smile and squeals and her bright eyes in a very real way. I used to be one who looked forward to my time alone, apart from the obligations and drone of family life. I don't mean to make it sound bad like that -- it was just nice to get away, or be at home alone for a little bit. Maybe it was my circumstances, or my stubborn last vestiges of immaturity. Now...it feels different. A night of VH1's "100 top kid stars" is relaxing (and brain deteriorating), but my right place is with Nicola and Lindsay and Ella, not here rattling around. Two hours off playing hockey on the weekends is enough away time, thank you; I don't need business trips or guys weekends (well, maybe eventually). I want my girls back!
While I pine away from the Little One and my sweet wife, I do get to spend the next two days with Ella. And I'll probably hit a movie one night with Eric and play hockey Saturday. If I must be alone, at least I can make the best of it!
Music playing: Best of Smashing Pumpkins
Book Reading: Tender at the Bone, Ruth Reichl
Monday, June 13, 2005
Magical
"I wish Lindsay was a baby that never cried -- I wish she was a magical baby. And that we were a magical family."
So said Ella this past weekend...or she said something like it (I'm paraphrasing). When she was asked what we would be able to do as a magical family, she said, "I don't know. It would just be cool."
Hey, I agree! It would be cool. And it reminds that when I was a kid, and I thought about what superpower I would want if I was to join the Hall of Justice or become an independent contractor super hero, I always chose the ability to stretch -- like the guy in Fantastic Four or Plastic Man from Saturday morning cartoons. And, to top it off, I used to think this would be great because when I was done reading in bed at night I would be able to stretch my arm and turn off the light switch way over there by the door. What a monumental nerd that makes me sound like! Nowadays, I could probably think of other preferable superpowers -- flight? strength? fireballs out of my fingertips? -- but that stretch thing would still be all right.
And Lindsay is certainly not a magical baby -- she does her share of wailing. But there's more and more baby magic emerging every day, as smiles and laughs and cools noises and interactions with her big sister.
Other weekend news: saw Madagascar with Ella yesterday, and enjoyed it. Nothing too surprising about it, but the predictable adult-pleasing references were still pleasing and entertaining enough to make it worthwhile. I think the rectal thermometer humor (among other things) was over Ella's head, but she also seemed to like it. And she made it all the way through, which improved her movie attendance record (in theaters) to something like...3 and 2? Three movies finished, two aborted early? She might still be at .500.
I'm not feeling like I have much to say these days. Can you tell?
(ADDENDUM: ADDED JUNE 13 EVE)
I'm going to give myself a small pat on the back: after nearly five months of avoidance, I called my former brother-in-law and told him I was moving the IRA funds to another broker. I could have just sent in the paperwork and things would have automatically been taken care of, but I decided to not be a coward and to do right by the guy and let him know in person (well, over the phone). It was a tiny bit awkward, but he was nice, and I was nice, and we chit-chatted a bit, and that was that. Weird...I have not spoken to him in more than three years, and I once considered us sort of friends. And I was his son's godfather...no confirmation that this title has been stripped from me, but I'm assuming as much, given the divorce from his sister and all.
No asymptote on that one! Yeah for me for confronting the potential conflict...even if it took me a while to do it. Next: um, confront my fear of car dealers?
So said Ella this past weekend...or she said something like it (I'm paraphrasing). When she was asked what we would be able to do as a magical family, she said, "I don't know. It would just be cool."
Hey, I agree! It would be cool. And it reminds that when I was a kid, and I thought about what superpower I would want if I was to join the Hall of Justice or become an independent contractor super hero, I always chose the ability to stretch -- like the guy in Fantastic Four or Plastic Man from Saturday morning cartoons. And, to top it off, I used to think this would be great because when I was done reading in bed at night I would be able to stretch my arm and turn off the light switch way over there by the door. What a monumental nerd that makes me sound like! Nowadays, I could probably think of other preferable superpowers -- flight? strength? fireballs out of my fingertips? -- but that stretch thing would still be all right.
And Lindsay is certainly not a magical baby -- she does her share of wailing. But there's more and more baby magic emerging every day, as smiles and laughs and cools noises and interactions with her big sister.
Other weekend news: saw Madagascar with Ella yesterday, and enjoyed it. Nothing too surprising about it, but the predictable adult-pleasing references were still pleasing and entertaining enough to make it worthwhile. I think the rectal thermometer humor (among other things) was over Ella's head, but she also seemed to like it. And she made it all the way through, which improved her movie attendance record (in theaters) to something like...3 and 2? Three movies finished, two aborted early? She might still be at .500.
I'm not feeling like I have much to say these days. Can you tell?
(ADDENDUM: ADDED JUNE 13 EVE)
I'm going to give myself a small pat on the back: after nearly five months of avoidance, I called my former brother-in-law and told him I was moving the IRA funds to another broker. I could have just sent in the paperwork and things would have automatically been taken care of, but I decided to not be a coward and to do right by the guy and let him know in person (well, over the phone). It was a tiny bit awkward, but he was nice, and I was nice, and we chit-chatted a bit, and that was that. Weird...I have not spoken to him in more than three years, and I once considered us sort of friends. And I was his son's godfather...no confirmation that this title has been stripped from me, but I'm assuming as much, given the divorce from his sister and all.
No asymptote on that one! Yeah for me for confronting the potential conflict...even if it took me a while to do it. Next: um, confront my fear of car dealers?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Slumber
What a funny word is "slumber" -- it's one of those words that if you say it over and over again, it begins to sound totally ridiculous. Try it -- you'll see.
It's funny -- I just looked up slumber online and the first definition is exactly the opposite of what I thought. To sleep lightly? Here I was about to write this thought-provoking post about how slumber implies a much deeper, more sound rest than the word "sleep" -- like, sleep is ordinary, but slumber...man, you're on the verge of hibernation. But Merriam-Webster says no. Oh well.
Anyway, Lindsay has SLUMBERED (my definition) the last two nights to the tune of nine+ hours. Last night I think it was almost 10. In the swing, but so what? Hooray for the sleep, er, slumber. Whatever.
At the same time, she's napping in her crib for short stints -- long stints would be better, but we (mostly Nicola) are making progress. Good job to my girls at home; they've turned around what started out as kind of a rough week.
For you non-parents out there: this is a glimpse into the all-consuming obsession that many new parents have over the sleep habits of their progeny. A not-so-small cottage industry with books, DVDs and more different theories than you can count fuels this fixation...not to mention confuses the hell out of many of us. Cry it out or attachment parenting? Put down drowsy or dead asleep? Sleep anywhere or only in the crib? Pacifier or no pacifier? Early bed time or late? Swaddle or don't?
Ultimately, we buy the books and read theories and do research online and debate with our friends...and then we end up doing whatever works best for us and our baby to be peaceful and happy and get some goddamn rest. And that's probably what we should have done in the first place, and what our ancestors were doing in thatch huts or caves, long before Dr. Sears came on the scene.
It's funny -- I just looked up slumber online and the first definition is exactly the opposite of what I thought. To sleep lightly? Here I was about to write this thought-provoking post about how slumber implies a much deeper, more sound rest than the word "sleep" -- like, sleep is ordinary, but slumber...man, you're on the verge of hibernation. But Merriam-Webster says no. Oh well.
Anyway, Lindsay has SLUMBERED (my definition) the last two nights to the tune of nine+ hours. Last night I think it was almost 10. In the swing, but so what? Hooray for the sleep, er, slumber. Whatever.
At the same time, she's napping in her crib for short stints -- long stints would be better, but we (mostly Nicola) are making progress. Good job to my girls at home; they've turned around what started out as kind of a rough week.
For you non-parents out there: this is a glimpse into the all-consuming obsession that many new parents have over the sleep habits of their progeny. A not-so-small cottage industry with books, DVDs and more different theories than you can count fuels this fixation...not to mention confuses the hell out of many of us. Cry it out or attachment parenting? Put down drowsy or dead asleep? Sleep anywhere or only in the crib? Pacifier or no pacifier? Early bed time or late? Swaddle or don't?
Ultimately, we buy the books and read theories and do research online and debate with our friends...and then we end up doing whatever works best for us and our baby to be peaceful and happy and get some goddamn rest. And that's probably what we should have done in the first place, and what our ancestors were doing in thatch huts or caves, long before Dr. Sears came on the scene.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
So much for that
Regular posts again? Ha, I say, Ha and Double Ha!
I'm finding it tough to devote time to this when Nicola and I are doing the Lindsay dance -- trying to figure out what our little one wants or needs. (Post started at work; concluding below after 9 p.m.)
Much has changed since I last wrote about her...I was temporarily distracted by my father's visit and who knows what else. I feel out of rhythm with this blog right now, like I can't establish a good routine of writing in it every night. If only watching "Law and Order" reruns counted as a blog entry, I'd be in great shape. Or my compulsion the other night to watch 3 hours straight of "Deadly Catch" or whatever it was called -- this show on Discover about crab fishing in the Bering Sea. I was mesmerized...and did not manage to write AGAIN.
Well, we've got this ongoing Lindsay sleep issue as well. The Crib Campaign of which I spoke is...not quite dead, but certainly grievously injured. We fought it for 10 days, during which Lindsay developed a habit of sleeping for, oh, 45 minutes at a time. She was constantly overtired, Nicola was wiped out as she was doing most of the night work (I was suffering through my worst cold in years)...the whole house was teetering on the brink of exhaustion. So, back into the swing she went, around May 26 or so (right when my dad came). Ah, magic swing, the sleep-giving, soul-nurturing swing! It was like welcoming back on old friend that we'd shunned only to quickly realize the error of our ways.
I'm finding it tough to devote time to this when Nicola and I are doing the Lindsay dance -- trying to figure out what our little one wants or needs. (Post started at work; concluding below after 9 p.m.)
Much has changed since I last wrote about her...I was temporarily distracted by my father's visit and who knows what else. I feel out of rhythm with this blog right now, like I can't establish a good routine of writing in it every night. If only watching "Law and Order" reruns counted as a blog entry, I'd be in great shape. Or my compulsion the other night to watch 3 hours straight of "Deadly Catch" or whatever it was called -- this show on Discover about crab fishing in the Bering Sea. I was mesmerized...and did not manage to write AGAIN.
Well, we've got this ongoing Lindsay sleep issue as well. The Crib Campaign of which I spoke is...not quite dead, but certainly grievously injured. We fought it for 10 days, during which Lindsay developed a habit of sleeping for, oh, 45 minutes at a time. She was constantly overtired, Nicola was wiped out as she was doing most of the night work (I was suffering through my worst cold in years)...the whole house was teetering on the brink of exhaustion. So, back into the swing she went, around May 26 or so (right when my dad came). Ah, magic swing, the sleep-giving, soul-nurturing swing! It was like welcoming back on old friend that we'd shunned only to quickly realize the error of our ways.
On one of those first swing nights, Lindsay slept from 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. Nine hours! I don't know if it's a coincidence or not, but the weekend right after Lindsay resumed swinging, she make some huge developmental leaps. Randoms goos and gahs and squeals became a constant monologue of all sorts of sounds -- Lindsay is chatty! She goes on and on to the point that it invariably makes the adults chuckle, which then elicits laughs and huge smiles from the Bean. And physically, she began to roll over -- both back to front and front to back (there are witnesses, but I've not seen it; maybe she's saving it for a Father's Day present).
The smiles and laughs and interaction are a saving grace to counterbalance the continuing sleep struggle. (On one occasion, I found myself driving with her wailing in the car seat, and we stopped in the Costco parking lot down the highway from here, and that's where I finally got her to take a bottle. It's a long story, involving much creativity, a little luck, dead batteries, closed pizza restaurants, broken shake machines, a low-gas dash light, a lazy and/or innebriated grandparent, a saintly 5-year-old, and other tidbits. We survived!) The swing is not the cure all, plus we are trying to get her to sleep some in the crib (an hour is about all she'll last). Each night is approached gingerly, as we don't know what will work to get her to sleep and what will set off an ear-splitting, patience-testing crying explosion. This trepidation is no way to go long term, and we look forward to (UNDERSTATEMENT!) more consistent sleep for her and for us.
Still, amidst all this, another milestone: we've ditched the swaddle. A special blanket for this purpose, more akin to a baby straight jacket than a blanket, has been a regular part of her sleep since, oh, her first month. We loved that blanket! But alas, it was time for it go -- a kid's got to figure out how to work her arms, doesn't she?
Vignette to sum up where we are: I put Lindsay to bed last night around 6:30 p.m., and I managed to get her to sleep in her crib. As I lingered, making sure the pacifier stayed put and her arms didn't flail, I exalted at this small sleep victory. The crib! Yes (visual: the arm pump, with fist raised and elbow swinging down in celebration). Two hours go by...and she's awake for about the fifth time. We ate dinner separately and took turns trying to get Lindsay to sleep. At 8:45 or so, I find myself sitting on the floor as Lindsay swings and fusses next to me. I'm playing defense around her face -- keeping the pacifier in and her arms down, preferably wrapped around her bunny blanket thing. Up comes her right arm -- parry! Now the left attempts to rub her face -- squelched! This goes on until she's asleep.
Life with a new baby -- you deal with the negative, challenging stuff because in exchange you get to watch a little brain and a little body and a little soul unfold and grow and blossom before your eyes. What an incredible gift! (see photo above -- god, how freaking cute!
More tomorrow, if can keep up the pace (every four or five days is just weak).
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Back to our regular programming
Hey, who hijacked my blog the last few days and filled it with whiny invective against a poor 62-year-old man who is as clueless as he is flawed?*
I will do my best to restore MWBR to its usual assemblage of 1) kid updates and/or photos; 2) brain dumps on random stuff; 3) ill-conceived attempts to be philosophical and introspective about my path to inner peace; and 4) semi-amusing recollections of times gone by (oh wait, I think I said I'd stop doing those?).
Well, the least I can do is try to get back to this regularly. For whom...don't know. Any readers out there? Hello? Oh, it's just me.
*Dad -- should you ever stumble across this blog (yikes), what you will read below is not meant to be mean spirited. Just me venting.
I will do my best to restore MWBR to its usual assemblage of 1) kid updates and/or photos; 2) brain dumps on random stuff; 3) ill-conceived attempts to be philosophical and introspective about my path to inner peace; and 4) semi-amusing recollections of times gone by (oh wait, I think I said I'd stop doing those?).
Well, the least I can do is try to get back to this regularly. For whom...don't know. Any readers out there? Hello? Oh, it's just me.
*Dad -- should you ever stumble across this blog (yikes), what you will read below is not meant to be mean spirited. Just me venting.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Half a rant
Well, 30 hours later, here I am to finish off the post I started yesterday about my father's visit. I've struggled with how much emotional energy to invest in my bitching...about whether I have an obligation to try to make the relationship better...about how I can release myself from the disappointment I feel when he falls woefully short of even my miniscule expectations.
Thank you to Nicola and my friend Eric over at the Mike Pepper Fan Club for their insight and perspectives on this ongoing struggle. I don't know that I've fully made peace with this man known as my Father and what he has and has not contributed to my life...but I know that I've decided 1) to be brief here 'cause, while the anecdotes are amusing, they are not worth the time or energy; and 2) to not spend any more time than absolutely necessary worrying about how to change him or to improve our relationship...this is a futile effort and I've honestly got more important things and people to invest myself in.
(Apologies to numerous magazines, for co-opting this list approach)
Zero: Questions he asked about my job...or about Nicola's family...or about many other aspects of our life.
1: The number of times my father held Lindsay during his visit...and it was for about 15 seconds
2: The number of cribbage games I played with him (we split). We can't do many more because he's too ridiculously competitive (see below).
3: Times he said he was "really proud" of me for how I handled Lindsay on my own after Nicola went into San Francisco with her aunts on Sunday afternoon. What's sad about this is that it doesn't mean anything to me coming from him...and he said he's not sure if he's ever done something similar (this is a guy with an 18-month-old and 4-year-old at home).
5: Complaints he made that Ella didn't have to do the hardest activity (plastic jumping frogs) in the game Balloon Lagoon and consequently she beat him at this game (ages 5 and above). Don't ask more details -- the point was that he complained at all about losing.
6: Long days he was here.
9: Mentions of what meals were being eaten and not eaten back in Massachusetts while he was here (no, I don't give a shit either).
10: Minutes he talked about his own financial planning after I said "Nicola and I went to a financial planner in January." No joke -- I made this comment, and for the next 10 minutes, he talked about his own stuff, without asking a single question or allowing even another side to the "conversation."
13: Dollars he spent on a present for Lindsay (that he offered to buy)...and he complained out loud at the store register that "This is the most expensive thing in here!"
20: Crossword puzzles he did. It bordered on the obsessive. He was giddy that some issues of the Chronicle have THREE crosswords.
45: Dollars I spent at an A's game that we went to together. The lack of conversation demanded constant liquid refreshments.
58: Strokes in miniature golf. Nicola and I (alternating) beat him by one, much to his displeasure.
90: Percent chance that next year will be awful around his house (according to him) because he'll be stuck with the kids (and be miserable) as Kristi goes back to work (and is miserable herself). Seems like there's an obvious solution to this...or it's worth some discussion at home, right? Nope. It will just suck and that's that.
99: Percent sure that I've told him at least three times why we gave Lindsay the middle name of Campbell (it is a family name on both sides -- not only is it his own middle name, but it is Nicola's mother's maiden name)...and yet he still says he told my grandfather (also a Campbell middle name) why we used it. THIS IS YOUR OWN GRANDDAUGHTER WHO IS NAMED AFTER YOU IN SOME WAY AND YOU CAN'T EVEN BOTHER TO REMEMBER WHY? CAN YOU PLEASE DO A BETTER JOB OF FAKING LIKE YOU EVEN GIVE A SHIT?!?
Many, many more examples...but anyway.
There are many times I'm enraged at him for being a sorry excuse for a man. I shouldn't be the adult in this relationship. But the anger and frustration eventually gives way to sadness, for myself and for him. It's sad that I don't know him better, that I don't even like him that much sometimes, that I don't think it's worth my emotional investment to make the mediocre relationship better. And it's sad that he seems so lonely (essentially no friends after living in the same area for 35 years), and resigned to a life he hadn't expected and doesn't really look forward to, and apparently emotionally unable or just plain uninterested in going any deeper than the surface. I know all about how good the grass is growing and where they are going this summer and how great Andrew is at being cute in a restaurant. But not how he feels about retiring and finding himself as the primary caregiver for two little boys. And when you try to ask...you don't get much.
Nicola says I should just realize that he's doing the best he can...but when somebody's best is sad and pathetic, such a realization gives me little comfort.
I am fully aware of how judgemental I am of my father. I cut him very little slack and excoriate him for the smallest flaws in deed or character...things I let others get away with. But given the physical and emotional distance between us, these outbursts come less and less. The last 10 years have seen big changes in both of our lives, and one result is that there's very little to draw us closer beyond the titles of Father and Son. That's too bad, but it won't keep me up at night...including this one.
Good night, Dad. I do love you, and I'm glad we've shared some good times, and thanks for making me a Barry Manilow fan (no really). But you do your thing, and I'll do mine, and once a year we'll drive each other nuts for a week or so, and that'll do.
Thank you to Nicola and my friend Eric over at the Mike Pepper Fan Club for their insight and perspectives on this ongoing struggle. I don't know that I've fully made peace with this man known as my Father and what he has and has not contributed to my life...but I know that I've decided 1) to be brief here 'cause, while the anecdotes are amusing, they are not worth the time or energy; and 2) to not spend any more time than absolutely necessary worrying about how to change him or to improve our relationship...this is a futile effort and I've honestly got more important things and people to invest myself in.
(Apologies to numerous magazines, for co-opting this list approach)
Zero: Questions he asked about my job...or about Nicola's family...or about many other aspects of our life.
1: The number of times my father held Lindsay during his visit...and it was for about 15 seconds
2: The number of cribbage games I played with him (we split). We can't do many more because he's too ridiculously competitive (see below).
3: Times he said he was "really proud" of me for how I handled Lindsay on my own after Nicola went into San Francisco with her aunts on Sunday afternoon. What's sad about this is that it doesn't mean anything to me coming from him...and he said he's not sure if he's ever done something similar (this is a guy with an 18-month-old and 4-year-old at home).
5: Complaints he made that Ella didn't have to do the hardest activity (plastic jumping frogs) in the game Balloon Lagoon and consequently she beat him at this game (ages 5 and above). Don't ask more details -- the point was that he complained at all about losing.
6: Long days he was here.
9: Mentions of what meals were being eaten and not eaten back in Massachusetts while he was here (no, I don't give a shit either).
10: Minutes he talked about his own financial planning after I said "Nicola and I went to a financial planner in January." No joke -- I made this comment, and for the next 10 minutes, he talked about his own stuff, without asking a single question or allowing even another side to the "conversation."
13: Dollars he spent on a present for Lindsay (that he offered to buy)...and he complained out loud at the store register that "This is the most expensive thing in here!"
20: Crossword puzzles he did. It bordered on the obsessive. He was giddy that some issues of the Chronicle have THREE crosswords.
45: Dollars I spent at an A's game that we went to together. The lack of conversation demanded constant liquid refreshments.
58: Strokes in miniature golf. Nicola and I (alternating) beat him by one, much to his displeasure.
90: Percent chance that next year will be awful around his house (according to him) because he'll be stuck with the kids (and be miserable) as Kristi goes back to work (and is miserable herself). Seems like there's an obvious solution to this...or it's worth some discussion at home, right? Nope. It will just suck and that's that.
99: Percent sure that I've told him at least three times why we gave Lindsay the middle name of Campbell (it is a family name on both sides -- not only is it his own middle name, but it is Nicola's mother's maiden name)...and yet he still says he told my grandfather (also a Campbell middle name) why we used it. THIS IS YOUR OWN GRANDDAUGHTER WHO IS NAMED AFTER YOU IN SOME WAY AND YOU CAN'T EVEN BOTHER TO REMEMBER WHY? CAN YOU PLEASE DO A BETTER JOB OF FAKING LIKE YOU EVEN GIVE A SHIT?!?
Many, many more examples...but anyway.
There are many times I'm enraged at him for being a sorry excuse for a man. I shouldn't be the adult in this relationship. But the anger and frustration eventually gives way to sadness, for myself and for him. It's sad that I don't know him better, that I don't even like him that much sometimes, that I don't think it's worth my emotional investment to make the mediocre relationship better. And it's sad that he seems so lonely (essentially no friends after living in the same area for 35 years), and resigned to a life he hadn't expected and doesn't really look forward to, and apparently emotionally unable or just plain uninterested in going any deeper than the surface. I know all about how good the grass is growing and where they are going this summer and how great Andrew is at being cute in a restaurant. But not how he feels about retiring and finding himself as the primary caregiver for two little boys. And when you try to ask...you don't get much.
Nicola says I should just realize that he's doing the best he can...but when somebody's best is sad and pathetic, such a realization gives me little comfort.
I am fully aware of how judgemental I am of my father. I cut him very little slack and excoriate him for the smallest flaws in deed or character...things I let others get away with. But given the physical and emotional distance between us, these outbursts come less and less. The last 10 years have seen big changes in both of our lives, and one result is that there's very little to draw us closer beyond the titles of Father and Son. That's too bad, but it won't keep me up at night...including this one.
Good night, Dad. I do love you, and I'm glad we've shared some good times, and thanks for making me a Barry Manilow fan (no really). But you do your thing, and I'll do mine, and once a year we'll drive each other nuts for a week or so, and that'll do.
