Daddio De Novo

Completing the Trilogy

2012-01-27T19:05:00.000-08:00

Matilda Carol Teravainen. It’s taking some getting used to when writing her name. Tilly arrived today, the 27^th of January, at 12:44 p.m. 7 pounds, 6 ounces. 19½ inches long.

During the last few weeks leading up to today, there was so much I intended to accomplish. Thank you notes from Christmas. Finish preparing our taxes. Complete our mortgage refinance application. Open a twitter account to tweet updates throughout the day today. Finally wrap up a play I’ve been writing. Post a blog.

Unfortunately, the job has been really busy lately so I’ve been putting in a lot of hours there. Over the last few weeks in particular, by the time I made the commute, ate dinner with the fam, finished baths, dressed the kids in PJs, read books, sang our songs, said goodnight, cleaned the kitchen, took care of our fourth child [See Sidebar] and tidied up the rest of the house, it would be 9 o’clock. By then I didn’t want to do anything except sit on the couch and watch something awful on television (hence the new interest in The Bachelor.) I’d go to bed and wake up early the next day, and the whole routine would start over again. Meanwhile, all of the “to do’s” remained unfinished.

At the same time I was procrastinating with these minimally important side projects, I was putting off serious thought about the much more significant event of Tilly’s impending birth. Anytime I pictured the big day, I basically just tried to forget about it as soon as possible. There was too much to stress about, which was totally beyond any control. So why think about it?

Of course, adding a third kid to the mix and the big picture considerations (another mouth to feed, another who will plead for outfits that all the other cool kids have, another college tuition, another wedding, etc) were cause for nominal concern. But lurking below the superficial layer of “concern” was a deeper more genuine fear that haunted me. My inner psychiatrist-slash-Jillian Michaels offered the following psychoanalysis: my efforts to ignore January 27 was a simple coping technique to protect myself from the triggers of emotional trauma following Gus’ birth that I had otherwise buried and locked away in a place I don’t like to revisit. (Damn, I should’ve gone to med school.)

To be clear, I wasn’t scarred emotionally because of the potential for Tilly to have Down syndrome. (The odds are only about 1 percent higher for an expecting couple who has one child with DS already.) If anything unforeseen during pregnancy was to be discovered upon birth, I figured it would be more like a hermaphrodite situation, a missing hand, or maybe even blindness.

The real fear that scared me was simply a repeat of expecting everything to be typical and conventional instead of life altering and traumatic. Specifically, I think of the pediatrician’s face when she entered the room to deliver the news about Gus. Me knowing what she was already going to say in my heart of hearts. Gus turning blue in my arms 30 seconds after we learned of his diagnosis. Going to Children’s. Waiting for heart surgery any hour. You get my drift.

But of course, as THE READERS know, Gus’ story has been a happy one. We have come a long way over the last 18 months. Knowing that Gus and we as a family were able to handle all that chaos reaffirmed that we were capable of adapting to whatever adversity comes from the accompanying medical baggage of a new child. But I still hoped and prayed that Tilly’s arrival would be less tumultuous. Specifically, no drama.

As today’s date approached, a few signs of encouragement manifested unexpectedly. In an audiobook about Dante’s Divine Comedy, the narrator talked about how Dante was greeted in the first layer of Paradise by a beautiful woman named Matilda. “Hmmm,” I thought, that’s encouraging. A few weeks later in a different audio book about the history of Ancient Greece, the narrator talked about a poet who declared that the 27^th day of the month is the best day of the month to untap a cask of wine. “Uh-huh, I like where this is going.” (Apparently, today’s date is a holiday for a Greek saint involving feasts and celebration.) Then, this morning, the clock radio woke us up with “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” How do any of these signs and Cyndi Lauper relate to the birth of our third child? I have no idea. But I decided to interpret them self-servingly as positive reinforcement that all would be well.

Fast forward to our arrival at the hospital. Taxes, thank you notes, and the other side projects remained incomplete. It was finally time to power through two situations that I had been privately dreading.

Moment of Dread 1: when they take THE WIFE away to do her spinal before the operation begins. The “delivery partner” has about twenty minutes of solitude to put on scrubs and reflect silently until someone comes to get him or her. It’s a lonely calm before the storm. Fortunately today, instead of pacing and imagining every worst case scenario that could occur, I decided to sit calmly in a chair with my leg crossed. Cool. As a cucumber. Like the Fonze. When a nurse came for me, I snapped to attention. Bring it on.

Moment of Dread 2: the operating room experience as a bystander. I think I’m okay with seeing blood and guts. Just not THE WIFE’s blood and guts. I steered my head clear of any view of her internal organs and took my seat in the chair next to her head. The sheet was up and I couldn’t see anything. THE WIFE and I held hands and chit chat to pass the time.

“Hi.” “Hi.” (a few moments pass) “Did you set the DVR for Top Chef?” “Yeah.” “Cool.” (a few more moments pass) “How you feeling?” “Good.” “Want to have a baby?” “Okay.”

Meanwhile, my inner monologue was almost chanting to no one but my cranial auditorium “Please just be healthy. Please just be healthy. Please just be healthy. Don’t freak out. THE WIFE will see it on your face. Oh wait, there’s a mask over your face. Nevermind. Please just be healthy.” And so on.

Finally, the last part that I hate came. The tugging, pulling, tweaking, and moving that the doctors are doing to tug the baby out. The sheet was still in the way but I could tell that this was the yank part. THE WIFE squeezed my hand.

At last! Our powerful battler was here. And she was letting everyone in the room know that she’s not that psyched about it. A newborn cry never sounded so great. I realized that Led Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love” has been playing on the radio. Another great sign.

When I finally got to see Matilda up close for the first time, my untrained eye scans her for any unusual signs. No penis. (Phew.) Ten fingers, ten toes. (Sweet.) Greta wanted to call her sister Purpleicious after she was born (apparently Boya was only an in utero name) and at this moment, Matilda really is purple. But the color looks like normal-because-she-was-born-two-minutes-ago purple. The pediatrician from NICU arrived. Clean bill of health. I could finally exhale. I needed a sandwich.

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It’s been several hours since Tilly was born. Other than the obvious excitement and relief of her arrival, the day progressed in relative peace and quiet. THE WIFE and I have basically just taken turns cuddling with our little lady, in between the occasional phone call. This is what we used to assume happened for everyone. But now we realize this is what you appreciate and hope for everyone to experience.

Thanks to everybody for all the good thoughts and vibes. And to all of you who asked if we needed anything, I just thought of something: are you free to babysit three kids under three years old next week? I’ve got taxes to do…

And Then There Were (Almost) Five

2012-01-22T20:59:00.000-08:00

No I haven’t retired the blog. I could bore you with excuses but it really comes down to me just being lame.

Baby Boya arrives this Friday. Number three’s true name remains confidential so as to preserve some excitement for the big day. We’ve also had to prepare Greta mentally for the reality that the baby’s name will not actually be Boya but she can call her new little sister whatever she likes. And, no, the baby’s name will not begin with a G despite Vegas laying the odds at 2:1 for “Guinevere” or “Gertrude.”

Come this Friday – assuming Boya waits that long – Greta will be two weeks shy of her third birthday and Gus will have just turned 18 months old. Apparently, there’s some kind of unintentional 18-month symmetry going on between the three mini Ts. This is probably a good moment to take a quick snapshot for the family chronicles. We’ll start with the eldest.

As of a few weeks ago, Greta decided that she wants to pee on the potty all the time. Finally. After bribes with candy, toys, pee pee charts, fancy underwear, cash, a convertible, and a declined offer that we pay her college tuition, Gigi is batting about .900 since she took the plunge.

The only remaining challenge now appears to be aim. I’m not much of a coach in that department. I’ve been trying to help when pressed into duty, but the geometries of her stream and body positioning is still a work in progress for me to process. For the first time in my life, I understand why gals do the whole squat thing.

Poop is a different story. Basically, Gigi requests a diaper when she feels a movement coming on, which is fine by me. THE WIFE and I are just relieved that Gigi’s not intimidated by a toilet anymore. Now if only we could get rid of the bed time binkies. Speaking of which, of all the ridiculous products out there that parents waist money on, I can’t believe there isn’t a patch/gum/methadone-like gismo to wean a kid off a pacifier. Wait, I think I’m on to something. Get me Gerber’s research department on the phone, stat. Forget we had this conversation.

Before we move on to her brother, two new and frequent mannerisms that merit recording are: 1) her hands on the hip and 2) the run-on sentence using “because.” In either or both cases, Greta is usually in the midst of an animated lecture about an important event from her day’s activities. Here’s the scene:

DAD enters the house after getting home from work. GRETA comes running to the door to greet him.

DAD: Hi everybody. (closing the door)

GRETA: Daddy!! (wiping her hair from her face)

DAD: Hey! How was your day?

GRETA: (placing one hand on her hip and moving the other as she speaks) Good. Augey took my dolly because he was being fresh because … because … we were with Mommy and then we had cheerios because I ate them because we were watching a show because… Daddy, do you want a sticker? Here is a princess sticker. But you can’t have it because I need it because we sang songs today -

And so on. Overnight, she’s morphed into this totally entertaining little girl. She owns me and I think she knows it already. Now onto her brother.

August is equally entertaining and impressive. He adds a new skill to his repertoire almost every day it seems. He isn’t walking just yet, but he can stand and shuffle along the edge of a couch or ottoman with skillful ease. We just started to practice using a walker from P.T., which has been a hit.

Of course it may not be quite as important as walking, but G-man’s dance moves are already off the charts. Whether he’s sitting or standing, the shoulder shimmy is textbook perfect form. Give him a beat, and he’ll start grooving. Doesn’t matter if it’s the Final Jeopardy theme, Jam’n 94.5, or if we’re practicing Happy Birthday at the dinner table. As soon as Gus hears a song, he starts boppin’ around and the dance-off is on.

As for talking, Gus practices his words and uses sign language with pretty good success. Ask what a lion, pig, or cow says, and he will probably give you an endearing roar, snort, or moo. Or he might ignore the request. Or he may just motor boat an inviting bosom. You never know.

Naturally, the little guy isn’t a total angel. Gus never resists an opportunity to yank Greta’s hair. On any given night at dinner, he may eat like the glutton from 7even or he could react like Tom Colicchio eating parsnips. My biggest gripe about the G-man, though, is his total disdain for being dressed. Every time I put clothes on his body, he thrashes, spins, ducks, weaves, and gripes about it to the bitter end. The one analogy that always comes to mind is a rodeo cowboy lassoing a runaway calf.

At the end of the day, though, we hug it out and patch things up by bed time. Around 8:30 p.m., I carry Gus up the stairs to his room while he blows kisses or blinks pretty eyes to THE WIFE with his legs wrapped around my waist like a little monkey. Too cute.

And that’s that. THE WIFE is ready to burst. She stopped picking things up off the floor about three weeks ago. My close calls with death due to tripping over unseen hazards are off the charts. Most recently, a middle of the night leak brought me into unexpected contact with Uggs on the bathroom floor and what would have been a sure concussion and ACL tear if not for my Jedi-like reflex to curse and stumble into the towel rack. I said nothing, of course, lest I endure an exaggerated eye roll, a loud and dramatic sigh, hands on the hip (I wonder where Gigi gets that one,) and the “You don’t even care that I’m pregnant” comeback that ends any disagreement.

Now I’m second guessing whether to leave that last paragraph in or not. Eh, screw it. We’re in the home stretch.

Seriously, though, THE WIFE has been a trooper. Once she gets to the point when the bottom of her shirt starts to ride up on the belly, I know delivery day is close and THE WIFE’s been through the ringer. Between the heart burn, the waddle walk, the sleep “hots,” the post-salty dinner cankles, and not having seen her toes while standing in a while, the poor thing’s ready.

Bottom line, Boya needs to get here. We’re all waiting for you, young lady, you hear me? See you on Friday!

Gifts Are For Getting, I Mean Giving

2011-12-23T21:50:00.000-08:00

Two days to Christmas. Still trying to get into the spirit. Tried to kick start the season's magic this morning by surprising a few of the people I encounter during my everyday work routine.

First stop, the gym. I’ve been going to Gold’s in Southie for about six years. Up until Dave began working at the front desk, there’ve been a handful of stooges who never look up or acknowledge your arrival/departure. But my boy Dave is always friendly and chats if you engage him. Poor guy opens the gym at like 4 a.m. every morning. Hardworking kid.

Today, I was stoked to give a card to Dave with a bunch of scratch tickets. I walked in and sure enough, one of the original stooges was covering for him – of course with her head down reading her phone not saying a word to me as I passed by. O for one.

Next stop, the garage across the street from my office. There are two wonderful attributes about the garage where I park. Number one, it’s cheap. Twenty dollars a day. That’s pretty damn good for downtown. Tough to beat. Number two, this place looks like it could fall apart any minute. Customers aren’t even allowed in the basement anymore. It would be an absolutely perfect scene for a zombie apocalypse movie. The structure is so decrepit and creepy. Water dripping randomly from ceilings. The occasional rat scurrying from one dark corner to another. My spidey sense is always tingling if I’ve worked late at night during the dreaded walk to the car.

To access a parking spot in the morning at this place is a total shit show. There are about six men who simultaneously coordinate where to move your car. Usually, I park on the third floor roof. Generally, the handlers bark orders to you in heavily accented-English until you move the car to a spot where a different guy yells at you about why you’re parking there. When you tell him that so-and-so behind him told you to park there, an argument in a foreign language inevitably ensues. It’s awesome. Seriously, though, the guys work through all of the crappy rain in the spring and fall, freezing temps in the winter, and stifling heat in the summer. Their only refuge is a small shack with a desk, two lawn chairs, and a space heater or fan depending on the season.

So for the garage guys this morning, I bought six hot chocolates from Dunkins. When I walked the trays of cocoa over to the elder statesman of the crew, he shrugged me off because he was upset one of his underlings did not instruct another motorist to pull his car further up, thus leaving too much room between parking spots in one of the aisles. I continued on to one of the friendlier dudes and offered a cup. He looked at me slightly befuddled, not quite understanding what I was doing. I placed the trays on the desk in their shed and walked away. Merry Christmas. O for two.

Final stop, Boloco. I order a large “Truck Stop” burrito on a wheat tortilla with eggs, cheese, salsa, potato, and bacon with a large coffee every morning I work in Boston. And I mean every morning. I’m addicted.

Usually, I am greeted by the store manager Beatriz or my man Laz. Both of them wrap a mean Truck Stop. We’re at the point now that they start making my order before I’ve even placed it. We chat small talk as I pour my coffee and they work their magic on the goods. The crew is super nice. I look forward to the familiarity of our routine as we begin our work days.

The night before, I stuffed ten scratch tickets into a Christmas card. I wrote a note to Beatriz and Laz that they have full discretion to distribute the tickets as they see fit. Unfortunately this morning, Boloco was a little busier than normal because my stop to get the hot chocolates set the whole schedule back. Laz was not in sight but luckily Beatriz was present, and she seemed pleasantly surprised. I didn’t swing and miss this time, but it was more like a foul tip to stay alive. Alas, the Christmas spirit was still sputtering inside me. At least I have Christmas morning with the kids to look forward to, which is a good segue.

Greta watches this cartoon show called Olivia. (Damn, the theme song is stuck in my head now.) Olivia is a little girl pig who’s got a great imagination. Every episode, she takes a quick pause in the action to declare one of her rules in life. I’ll take her cue from there.

Rule of life number 700. Here’s my philosophy on gifts. Keep in mind, I freely admit I am a high maintenance pain in the ass when it comes to receiving a gift. But I try to apply these same rules when giving a gift.

A. As Paul McCartney so eloquently put it (at least I think it was Sir Paul), the best things in life are free. Homemade presents are almost always the best. They’re thoughtful. They’re creative. They’re cute. And, as is self-evident, they don’t cost anything. Translation: they don’t impact the Teravainen Family budget. While I may not have appreciated the “free” kind of gifts when I was single and child-less, I do appreciate a cost-free gift when it looks like THE WIFE has purchased enough toys to entertain a small village’s entire child population.

A sub-paragraph to this section also includes the classic “This coupon is redeemable for a foot massage” et cetera that every lame husband or boyfriend will cut from construction paper and color with markers when they were light on funds and/or made it to the store just after it closed the day or hour before said gift-giving event was to occur. (Seriously, who doesn't like a foot massage?)

One other codicil in this arena is if the gift giver possesses a special trait for which they’ve received special training or education. For example, the guy who knows how computers work. If and when I ever win the big one, I will definitely hire a full-time help desk employee who is immediately accessible and does not begin our conversation by asking if I restarted the computer. At this time, I have an iTunes account on three different machines with overlapping but not universal databases of downloaded music. I stand a better chance of explaining the theory of relativity to a CVS cashier than I do of somehow consolidating all of the songs onto my current laptop. I digress.

B. “Things” are a dangerous hit or miss. I pretty much possess any tangible item that I either want or need. In other words, if there’s something I want, I go and buy it for myself. (Again, see the disclaimer above as to my pickiness.) By extension, I loathe trips to any stores that don’t sell either liquor or books. Consequently, a trip to a location with parking for more than 1,000 vehicles, long lines at a customer service desk for exchanges and returns, or decorations for a holiday taking place three months from now, is generally not what strikes me as a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

A sub-paragraph to this section would be how I detest clutter. If I was ever a contestant on Fear Factor, I could handle lying in a coffin full of snakes or centipedes (though it would be extremely frightening.) I could even endure standing at a very tall height, which gives me vertigo or initiates what I imagine the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like. So if you wanted to give me the bends and incite a severe anxiety attack, lock me in a hoarder’s bedroom. When television shows depict homes for sale and there’s hardly anything in the place except furniture and a token decoration, that’s my nirvana. Thus, fewer things means less clutter.

When applying this rule to children, you get a mixed bag. Greta will probably build a mound of all the toys she gets from Santa this Sunday, and roll around in them like she's just won the lottery. But Gus will probably enjoy rolling over bubble wrap with an equal amount of glee. Rule of thumb: go with your gut.

C. Edible/drinkable gifts are definitely appropriate. Presents that may be consumed can also double in the (A) category to the extent that homemade perishables can be considered free, if the ingredients are already lying around in one’s pantry or crispah (that’s Masshole for fridge.) Plus, a cake or cookies only take up space temporarily. Hence, no clutter - phew.

Bottom line, food and drink are functional. Alcohol and desserts are fun. They’re even better when others can share in the experience of enjoying the gift together. And if you can somehow combine booze with sweets, an orgy may ensue.

D. Here’s my blatant contradiction to section A above, which also carries the hit or miss risk of option B. The adventure-slash-experience gift. Vacations, tickets to a concert or sporting event, and insert your creative excursion, are cool and exciting. However, these types of cadeaux generally lean heavier on the checking account.

A further obstacle with type D gifts for married men and/or fathers, however, is the amount of coordination required to lock the event on the books. Military strategists have easier times planning an assault on well-defended targets than some males do when attempting to schedule events that do not overlap with their significant other’s rigid calendar of social appearances and family obligations. Let's face it, guys like to propose a "let's meet for beers tonight" by e-mailing each other at work around 3 p.m. and taunting those who might have problems getting clearance. Ladies prefer a six-month lead time, though one year's notice is better because it might be book club night and they're supposed to bring an appetizer on the night you want to get drunk with your stupid buddies you "see all the time."

E. When in doubt, cash is king. Yes, this option may be impersonal. Money isn’t fun to wrap, per se, but honestly how cool would it be to open eight boxes containing single bills in different denominations? Wait a second, I think I have a game show idea.

Cold hard cash also clearly undercuts all of the philosophical considerations that make the “free” gifts warm and fuzzy as explained convincingly in the aforementioned Section A. But everyone has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and rounds of mudslides to buy when you're lucky enough to meet with the guys at The Backroom, right?

By extension, gift cards are not a bad idea.

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While my tongue-in-cheek diatribe above may suggest otherwise, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. After a roller coaster couple of years, my family of four and a half has truly gained an appreciation for the important things in life like good health and happiness. My sincere love and affection to all of our immediate and extended family, which especially include those of you we are fortunate to consider as friends. I hope THE WIFE and I are able to give back to all of you in 2012 and beyond as much as you have given to us during our years together. Cheers.

An Ode to the Ole Sweet Tooth

2011-11-18T22:11:00.000-08:00

One last reminder. Special guest DJ appearance this Saturday, November 19, 2011 at 10 p.m. Tune your dials to 91.3 if you're in Easton. Otherwise, fire up your Internets and type in http://tiny.cc/wshl. THE WIFE will be broadcasting live for your entertainment.

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Eighteen days status post-Halloween. A few notes for the old file.

Greta was a strawberry. She participated this year more enthusiastically than her two whole prior halloweens. In the weeks leading up to the big night, she said over and over “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Once we actually made it to the front doors of our neighbors, however, Greta stood paralyzed and unable to say anything. The neighbor would say or try any of the old tricks, but my girl wasn’t budging. She would just hold out her bag without ever breaking eye contact, staring the treat giver into submission. Once she felt the thud of a candy, Greta was outta there. Well then.

Gus was a green dragon. He was a trooper, tagging along for the ride in a wagon. He was actually pretty tolerant of wearing the costume. Overall, his participation was very similar to Greta’s the year before: but for Mom and Dad dressing him up in a silly suit, he would have been happier just lounging at home. Maybe next year, Greta will actually say “Trick or treat” and Gus will be walking up to the doors next to her, while their baby sister squirms in a hand-me-down costume.

Before I go on, here is where I mention how freaking lame the people are who were home and just kept their lights off. Other than religious objections which I’m not talking about, who would be so lame as to not at least fill a bowl with the cheapest candy you can find on sale at CVS or Shaw’s and leave it outside on a chair? I was shocked by the number of non-participants in our neighborhood. And I’m pretty sure they’re not Jehovah’s witnesses. Anyway, whatever the Halloween equivalent of Bah Humbug is, that’s what I say to you non-Halloweenies. So there.

By now, THE WIFE and I have unsurprisingly done a number on the kids’ candy loot stash. Greta and Gus pulled in a good haul this year. They scored us lots of the old favorites. Some of our neighbors (the high rollers – definitely not us) even went so far as to give out full-size candy bars. No way we were feeding our kids that crap. Only we get to eat that crap.

Generally, we raid the bags after they go down for bed. THE WIFE and I definitely don’t go digging within ear shot of Greta. If she hears a candy wrapper crinkling, Greta will hunt you down and shame you into returning the candy to her stash. As we’ve been sniffing through what remains, it dawned on me to tally a list of my first round draft picks.

1.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. C’mon, you didn’t expect anything else here did you? Seriously, though, the bar for me doesn’t go any higher than a Reese's. And, I swear the Halloween edition of the R.P.B.C.’s has something in them that make the cups better than at any other time of year. I know Hershey’s would never reveal if they mix up a different batch for the October editions, but they are my kryptonite. Best.

2.) Kit Kats. I don’t think KKs get as much street cred as they deserve on the Halloween scene. Very underrated. Chocolate over a crispy wafer. Pretty damn good.

3.) Watchamacallits. Truth be told, Greta and Gus didn’t score any this year. And I’m not sure they are even sold in Halloween snack size batches. But I love these candies.

4.) Almond Joy. Another candy that flies under the radar if you ask me. Damn good.

5.) Snickers. If I’m at a candy vending machine and I’m hungry, I’m buying one of these. I imagine these rank higher on the list for others because they always seem to go faster than anything else. As far as getting a good bang for the buck, Snickers are a solid choice in my opinion.

And that’s where the list ends. Milky Way, Rolos, 3 Musketeers, 100 Grand, and Hershey’s chocolate bars are all decent, but they don’t crack my top 5. Agree or disagree? Would love to hear you weigh in.

Now I'm off to the dentist. And the gym. After just one more Reese's.

On the Radio, Oh Oh

2011-11-04T23:11:00.000-07:00

18 years ago, I was 18 years old. Back then, I was absolutely confident that I knew everything I ever needed to know. By the time 2011 arrived, the only thing that became certain to me was that I barely know anything.

For the time being, though, let’s suspend reality and travel together back to 1993. THE WIFE and I had begun our freshman years of college in Vermont, she at Castleton State and me at UVM. Heavy woolen sweaters, Birkenstocks, and flannel shirts were de rigueur. Kurt Cobain, Chris Farley, Jerry Garcia, and Tupac were still alive. Pearl Jam was still making music videos and absolutely owning the “Grunge Era.” The only reality tv in existence was Season 2 of The Real World. O.J. Simpson was still a free man filming Naked Gun movies and Miller Lite ads. I did not own a computer, mobile phone, Facebook account, blog, or an e-mail address. I did own a bulky camera with film that I wound after snapping a photograph that only became visible usually weeks or months later after dropping it off at the pharmacy for developing.

At school, I was officially “undecided” in my major, with a lean towards pre-med. Sports medicine, I thought. Or maybe gynecology. [Shrug and an eyebrow raise.]

THE WIFE, on the other hand, declared her major to be communications. She was going to be Veronica Corningstone, your trusted local female news anchor.

I made it through one semester of chemistry and two semesters of biology, before realizing that classes with labs really sucked and bullshitting measurements was really tough to pull off. Pre-law, it would be then.

THE WIFE, meanwhile, kept her original focus alive. Somewhere along the way, she got a gig as a part-time radio disc jockey at the local college radio station WIUV, 91.3. She divided her air time between The Lemonheads, Arrested Development, The Samples, Big Head Todd, Dave Matthews Band, and Lenny Kravitz, while discussing that night’s parties at the Rugby house or The Pickle Barrel. (I admit I just googled bars in the Killington VT area on that last one – I don’t know if it even existed back then. THE WIFE is asleep already and I don't think that detail is wake-up worthy.)

After graduation, we both left the Green Mountain State and headed to the Bay State. While my med school intentions were long gone, THE WIFE’s potential to be a media member was still alive. She took a job at a Boston radio station selling air time.

Eventually, the 90’s became the 00’s. Real World season 47 made way for Jersey Shore. E-mail, Internet, cameras, and social media of any kind all fit on one single, wireless telephone that fits in one’s pocket. Untalented people obtained their own television shows on E!, Bravo, or MTV by 1) making sex videos that go viral on the Internet 2) being a rich, dumb, and bitchy wife, or 3) pulling up your shirt to show abs a lot.

While all of this was happening, THE WIFE’S career had steered totally into sales and Internet advertising by the late 2000's. Her D.J. days were long behind her.

Then one day in 2009, Greta and I were about to pick up THE WIFE from work. I found a Memorex cassette while searching for car keys. We got in the car and pressed play.

I heard a voice. It was familiar yet it sounded different. A young woman and her girlfriend Mary were discussing how they were intending to spend Spring Break. Then, a song by Phish or The Pixies played. Hey, I knew those girls!

Greta and I picked up THE WIFE. I said Gigi really missed her, so she should sit in the back seat. With the ambush succeeding, I pressed play on the tape again. Shocked, THE WIFE laughed and asked me indignantly where I found this recording. We reminisced about the good old days. My brain took notes.

Fast forward to today. THE WIFE is knocked up with our third bun in the oven. We live in the burbs. We drive a fucking minivan. Our tunes in the car consist mainly of Yo Gabba Gabba, Bingo the Dog, or Are You Sleeping? 1993 is 18 years ago. We are suddenly Old Man and Old Lady Dinkins, cursing at kids that light fireworks in our neighborhood on the Fourth of July because it might wake up our babies! Obv, we're cool.

Fortunately, we stumbled upon a time machine where THE WIFE can be 18 years old again. Thanks to the power of Facebook, e-mails, and a very flexible music director in his sophomore year of college, THE WIFE will return to the air waves once again on November 19, 2011 from 10 p.m. to midnight. DJ Baby Mama will be broadcasting live that night and time from Stonehill College’s campus in Easton. For those within the 5-mile radius of the radio transmission, the frequency is (ironically) 91.3 FM. For those further away, THE WIFE will be streaming on-line at http://tiny.cc/wshl.

This is most likely a one-time event, so be sure to tune in. Orientation and a tour of the studio were last week. THE WIFE is ready to get it going. In the interim, feel free to e-mail her with some suggestions as to music. She hasn't heard about this new fangled thing called an iPod yet. Hopefully, you'll be along for the ride next week to see how it goes.

Greta and Gus, please burn the broadcast onto a CD so you can play it 18 years from now and we can talk about the good old days again!

Waving The White Flag

2011-10-22T22:00:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s official. I’m a eunuch. The minivan has assumed its position as the T family truckster, at least for the next three years of our lease. I’m doing my best to avoid being seen near it - let alone in it - or God forbid, driving it.

In a minivan, I just feel emasculated. I’m a soccer mom. I’m swerving in my lane because I’m oblivious to any traffic around me. I’m trying frantically to play a DVD as the kids scream for Nemo as I schedule a parent-teacher conference on my cell phone. I’m yelling at my kids in the back seat to “stop touching your brother’s seat!”

Don’t get me wrong. I totally understand the functionality and the convenience of a minivan a/k/a the F.U.V. I will not debate anyone on those points. And as far as cost goes, it’s the most sensible decision from our budget based on the monthly payment and gas mileage. I get it. The F.U.V. totally makes sense from a graphs and charts perspective.

Just please don’t be offended when I decline the cup of pink Kool Aid (now) fellow F.U.V.ers who try to push the envelope by suggesting how awesome it is to have a Caravan/Town&Country/Siena/Odyssey/Astro, etc. Let’s just call it what this automotive transition is for me – another surrender to un-cool.

As for my car resume, it’s generally unimpressive to those with fancy pants tastes. But to the “cool” car enthusiasts, the history is rich. In order, they’ve gone like this: Toyota Corolla FX hatchback (used); Chevy Malibu Classic (used); Chevy Corsica (used); Dodge Aries K (very used and short-lived unfortunately); Ford Escort (used); Mercury Mariner (lease); Honda Civic (lease); Ford Ranger (used); and Chevy Malibu (work lease). Most of them had affectionate nicknames: Uncle Buck, the Bubonic, or Bu (original Malibu); T-minus Escrat (Escort); the Grand Marnier or Marinara (Mercury); and Ricky (the Ranger.) All of them hosted great memories and adventures.

Granted, most of my rides were not exactly hot rods that a bikini-clad woman might lay on awkwardly while a hip-hop star rapped about the rims during a music video. Nor were my wheels ever the kind of car that one would cruise in during high school to attract attention on Elm Street in Manchester on a Saturday night, by whistling at girls with (very) high bangs well supported by product.

But I’ve always loved my cars. The older, rustier, more dented, or otherwise shanked they were, the more I enjoyed being in them. I especially loved pulling up in one of my beaters at a stop light next to a car occupied by an attractive woman or women. I would flash the gap-toothed grin that said “Who is this mystery guy in a shitty car that’s still smiling like he’s thinking he’s all that?” As one might expect, the usual reaction was the other car driving quickly away from me as soon as the light turned green but you get the picture. It was all about my perspective.

Okay, after writing the last paragraph, it’s dawned on me that perhaps my level of coolness has never really attained Arthur Fonzarelli-like status. Or at least, it’s not the kind of car that dictates whether one qualifies for cool points or not. Sounds to me like it’s mostly about the driver’s state of mind. [Sigh.]

So where’s that cup of Kool-Aid anyway? It’s time to go for a ride.

Status Update

2011-10-07T21:18:00.000-07:00

I haven’t captured much about the kids lately so it felt overdue to reduce a few recent trends to writing for the history books. I feel like [insert cliche] we’ve blinked and they suddenly aged like the curious case of Benjamin Button except just the opposite.

At two years and eight months old, Greta is fast forwarding into a mini-person before my very eyes. Her personality and disposition just blow me away.

I need to videotape our conversations more. When she wakes up in the morning, we always talk about her dreams. Usually, it’s a combination of butterflies, Santa Claus, Tinkerbell, lady bugs, ice cream cones, and how she doesn't need her diaper changed. I’d tell her my dreams about suddenly realizing I forgot to put clothes on before a court appearance, but it would only confuse the conversation so I just ask her to tell me more.

I love that when I come home from work, and it’s been about 22 hours since I last saw her when she went to bed the night before, but Greta just picks up conversation with me as if we were talking two minutes ago.

GRETA: Daddy, can I tell you a question?

ME: Of course. What is it?

GRETA: I saw the hummingbird today.

ME: No way. What color was he (already knowing the answer)?

GRETA: Purple. Daddy, do you know what would be really cool?

ME: What?

GRETA: If we go outside and paint. Or go on the swings.

She kills me. A few more tendencies that need to be memorialized, though I’m sure I’m forgetting something.

Greta finally includes the number ten when she counts now. Before, she jumped immediately from nine to eleven. And if we’re ever up to the teens with her numbers, “eleventeen” always makes a candid appearance somewhere after twelve.

Oh, and Greta has named her baby sister in mommy’s belly “Boya.” No clue where that came from, but Baby Tiebreaker is only Baby Boya during conversation in the house. Done.

What else? Her favorite instrument is the "titar." Augey and Daddy have a "peenus," while Greta and Mommy have a "gina." And her grandfather "Ukki" is in every plane that flies over our heads.

At the same time, however, Greta is vigorously resisting using the potty. We have tried every trick in the book. A poop and pee chart in the bathroom with a crayon and stickers taped next to it for the next time she goes. A bag full of tantalizing prizes within eye shot of the changing station. Promises to bring her to the store if she just sits on the bowl. Big girl panties with cool characters. But no, she doesn’t budge. Her response is “I’ll try it next week.”

As for my G-man, he has gone from crawling backwards into crawling forward in a frog-hop/breakdance worm. You gotta keep an eye on him, or he’ll suddenly be heading out a door towards whatever attractive nuisance is in sight.

Gus has had a few other milestones lately of his own. Holding and drinking from a sippy cup. Blowing kisses when you only ask him, instead of doing it in front of him first. Waving hi. He has even just started to pull himself up to stand. THE WIFE picked up G-man's first high tops to help with placing his feet down flat.

When people talk about appreciating the little things, Gus seems to remind us of that with every new discovery.

Yet, Gus is no little angel either. He is known to grab Greta’s hair by the handful and yank it out much to his sister’s chagrin. He’s also not afraid to rake his little fingers down into the eyeballs of whomever is holding him. I had a nice little scratch on my face courtesy of the G-man recently. But it's all good.

Meanwhile, THE WIFE and I still find ways to lovingly annoy the crap out of each other. For example, she hates that I don’t push the bathtub switch all the way down when I’m draining the bathtub.

WIFE: You’re doing it wrong.

ME: Don’t tell me my business devil woman. I know how to drain the tub best.

WIFE: Your way takes too long to drain the water.

ME: But I like hearing the noise of the water going down the drain.

WIFE: (audible sigh/groan and accompanying eye roll)

My biggest gripe lately is the constant state of laundry that our house is under. There are always a pile of folded clothes on the couch in the living room and a basket on the floor. When you go into the kids’ rooms, multiple piles of shirts and pants are organized in a sporadic manner that only she knows why – but they never seem to make it into a closet or drawer. And forget about our bedroom. It’s just a minefield of clothes that might be clean, but most likely are dirty, yet I don’t dare say anything out of fear for the sigh/groan and eye roll. (I will never understand why we can’t just spend one day every two weeks washing the clothes all at once and putting them away.) What can I say? It’s paradise over here.

So there you have it. A quick little snapshot of the state of affairs from the T-family abode. Anyone want to tell me any questions? Come on over so you can fold some laundry with Greta and I…

Hyphenated-Ramblings

2011-09-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

Turns out that Baby Tiebreaker is a … girl! The most recent ultrasound showed a healthy and rapidly growing little lady. Far and away, the baby’s health was our paramount concern, so the good news to date is obviously encouraging.

As far as the baby’s gender tilting the balance of power at Casa de Ts in favor of the girls, I’m still digesting. My brain is still a bit in denial that we’re having a third. Any thoughts beyond that have been scattered and still under development so we’ll have to circle back in a future post when my mind is more clear on that front.

I confess, though, that one thought keeps popping up and I’m almost ashamed to admit it. I can’t help thinking how I will not be passing on my last name.

Granted, for my last name not to “carry on,” I’m assuming: a) my girls will be straight, get married, and go traditional by assuming their husband’s last name; and b) August doesn’t have children. For today, we’ll keep the tone light and address only assumption “a” as assumption “b” is a deeper and more loaded topic.

I suppose the other caveat to assumption “a” coming true is that my daughters opt out of the whole hyphenated last name thing. But given the option to hyphenate versus adopting their husbands’ last names, I honestly hope that they would go with the latter.

Now before any neo-Feminists out there start burning push-up bras and penis effigies, I’ll be the first to admit that the tradition of assuming a husband’s last name is most likely rooted in an antiquated system when daughters were often treated like chattel and fathers sold them off in marriage like baseball cards or used cars to perhaps not-so-deserving grooms. I get it. But that’s not how at least most of us roll these days.

The wife’s adoption of the husband’s last name, it seems, is a compromise masquerading as tradition that no one seems to really know why but we just do it anyway. Perhaps an analogous comparison could be drawn to a fiancé spending thousands of dollars on a silly ring as “consideration” to lock in the engagement with his prospective fiancée. Most of us follow tradition, well, because that’s just what everyone does and we don’t want to rock the boat. Conformity is just plain easier.

But somewhere along the way, I assume, a crafty young woman with a desire to honor her original surname invented a hybrid of last names by combining her maiden name via hyphen with her married name. I appreciate the innovation. I respect the loyalty to her roots and family. I understand that overall, it’s not that big of a deal. But I’m still not a fan.

Hear me out. I’m not a fan of the “Baxter-Birney” because I’m chauvinist or old school or anything like that. No, my beef with hyphenated last names is much simpler. Where does it end? Allow me to illustrate using random NFL players’ names.

Let’s say Mike Sims-Walker and his wife have a son named LeDennis Sims-Walker. Meanwhile, Maurice Jones-Drew and his wife have a daughter named DaMichelle Jones-Drew. Assume LeDennis and DaMichelle get married. Is DaMichelle going to follow her mom’s lead and go hyphenated as Mrs. Sims-Walker-Jones-Drew? Let’s imagine she does.

Now assume BenJarvis Green-Ellis and his wife have a son named Dneywa (pronounced “Da-Wane” even though spelling suggests otherwise), while Dominique Rodgers-Cromartie and his wife have a daughter named Lashofanda. Next thing you know, Dneywa and Lashofanda are getting hitched and sure enough, we have Mrs. Green-Ellis-Rodgers-Cromartie.

You see where I’m going right? If we take LeDennis’ and DaMichelle’s son and marry him to Dneywa’s and Lashofanda’s daughter, basically their children are screwed. They’ll need to wear a XXXL-size jersey when playing sports just to fit half of the last name on the back. Their driver’s licenses will have to fold out like an accordion. They’ll need extra sheets of paper on every standardized test to fill in all the circles of their last name in number two pencil. You get the picture.

As for passing on my last name, what really is the big deal anyway? It’s not like my buddies call me “Teravainen” the way we refer to Noonan, Parker, Erwin, Oster, Martell, Fallis, or others who regularly answer to their last name. And to be honest, my last name was a pain in the ass for so many years. It’s been mispronounced and misspelled my entire life. I don’t think I was able to even write it until some time in junior high school. Plus, it’s not like my last name will end with me – I have plenty of relatives with the possibility of passing on Teravainen as a last name.

The truth is probably twofold. First, I have come to treasure the uncommonness of my last name. It’s kind of a badge of honor for me. I like when people recognize its Finn roots. I don’t even flinch when I hear someone say “Ter-uh-vay-nee-in” because it happens so frequently. So I suppose the second part is I always envisioned sharing that pride with my kids who would in turn similarly enjoy passing Teravainen on to their children.

Like I said earlier, I’m ashamed to even admit that this thought process has gone through my mind. When looking at the big picture, I could have much bigger problems. Thank you for just bearing with me and playing the part of therapist for a little bit. Much appreciated. I’ll move on now…

On second thought, maybe Teravainen-Johnson doesn't sound so bad after all.

Groans and Greetings for Gray Balls

2011-08-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

My first high school crush Carla dumped me during our sophomore year. A few weeks before the break-up while we were still on summer break, I nearly maimed myself biking home from her house on my 12-speed when the brake handle became detached and lodged itself in the spokes of my front tire as I coasted down Union Street near Crescent. I’m pretty sure this is the second time I’ve blogged about the bike accident of 1990 – what can I say, I’m apparently still traumatized by either the crash, Carla breaking up with me, or both.

The reason I bring this event up again in the first place is that my buddy Chad was with me when Carla delivered the news to me by phone. I was in my bedroom using a phone that was not cordless. In other words, I couldn’t leave the room and Chad got to witness the drama firsthand. Anyway, after comprehending that the break-up was irreversible, I asked Carla what was wrong with me in my pathetic state of sorrow. Upon hearing my question, Chad began to smirk and opened the space between his thumb and index finger while placing it on his forehead. He then mouthed the words “your hairline” or something to that effect.

Back then, due to the size of my forehead and the high location of my hairline, my buddies and I were fairly certain I was going to be the first bald one of our crew. Fast forward twenty years (that’s right class of 93, our sophomore year in high school was that long ago) and I still have grass on the green without assistance either from Rogaine or Maury's wigs. Even better, I have yet to discover a gray pūb in the Chewbacca wheat field.

While I acknowledge this fight against aging and vanity is futile, there is one particular trait I earnestly look forward to acquiring as the years accumulate. It's actually a badge of honor in my opinion. Three words. Old. Man. Strength.

When I think of Old Man Strength, three people immediately come to mind: the father of William Wallace’s best friend in Braveheart whose character was named “Campbell”; Julio Franco; and my old next door neighbor in Hooksett whose true identity I will protect by simply calling him Mr. V.

Campbell (portrayed by Scottish actor James Cosmo) is a paragon of Old Man Strength. Campbell’s not as svelte or handsome as he probably was in earlier years. The beard is gray. The hairline has receded. He needs to sit down for a rest a little more frequently than he used to. But he’s still a total badass and answers the call of duty when pressed into a fight. For chrissakes, he gets his hand chopped off in one battle, then comes back to the next one with a swinging mace attached at the severed wrist. That’s the medieval version of Old Man Strength, I believe.

Julio Franco was a professional baseball player who played for something like 100 years. He retired in 2008. I know little about Julio except that he was super ripped well into his 40’s and could still probably tear Dustin Pedroia into several pieces with his bare hands. Just trust me, Julio’s an appropriate spokesperson for Old Man Strength.

As for Mr. V, he is quite possibly the best example of Old Man Strength I can conjure in my brain. First, Mr. V's had bulging biceps that have intimidated me since I was 6 years old. Second, he is a master carpenter, plumber, electrician, and builder of anything. Third, he hunts animals and eats his kills – I believe a mounted boar’s head hangs in his garage (or at least I imagine one in there) as affirmative proof of his fearlessness. Fourth, he is the nicest and sweetest guy you’d ever know. Put it this way, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’d definitely seek refuge at his house.

[While we’re on the topic of Mr. V, I feel the need to confess that I used to climb up onto the bumper of his silver utility work truck when it was parked and no one was looking, so that I could peak in through the back window at a Playboy centerfold taped on the back of the partition between his front seat and the rear back area. (The Internet was still a whole decade away.) Furthermore, I also apologize once and for all about the snow ball I threw at his brand new car around 1984. Once I saw Mr. V jam on the brakes and get out, I booked it into the woods and didn’t come home for a couple hours. Although I may not have known then what to call Old Man Strength, I was smart enough to understand it was a force not to be messed with. Anywho, where were we?]

Old Man Strength is almost like a consolation gift for men as they advance in years from young buck to grizzled veteran. While they may require the assistance of Lipitor, Flomax, and/or Cialis, a seasoned pro with Old Man Strength can still answer the bell and rise to the occasion when necessary. It’s a kind of phenomenon whereby this reservoir of youthful testosterone remains stored in a reserve just waiting to be tapped in case of situations that may vary from a simple “rub some dirt on it if it hurts” to an outright challenge of one’s masculinity.

He with Old Man Strength has acquired the skills to sniff out a bluff in poker. He with Old Man Strength can both drive and navigate the [station wagon/minivan] towards the destination while the rest of his family sleeps during the road trip. He with Old Man Strength can go shirtless at a family cookout without shame, even if his moobs could really use a manssiere. Perhaps most importantly, he with Old Man Strength has learned how to conserve his energy for the witty back-and-forth that precedes a fight until the very last second when he gets the first punch in and lets all of his buddies jump in to prevent the exchange of any more punches.

As for me, I still cry whenever The Notebook is on. Unopened boxes of furniture from Ikea make me shudder with fear and loathing. I watch Project Runway enthusiastically. Not only do I rarely wear a tool belt, but I’ve never changed a spark plug. Hell, I can't even grow a respectable mustache let alone a beard.

Clearly, I have a ways to go before attaining Old Man Strength status. But at least I’ve got a hairline that might be receding....

THE READERS' Nations

2011-08-26T21:21:00.000-07:00

I had no idea anyone outside of the U.S., Canada, or the U.K. read the blog. In any event, I'm happy to have you all along. Special shout out to the Ethiopians for paving the way into Africa, as well as the Russians who help us double dip into Europe and Asia! That still leaves South America, Australia, and Antarctica for continents not yet infiltrated by De Novo.

The Tiebreaker

2011-08-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

In high school, a couple of my buddies invented a card game called “Schnoog.” We usually played it on Friday after school before we headed out for the night. When someone proposes to play the game, he picks up the deck and makes an inhaling snort noise through the nose. If others want to join the game, they echo the original snort of the dealer with a snort of their own. It’s a simple game that I could explain to you if we were sitting at a table drinking beers, but the rules are irrelevant for the purposes of this post.

One of my favorite parts of the game, though, is when we are down to just two players left and each of them flips a card over. If they both got the same card, everyone in the room immediately starts to yell “Tiebreak-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”until the two players flip over a new card. It sounds mundane perhaps, but this is the highlight of any Schnoog game – trust me.

So, imagine that THE WIFE and I are playing a game of Schnoog. I pick up the deck and snort. THE WIFE comes over to the table and snorts back. We sit down. We are down to our last card. Each of us flips a card. One card is Gigi. The other card is G-man. That makes two ladies in the house, and two dudes in the house.

EVERYONE: Tiebreak-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

Now hold that last syllable until January 2012 because that is the date when our next baby arrives. (Waiting a couple beats.) Yes. You read that correctly. Baby Tiebreaker is due to arrive in the last week of January next year. Here we go again!

What possessed us to have Irish triplets, you may ask? Where do I start?

Before we married, we didn’t have a fixed number in mind as to the number of children we would have. We knew we would have kids, but the plan was basically one at a time. We figured the amount would just kind of work itself out.

So there we were earlier this year with two bambinos. We had our one girl and our one boy. We were very happy with our family of four. Our transition from the 2 v. 1 zone to 2 v. 2 man D had adjusted pretty smoothly. We were in a good rhythm. With every passing week, we were that much closer to emancipation from all the many accessories associated with a baby: diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, bibs, onesies, the list goes on. We were also that much closer to sleeping late and our kids being able to feed/dress/bathe themselves.

Plus, the prospect of adding another kid to the mix is – frankly – an expensive decision. A bigger family truckster is the most immediate cost increase. (The minivan is a foregone conclusion at this point – don’t get me started.) And eventually, baby three is another athlete/musician/artist with summer camps and equipment. Another college tuition. Another wedding. Why not just stand put? What else did we need?

You name a material possession, an experience, or even just bare necessities, and I’ll name a way that it could be upgraded and costs more money. Would we prefer to eat organic at every meal and snack? Yeah. Would we love to own a vacation home someday? Sure. Do we want to travel with the kids to foreign countries every once in a while instead of Santa’s Village? Obv.

But now, a word from the devil’s advocate. Could we survive by eating food with high fructose corn syrup? Yeah, at least in moderation. Could we get by from freeloading off others with beach and lake houses? I’ve been doing it for 36 years, so what’s another 36? As for traveling outside the states, there’s always studying abroad when they go to UMass or whatever other short list of colleges we’ll be able to afford.

If money was really the only reluctance I had towards fathering a third child, I didn’t think it was a good enough reason. There is never enough money to do everything one wants.

The consideration of whether to expand the population, therefore, shifted to one of more important analysis. Did we have that loving feeling for a third? After Greta was born, I was almost concerned I couldn’t love another child as much as I loved her already. And yet when Gus arrived, my heart felt as though it doubled in size. I had more than enough room to share in there between the two kids. This time around, my parental spidey sense tells me a dad’s love can be felt equally as strong three ways.

In the end, for me at least, what pushed me into the “yes” category for having a third, was something that just kind of itched inside my core. It didn’t quite feel like we were done. I don’t know how else to explain it. A family of five just felt right for us.

So will Baby Tiebreaker push our balance into an estrogen-dominated household? Or will testosterone rule the roost? We had our second ultrasound a few weeks ago (THE WIFE is 17 weeks along now) and the tech gave us a 60/40 prediction, so we have an educated suspicion of where the pendulum will swing. But we’ll wait to tell you all until the next ultrasound, when we will supposedly have 99% accurate reading.

With that being said, our population expansion will stop at three. Honestly. That’s it. End of story. (How crazy do you think we are?) And of course, we hope it’s a story that concludes with the words “happily ever after.”

Baby Tiebreaker, we can’t wait to have you along for the ride, even if part of that ride involves multiple years in a Honda Odyssey…

Vacation 2011: The Finale

2011-08-18T19:42:00.000-07:00

Last week seems like ancient history already. Before my memory deteriorates any worse than it has already, here’s the finale of our vacation diaries.

Day 5

Remember the ancient days of the 1990’s (or the medieval years even before) when the operation of cameras involved loading film, rotating a knob to latch the film into place, clicking a button, finishing the film, removing the film, and praying when you retrieved the photos from CVS about three weeks after your shoot, that the one shot you took while standing at the Eiffel Tower, Fenway Park, or Millis Hall came out well? A given roll of 36 could include shots from Christmas, New Year’s, and a random trip to Colby or UNH in February when you road-tripped with a bunch of friends using an actual atlas or directions written down on a napkin during a “house phone” conversation. There was no “upload to Facebook” option available with click of the button.

How did we exist as an image capturing society before digital cameras and cell phones with delete buttons conveniently located for that unflattering photo of a double chin, or the “eyes were closed” shot? Not only did women dare to pose for pictures back then without doing that awkward one leg in front of the other thing that anyone on Us Weekly does, but many of them didn’t even wax their eye brows (which is most likely why you don’t see many of the shots capturing the au naturel caterpillar look popular circa pre-1997), but that’s another story for another day.

Back in my day (imagine me saying this in Grandpa Simpson’s voice,) photographs of multiple, obnoxiously-sized penises drawn in black marker on the face of a buddy who passed out in a place not called his bed may never have developed because the film’s negative accidentally ran through the laundry, as opposed to today when said photograph would sandbag said buddy from ever running for political office because it was on Twitter, Facebook, and Youtube within four seconds of the shot, easily becoming accessible during a simple Google image or video search.

Where the hell am I going with this? Oh yeah, photography. Back to the Hall of Justice…

Photographic footage of Griswald Vacation 2011 is minimally available because THE WIFE realized she forgot to pack our camera and I refused to turn around when she discovered it six minutes after leaving the house because it was: a) non-essential; and b) a hindrance to making good time on our drive north. Needless to say, my executive decision to keep going and not turn around after the discovery made for a “frosty” first half-hour of the drive on 24-North and even onto 93-North. The decision also led to photographs from our cell phones with unimpressive resolution, as well as videos that will most likely never be seen from anywhere other than the phones themselves because THE WIFE and I are so minimally skilled in these types of computer endeavors.

As for Vacation Day V, it went like this: departure of the Zillas, beach, naps, and dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Café Noche. The restaurant was great for families but see the Day 4 post for my fears about family trips to restaurants. Gigi was pretty well behaved but the G-Man was wiggling around as soon as we sat down. I plowed through my Margarita and food, then restrained Gus in a half-nelson while waiting for THE WIFE and Greta to finish.

Fortunately, the night was salvaged with an ice cream trek to a really cute 50’s-style ice cream soda shop and diner in Albany, NH. Our waitress wore a poodle skirt, which Gigi loved. The waitress asked if we had a dog. I said no, but we had a fish, and Greta said his name is “Fishy Teravainen.” I beamed with paternal pride while the waitress had no idea what Gigi just said.

Fortunately, our ice cream order was easy to understand. THE WIFE and G-man split a black raspberry fro-yo, while Greta unabashedly double dipped between my peanut butter cup frappe and her raspberry swirl kiddie cup. To put an exclamation point on the night, Gus spit up all over the front of my shirt before we left. Of course, I didn’t notice until after I spoke to the owner for a good five minutes. I’d say that was a successful night.

Day 6

Prior to this day in the history of the T-family either as a unit of 3 or 4, there were many occasions when I wanted to get on the road at the crack of dawn. However, THE WIFE always vehemently rejected such suggestions – to the point that she might as well have hissed and spit at me when I proposed that we feed the kids in the car while we drove. But on Day 6 of vacation 2011, the situation was somehow different because we were heading to Santa’s Village. That day, THE WIFE wanted to make “good time” for the first and only occasion I’ve ever known her. She was actually planning to leave with the kids in pajamas, and feed them breakfast in the car. Unprecedented.

As we prepared, THE WIFE reported an ominous forecast for the day: temps in the 90’s and high heat. She was already stressing about the kids becoming dehydrated. Meanwhile, it was 58 degrees in Madison. We proceeded to pack all sorts of sun block, bathing suits, towels, and warm weather gear, in addition to the 47 other bags full of “necessities” for a standard day trip.

The drive from Madison to Jefferson was scenic and beautiful, not that Gigi observed it because she watched endless episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba! on the portable DVD player. But it kept her quiet. We arrived by 10:15 a.m. A personal best for THE WIFE: only 45 minutes after we originally planned on being there!

The weather upon our arrival was overcast, breezy, and about 62 degrees. Good thing we packed towels for the water park because we were able to use them as blankets for the kids.

Undeterred by the elements, and encouraged that Greta didn’t puke once we got in the parking lot, we headed towards the entrance. We of course picked the line where some dude’s credit card was denied five times as dozens of families in lines around us blew past as if in an Easy Pass lane. Classic moosh.

Finally, we made it through. Greta declared that she was ready to sit on Santa’s lap (last year didn’t go very smoothly.) We headed for the token St. Nick photo shoot location immediately while Greta’s courage remained high. As we waited, a cookachoo (our code word for weirdos) family started chatting us up about their neighbors’ Christmas lights display this past winter. Cookachoo Dad was killing it with a solid Kenny G perm, a Tom Brady jersey (of course he was a Pats fan,) and the left-ear-only earring dangling multiple inches from the lobe. (Yeah I’m going to hell, I know.)

After the Cookachoos shot the breeze with Santa for a half-hour after their family pic, we finally got our turn. Naturally, Greta refused even to look in Santa’s direction when we were all in the same room. As we approached Santa, she clung to me for dear life but eventually relented and sat on THE WIFE’S lap to pose for the requisite picture. Gus-man, meanwhile, was ready to dive head-first into Santa’s beard. Somehow, we pulled off the pic without any casualties to Santa or the kids.

From there, we did the rides, the unhealthy food, the waiting in lines, etc. Greta went on the Rudolph Merry-go-round about four times. Fortunately, the kids didn’t become either sunburned or dehydrated.

We also got to cross paths with my buddy Bones (another Westland manor alumnus,) his wife Mrs. Batch, and their three sweet kids, who just coincidentally decided to take a family trip on the same day we were there. They were gracious enough to invite us back to where they were staying, so we got to relax, drink a few beers or juice boxes, and shoot the breeze.

Another successful day.

Day 7

The final day has arrived. For the record, we will miss the Dunkin’s we’ve patronized during the course of our stay. They are batting about .993 on our orders, which is no small feat with THE WIFE’s scrutiny of her “extra skim” portion of her iced coffee order.

Gigi and I headed down to the beach for a brief final visit while Gus-man catches his morning siesta. The kids there already were not playing Marco Polo. They were playing Marco Scutaro. (You gotta love New England.)

After some swimming, playing, and a final survey of the frogs, Gigi was ready to go. We went back to the house for lunch and the final pack up. No one was in a rush to go home. I think that means we had a great time as a family. Mission accomplished.

[Special thanks to Pep for making our family excursion possible. So, um, is your place available again next summer? Just curious.]

The Chronicles of New Hampsha Continued

2011-08-14T16:56:00.000-07:00

Day 3

Back to the beach. Déjà vu all over again. The weather was great. Greta got brave and swam with me out to the floating dock. We climbed on top and waived to Mama and Gus. Though she refused to do so herself, Greta ordered me to jump off. I complied. We headed home after lunch for naps.

At dinner time, the Zilla family arrived. (Their true identities will be withheld because the patriarch of the family – we’ll call him Crandall – did not have the next day off as far as his employer was concerned.)

We had been looking forward to the Zillas’ visit all week. The origin of the connection between the Zilla family and the T family started with my UVM freshman French class in which Monsieur Crandall and I were technically enrolled. I say technically because I generally went to class and he generally did not. (Mon dieu!)

Crandall and I eventually lived together two different times after college first at the fabled Westland estate and then in Southie on Pacific. The bromance continued as we both married Michelles. The Michelles not surprisingly formed independent friendships of their own, which seemed inevitable from the get-go. For example, due to the Michelles’ tendency to be chilly in 70-degree rooms and often nodding off before 11 p.m., we declared them the “Golden Girls” with names of Helen and Blanche.

More seriously, THE WIFE and I had the honor of witnessing and signing the Ketubah at the Zillas’ wedding (the rabbi made me get so close to Mrs. Z’s face to confirm her identity that I got anxious we were supposed to kiss or something – but don’t worry, we didn’t. ) Our daughters were born soon thereafter within four months of each other. Now, Greta, Jordyn (or “Jerdin” as Greta pronounces her name,) and August (or “Baby Gus” as Jordyn calls him) are fast becoming BFFs themselves.

After all three kids went down for the night, THE WIFE cooked a nice dinner and we enjoyed a few libations. In years past, the celebration may have gone until 3 a.m. with a skinny dip in the pond. But now as responsible parents, we retired for bed at midnight never either swimming or undressing.

Footnote to Day 3: Greta woke up in the middle of the night because she peed through her diaper. In my sleepy/slightly drunk haze, I put her into mismatched PJs and a swimmy diaper, which went undiscovered until THE WIFE changed her later in the morning.

Day 4

We woke up to rain but it let up enough for the dads to take the girls to a playground down the street. We decided to hit the outlets in North Conway, which was a “ten minute drive” according to THE WIFE. Due to traffic, construction, and a severely congested parking lot full of parents pushing strollers, our ten minute drive turned into an hour. Using the time wisely – Crandall, Helen, and Blanche brainwashed me with their propaganda about the sheer awesomeness of a minivan. Slowly and steadily, they conspired to erode my resistance to the soccer-mom-mobile.

On the return trip home, we took a late lunch at Muddy Moose. (The link is here: http://www.muddymoose.com/.)

When it comes to eating as a family in restaurants, I am admittedly apprehensive and generally avoid it whenever possible. The main reason I resist is due to my fear of ruining the meals of anyone else in the restaurant. An additional reason is the fact that I like eating my food. THE WIFE and I rarely actually eat during our meals with our kids, be them at home or elsewhere. Usually, one of us eats everything on their plate within the first two minutes of sitting down while the other gets a little more time (maybe five minutes) to eat, but it comes at the end of the meal when everything is cold and Greta’s running mashed potatoes through her hair like mousse or anti-frizz product.

When someone suggests that we should have lunch, I envision the situation where I have Gigi’s upper arm in an unnecessarily tight grip as I’m loudly whispering between gritted teeth about whatever seemingly convincing threat I can conceive (if you don’t sit and eat, we won’t have Christmas/celebrate your birthday/see your brother ever again, etc.) in order to get her to keep her shirt on/not put her feet on the table/eat a vegetable, etc. Nevertheless, we heard this was a family-friendly joint and decided to roll the dice.

As usual, my fears are all for naught. Aside from Greta’s chronic dropsies of the side pickle, the kids are angels. Crandall and I even manage to sneak in a Bloody Mary. After lunch, we piled into the minivan and sang Happy Birthday several times to everyone in the car. The kids were ecstatic.

Back at the house, everyone took their turns playing on the swing. As the night sky rolled in, Gigi hit her wall from having skipped her nap that day. When Jordyn and her daddy took a shower to get ready for bed, Gigi wanted to shower with them, too. When I denied the request, she melted down Chernobyl-like. The next morning, Greta confessed to me, “Daddy, last night I cried and cried and cried.” Blissfully, she fell asleep after several rounds of songs.

After the kids went down, the adults reconvened to eat and drink in peace. To drive Crandall crazy, we all began to check Facebook. He turned the tables and refocused the conversation on the assets of a minivan. And so the night went as we made our way through the myriad varietals of red wine in the house…

To be continued.

What News From the North?

2011-08-09T13:12:00.000-07:00

For the family archives, I’m recording some of the activities from our first two days of the Griswald family vacation version 1.0. The day of travel up to Edelweiss from Easton doesn’t count because we only arrived, unloaded, and went to bed.

(Quick tangent, I pronounced a “vee” sound for the “w” in Edelweiss because I imagine that is how it’s supposed to be pronounced in German. THE WIFE scoffed at the sound of my diction and said aloud in her imitation intellectual voice as if attending a Harvard faculty cocktail party:

WIFE: Oh I’m sorry, did you just say eye-dill-VICE (emphasis on latter syllable and thinking she’s really funny)?

Me: (annoyed) Yeah. Um, I think that’s the way the word is supposed to be pronounced in German.

WIFE: (short pause while deciding whether to throw a challenge flag) Okay bug, I thought we were still in New Hampshire.

Suffice it to say, we’re staying in Edel-VICE for the rest of the week. And so our vacation begins…)

Day 1:

We decide to check out a free train ride a few miles from where we are staying, which sounds like a cute activity for the kids. THE WIFE and I are stressed because we want to make the 1:00 train as PB&J sandwiches are made and diaper bags prepared. Mind you, this isn’t a Boston-NYC Acela express with an obligatory ticket check-in/retrieval for a trip where we need to arrive in time for a business meeting. No, this train simply pulls into the station where we board without a ticket, before departing into the woods for twenty minutes, stopping, and then returning in the opposite direction to the same place where we boarded. It’s fair to say I need to decompress.

On the drive to the train station, Greta is spitting like an oscillating garden sprinkler on anyone and anything within a two foot radius. Half-heartedly, I ask her to stop. She ignores me. I ask again more sternly. August’s face gets sprayed. This time, I yell at her at a volume that startles THE WIFE and makes both kids cry. Rumor has it, my father of the year nomination is officially revoked.

Fast forward to the train depot. We are officially 15 minutes early. Good thing I yelled at the kids.

The train pulls up. Two open air cars sandwich a small engine. I put G-man on my lap. Gigi, still scarred from the car ride, sits with mom. The train lurches forward and we’re off at a blazing 3 to 5 miles per hour. As the ride progresses, the family loosens up as the woosh of moving air blows the hair of all four heads.

Gradually, G-man becomes fascinated by the passing branches overhead that he sees through the lattice ceiling. We pass by a pond full of beaver lodges and we explain to the kids that’s where the beavers live and sleep. Greta processes the information, though I’m not sure she’s seen many beavers in our animal books or flash cards. Duly noted. Along the way, we see a few herons flying by and Gigi says she saw a purple fish and a purple frog. At some point, an inch worm lands on the rail behind our seats and its methodical movements mesmerize Greta. Finally, we arrive back safely at the depot.

An old train car converted into a small diner invites us in where we take a booth for some ice cream. (See here: http://www.silverlakerailroad.com/thediner.htm.) Everyone’s spirits are high. The first day’s adventure is a success. Now, we’re truly on vacation.

Day 2:

Weather forecast was iffy. 50/50 chance of rain. We are torn whether to declare a “beach” day or not. Screw it, we decide, I’ll pitch the tent and we’ll wait out any passing storm from there. Plus, we’re only a five-minute walk back to Pep’s Place if it pours.

Greta and I head down first while THE WIFE stays behind until Gus’ morning siesta completes. Greta is decked out in her standard swim gear: pink one-piece with ballerina skirt, clear jellies, lady bug flotation device, and single pony. We set up camp and get to work. The place is practically to ourselves as only one other mom with two boys are playing at the other end.

The pond is a quaint and quiet little Eden. No motor boats allowed. The water is flat as glass. Gigi charges into the water. As the sun and clouds flirt for position over each other, the hours pass and THE WIFE eventually arrives. Cue the rain. Good thing I have the tent. But the minute we set up for lunch, the rain subsides and the sun eventually comes out. G-man and his mama eventually get in on the water action. The kids are having a blast.

At some point, Gigi announces to us and everyone else within earshot on the beach that she’s pooping. Glad I’m here to help. We do the change-a-roo and back in action. Two o’clock arrives before you know it, so we pack up to head home for the kids’ naps. THE WIFE manages to catch a couple winks on the couch as I type away next to her. Aaahhhhh, I can get used to this.

To be continued…

Toes Up

2011-08-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

We started our first Teravainen Family Vacation yesterday. We are in Madison, NH for the week. I’ve been so amped to get up here and relax.

Both of the kids are asleep for naps. THE WIFE just went grocery shopping for the third time in twenty-four hours. I’ve got a new machine to write on. Now, I can finally write all sorts of blogs that’ve been swimming around in my brain for months. I’m thinking one post every day of vacation. Heck, I’ll double down on a good day. So here goes.

[Twenty minutes later after pouring a glass of wine, cleaning the house, and pacing for ideas…]

I've created a chart in MS Word and I'm trying to figure out how to paste it into the site. Stay tuned.

The Aaaaaahhhhs

2011-07-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

On weekend mornings, THE WIFE and I play chicken as to who will get out of bed and retrieve the peanuts. Usually, we both feign sleep until the other can’t hold their morning pee anymore. It’s understood that whoever gets up first on Saturday gets to sleep in on Sunday. Today, THE WIFE budged first so I snoozed until 8.

By breakfast time, I stirred and came down for coffee. Greta requested tunes so I randomly wheeled around on the iPod until arriving on bands beginning with the letter R - or aaaaahhhhh as Massholes would say. I never noticed it before but a lot of great music lies in the aaahhhh section of bands in my iPod.

[Editor’s note: I may be repeating myself on some of the following from a prior post so forgive the premature dementia if that’s the case. If not, nevermind.]

Back in junior high and high school, recording mix tapes onto cassettes was much more time intensive than simply right-clicking on a bunch of songs and selecting “add to playlist.” First, one had to press record and give at least a second or two of lead time before pressing play on the song to be recorded, lest the mixer risk cutting off the song’s beginning. Next, you had to sit through the song’s entirety before recording the next one and so on. As the song played and recorded, the mixer had time to write the playlist on the little sleeve that rested inside the cassette case. If the lucky recipient was receiving the mix tape for a special reason, the mixer could inscribe a thoughtful message. Sometimes, there was a theme to the songs like great guitar solos, or the “best of” a particular band perhaps. Other times, we just made the token “gym mix” or “Spring Break 1992” or even the very risqué “sex tape” jams. (Sade was inevitably on the latter.)

Anywho, I still fancy myself a master music mixer. Today’s theme– as you may have guessed – will be songs found in the R-band section. Hence, for your reading and listening pleasure, here is the “Saturday Morning Aaaaaahhhh” playlist from yours truly to THE READERS. Band followed by album followed by song. In the spirit of the original mix tape method, I will attempt to write between songs.

Radiohead – The Bends – “Fake Plastic Trees.” Radiohead is one of those bands that always flies under my own radar. If pressed for my top five bands, I usually respond in no particular order Weezer, Cake, Smashing Pumpkins, The Beatles, and U2. (Again, premature dementia apologies if applicable.) But Radiohead has to be lurking out there as a strong sixth.

The Bends is a great album to start with if somehow you’ve never dabbled in Radiohead. I was really torn whether to select “High and Dry” over “Fake Plastic Trees” (which by the way is as strong a three- and four-hole batting order in the album’s song lineup as say, Ruth-Gehrig or well at least Texeira-Rodriguez) but Trees won out because I love acoustic guitar ballads. I also love the way my cousin Stevie covers this song.

If you do like Radiohead, please do yourself a favor and download Eric Gorfain’s string orchestra cover of Radiohead on the album, Strung Out on OK Computer. Strangely, I enjoy this album the most when I’m on an airplane. I could go on but the next song is starting already…

Ra Ra Riot – The Orchard – “Boy.” I heard this song on WERS a few months ago and it still does it for me. It has such a killer bass guitar hook, it’s impossible not to air bass guitar with a slight head bob to accompany the bent right hand simulating string plucks over your belly. Gus loves this jam, too, especially with exaggerated air bass playing for him.

Side note, the scene from “I Love You Man” when Paul Rudd is explaining how he’s “slapping the bass mon” to Rashida Jones just kills me. It feels like both of them are suppressing laughter but keep it together and pull off the scene. Great stuff.

Rod Stewart – The Very Best of Rod Stewart – “Young Turks.” Without lifts, honestly how tall is Rod? Do you think he’s over five feet? And how great is the name Rod? Honestly. Is Stewart’s first name actually Rodney? I need answers. Have you seen his house on “Cribs”? It’s large.

This song is one of my all-time 80’s favorites. I have absolutely no idea what the lyrics mean, but I feel like wearing a head band and leg warmers then running quickly in place like the video for “Flashdance” when it comes on.

Again, air instrument play seems essential to my evaluation of music and this song does not disappoint for air boards. While air guitar gets its appropriate due, air boards surprisingly provides a much better opportunity to express one’s inner white man’s overbite jam sesh. And “Young Turks” is a great song to profile the air board skills. (Ah Ha’s “Take on Me” is another prolific song for air boards.) Lastly, Greta is showing great promise of air board aficionado status. Moving on.

Ray LaMontagne – Gossip in the Grain – “Hey Me, Hey Mama.” Don’t get me wrong. I like Ray. He’s really talented. But I’ll only listen to him if I’m already in a good mood. Because listening to Ray in a bad mood makes me want to drink a bottle of whiskey and cry myself to sleep. Melancholy is the one word that keeps coming to mind when I try to describe his music.

With that said, THE WIFE and I saw Ray play when she was like 9 months preggo with Gigi and so I suppose there’s a little connection

Roger Sanchez – Another Chance – “Another Chance.” Another random. I just like this song. I heard it in Amsterdam at a club in 2001 so I think of wooden shoes, windmills, and bicycles whenever this song comes on. Not much else to say here.

The Rentals – Return of the Rentals – “Friends of P.” I forget where exactly, but there’s some kind of connection with this band and Weezer. I think a former member of Fweeze is in The Rentals.

So this song always appeals to me. I love songs with ladies singing back-up vocals. I love synthesizers (for air boards opportunities, obv) but also for the sound alone. Great jam. Now speaking of Weezer…

Rivers Cuomo – Alone: The Home Recordings of Rivers Cuomo – “Buddy Holly.” The song is a lot less catchy than its counterpart on Weezer’s Blue Album, but I like the rawness of this version.

Red Hot Chili Peppers – By The Way – “I Could Die For You.” The Peppers are another band that flies under my radar a la Radiohead. These guys have been around forever. And even though every one of their recent radio-play songs seem to refer in some way or another to California, I could listen to pretty much any of their albums new or old without complaint.

As for this song, again, ballads are a kind of kryptonite to me. And the next best thing to ladies singing back-up vocals are dudes singing back-up falsetto. Falsetto back-up vocals give the singer-along a chance to feel like they’re part of the song. Let Anthony Kiedis take care of the lead, while you can sing the back-up parts.

Lastly, “By The Way” is – by the way – a really solid album overall. Start to finish, this is a pretty damn good record. Check it.

Now to the finale. (Breakfast is rarely more than a eight or nine song endeavor, but then again it is the weekend so things do move slower.) You didn’t think we’d be in the Rs and I’d omit …

The Rolling Stones – Beggars Banquet – “Factory Girl.” Allow me to be Tim McCarver a/k/a Master of the Obvious for a moment. Hands down, BB is one of the Stones’ best albums ever. Two absolute pearls, “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Street Fighting Man,” are both on it for example. But “Factory Girl” is probably my favorite song from here.

When the song plays, I picture the Stones all sitting around in a log cabin somewhere out in the woods. And I want to be in a chair sitting next to Mick to hear him singing. It’s only a little over two minutes long, but what a cool little ditty.

And that wraps up the “Saturday Morning Aaaaaaahhhhh” mix tape/playlist. Hope you liked the show. I know only a handful of the regulars leave comments on the site, but I’d love to hear feedback on any of the songs from THE READERS. Agree? Disagree? Did you listen to any you never paid attention to before? Any R-bands have a song that should be on this list? Let’s hear it.

Mooncrawling

2011-07-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

August Thomas Teravainen will celebrate his first birthday this weekend! Let that sink in for a moment.

Our G-man has had quite a remarkable first twelve months to say the least. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to effectively write a post to celebrate his first year and I’m stumped. I worry I might crash the web site’s server if I wrote everything that’s made me smile, laugh, cry, love him, kiss him, hug him, or be so proud of my little boy since last July.

The discovery of Gus’ diagnosis with Down Syndrome after his birth, and the immediately urgent medical dangers he endured at that time, obviously and understandably dominated so much of our family’s focus when he arrived. Just looking at the blogs I wrote, one can see how much I at least concentrated so much about what we had to learn about DS and all of its baggage. I never overlooked Gus as an individual first and foremost. But my preoccupation about DS was never far from my mind.

As the weeks and months transpired from last July, the dust gradually settled – minus a little hiccup just before Christmas – and (thankfully) our family routines evolved and adapted to the point where we are operating today: situation normal.

So at least with respect to my own feelings and attitudes merely as a father who looks at his son, the part about the last twelve months for which I am most grateful is how the presence of an extra chromosome in August’s body is so rarely in my thoughts. While I intended at the outset not to be so focused on DS, only time would tell if our minds would comply.

Today, when I look at my son when he wakes up in the morning, I see a beaming and energetic one year-old so excited that someone has finally come to get him out of his crib after he’s been calling for so long. When I hold my son around me, I treasure his chubby arms around my neck and his chubbier legs squeezing around me for a tighter grip. When I make faces at and talk to my son, I appreciate every reciprocating smile, laugh, and gesture back at me.

Never in these moments does my mind betray me and say, “But he’s got Down Syndrome!” The thought is just baseless because Down Syndrome as a medical condition or whatever you want to call it, simply has no bearing on that previous instant when Gus and I just connected as a father and a son. I don’t know how else to say it except that when I see Gus, he is my little boy. Not my little boy with Down Syndrome.

Don’t misunderstand me. Our life is filled with reminders of a path that deviated from what we originally envisioned before Gus was born. Ten different medical specialists. Monthly doctor visits. Weekly visits by Early Intervention. Home physical therapy and occupational therapy. Thickener to mix with every bottle. Battles with insurance. The list goes on. But these are the adjustments a parent makes when his or her child is not typical, as I’ve written before. And as I said then, we’re okay because that’s what we signed up for.

I don’t mean to overstate August’s personal triumphs, especially relative to other children who are battling whatever medical challenges they confront however more or less severe. I’m simply celebrating my love, pride, and admiration for a precocious individual whose fierceness of spirit inspires me every day.

A few weeks ago, THE WIFE “checked in” with me to see if I was okay. She wasn’t sure if I was being grouchy as she loves to tease, or if there was something possibly important bothering me. I admitted I was a bit apprehensive that Gus was almost one and he wasn’t crawling yet. The subject came and went without much more discussion, as we reminded ourselves to be patient.

Almost as though the little bugger was eavesdropping on our conversation before, Gus decided to show me after bath time about an hour later how he actually could crawl. He just liked to do it his own unique way: backwards. Some people just like to moonwalk before they dance, or mooncrawl before crawling forward.

Nice job, my little man. I should know by now you’ll never cease to amaze me. Keep up the good work! Happy birthday. I love you.

Wally World

2011-06-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

Thirsty Third Thursdays may sound like a happy hour advertising scheme for a bar, but I know it better as TTT. THE WIFE is a loyal and proud member of this distinguished group of ladies. TTT has gathered almost every third Thursday of the month since around 1998, which means they've known each other for about 13 years longer than any of the "real wives" on a Real Housewives episode. The TTT meeting spot varies monthly, but it's usually at someone's home [minus the husband/kid(s)] or a bar/restaurant located somewhat equidistantly for all.

Back in the day pre-marriages and motherhood, TTT nights were often followed by Friday-morning absentee calls to work or adventures possibly inspiring Sex in the City episodes. But nowadays, the ladies are more likely to discuss homeopathic remedies for diaper rash or possibly even order a non-alcoholic drink - GASP - with dinner - at the risk of inviting whispers and murmurs speculating about whether the teetotaler is preggo.

On special occasions other than the third Thursday of the month, the TTT husbands and kids are eligible to participate in group activities and random family adventures. For example, last weekend, many TTT families ventured north to Storyland in New Hampshire. It would be the T family's first amusement park experience.

Nana and Pep volunteered to watch Augey since he is too small for any rides, so THE WIFE and I went back to a 2 v. 1 zone and brought Gigi solo. Easy, right?

Well, our morning got off to a rough start. The GPS took us around Maine or Canada until we got help from a helpful convenience store cashier during her smoke break. Possibly spent from the awful commute out of Boston the day before, Greta was cranky and whining as we finally saw the park entrance beckoning from afar. Naturally, THE WIFE and I started to imitate our daughter's complaining, which only made Greta more annoyed. As we literally pulled into the parking lot, Gigi showed us whose boss and projectile vomitted about a gallon of milk and mostly-chewed Goldfish crackers like a rotating sprinkler head throughout and around the backseat.

We parked as I dropped F-bombs. Horrified, THE WIFE sprinted out of the front seat and grabbed Greta from her car seat. I started working on the back seat while suppressing my gag instinct from the rancid odor. Eventually, I checked on Greta's status. THE WIFE was scrubbing furiously. But upon closer inspection, it wasn't our little girl she was cleaning with a vengeance - it was Greta's shirt with her name on it, the one all of the kids were supposed to be wearing that day.

ME: What are you doing?
WIFE: I'm cleaning her shirt.
ME: You are not making her wear that shirt. It smells like hot stinky cheese.
WIFE: She is NOT missing out on the group kid photo!
ME: That's cruel and unusual.
WIFE: (flashing a death stare)
ME: As long as it's just for the photo, she'll be fine.

And so we passed through the maze of minivans and station wagons with white silhouette stickers of family member caricatures on rear windows that are apparently all the bumper sticker rage these days, entered through the turnstyles, and finally met up with the crew.

It was a blast. Gigi loved the rides, which kinda shocked me because she's such a scaredy cat right now. She especially enjoyed just hanging and playing with the other 17 kids in our crew who were all impressively well-behaved and sweet to each other.

I realized there are three major benefits to group adventures like this with fellow parents:

1) Total lack of worry for an unforeseen meltdown. In the company of single or childless friends, it's kinda difficult to convince them that your kid really is awesome if he/she is sobbing uncontrollably while running around the house naked because they "don't want to wear a diaper." Moments like that are pretty effective birth control, actually. But in the company of fellow parents still in the trenches of tantrums out of nowhere themselves, they hear a kid freak out, turn to see if it's one of theirs, and continue with their conversation as if nothing happened once they see it's someone else's. Safety in numbers, I suppose.

2) A surplus of surrogate parents. All parents have the green light to discipline and supervise as necessary. So, if Gigi tries to walk on the railroad tracks or into the swan boat pond because mom or dad are asleep at the switch, Auntie Jess or Uncle Ryan have a free pass to grab her by whatever body part they can catch to prevent catastrophe. No questions asked. Again, safety in numbers.

3) Collective amusement from humor appropriate only among your contemporaries. For example, one mom was really bent out of shape that Humpty Dumpty had hair. We agreed it was most likely a toupee and concluded that even nursery rhyme characters were not above the difficulties of vanity and aging, which led another dad to conclude that Humpty was in all likelihood wearing a merkin. Great stuff.

By the end of the day, we all managed to avoid any catastrophes at the park. The big hits for Greta were meeting Cinderella in person and driving in the pumpkin carriage to get to the castle, riding in the flying fish, and drinking a juice box. By contrast, she is probably scarred forever by the talking tree that has given her nightmares since.

As for the family truckster, the 80-degree heat and closed windows unsurprisingly did little to improve the scent situation of our back seat. I febreezed excessively that night and fortunately all was forgotten by the next day. As we headed back south towards home, still reveling in our collective buzz from the overall success of the joint family adventure, THE WIFE and I smiled at each other in agreement. "That was fun." "Yeah," I agreed, "we had a great -" and then Greta puked one more time for good measure. As I was saying, great weekend.

Alphabet Soup

2011-06-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

Over the last two years, THE WIFE and I have read our fair share of children’s books to the kids. The most common book we’ve read to the kids are the ABC books. We’re pros now. Basically, all you need to tell me is the theme of the book and whatever letter happens to be on the page you’re viewing, and I can predict with good probability what word matches the letter described.

For example, E is rarely anything but an elephant or an egg, the O is almost uncannily an octopus, and the Z is either a zebra or a zipper. A is almost always an apple, B is often a ball, and Y is a yo-yo 99% of the time. X is mostly an x-ray, though xylophones and “x” marks the spot are making strong showings as of late.

The other night, Gigi snagged “A is for Annabelle” by Tasha Tudor, which happens to be an ABC book that totally throws a knuckler at my ability to predict the word for each letter. The original copyright is 1954, which gives some perspective. This book just intrigues me every time it’s in the night reading rotation.

First of all, the dedication just sets the tone. It makes me chuckle like Beavis and Butthead. “To dearest Muff…” I make sure I read that clearly every time just to put a little adolescent smirk on my face.

A, as one may suspect, is for Annabelle. From here, I’ll just touch on the words that will in all likelihood never appear again in future ABC books.

C is for cloak. Unless you’re Nina Garcia’s niece or a really big Harry Potter fan, this word is not likely to be in the 2011 child’s early vocabulary.

K is for kerchiefs. Whenever I think of this word, it reminds me of sitting in a pew during mass one Sunday as a kid with a runny nose. My dad, of course, was prepared and had a handkerchief in his pocket to help me out. The hankie, though, was crusty and hurt my nose when I placed my nostrils to it, so the thoughtful gesture actually worsened the loose mucus situation on my face and I should have just used my sleeve in the first place. Anyway, that was probably 1983 and officially the last time I ever put a man tissue on my nose.

M is for – yes again(!) – muff. Spectacularly, this euphemism for pubic hair that triggers suppressed giggles in adolescent boys and immature 36 year-old men alike, appears for the second time in the book. I can guarantee you will never find that occurrence in any book published in the 21st century. By the way, a muff is a brown, furry uni-mitten that “is so warm and so cosy.” Great stuff.

N is for nosegay. Hmm, you say? Oh, it’s a “bright fragrant posy.” Of course.

O is for overskirt. As if it’s not difficult enough to dress my daughter in a t-shirt and shorts, I couldn’t fathom having to put this seemingly superfluous piece of material on top of a dress. Thankfully, we live in 2011 Southeastern Massachusetts and not south of the Mason-Dixon line in the 1860's.

P is a parasol. Again, unless a toddler happens to catch a Project Runway repeat featuring one as a runway accessory, “parasol” isn’t making a kid’s top 1000 most frequently spoken words. First of all, umbrellas clearly own this product’s market share. Second of all, tan is in – fair skin is out. See Snookie/Jersey Shore and spray tanning.

T is for tippet, or some kind of a shawl I think. Saying the word out loud reminds me of whip-its. Also known as hippie crack. You know, five bucks a nitrous balloon at Phish concerts. Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa. So lightheaded and funky for like ten seconds. You feel like you’re on the verge of passing out. Right? I mean, not that I’ve ever tried. Just heard about it – from my buddy. George Glass. He’s not from around here so you don’t want to waste your time tracking him down. Anyways, moving on.

Last, but not least, Z is not for zebra. Z is for zither. A stringed instrument that lies flat on a table. Strangely, this IS something I could see becoming more commonplace in the 21st century. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Gaga had a zither player on the payroll for her Monster Ball tour.

That concludes my first official children’s book review. Based on Gigi’s impressions to “A is for Annabelle” combined with my muffled amusement, I give this a final rating of 4 out of 5 stars.

Judge, Jury, and Executioner

2011-06-12T21:08:00.000-07:00

Gus sits perched on his throne, bib around his neck, maneuvering his last mouth full of apple-raspberry puree spoon fed by his mama from a translucent plastic rectangular cube. The little old man bangs his hand like a gavel occasionally on the tray, either to demonstrate his approval of the last spoonful, or possibly to cue his mommy who lost her rhythm while relating an anecdote from the past day’s activities.

I cheer my little prince on approvingly as he eagerly accepts another spoonful. My princess, perceptively, notices this sudden shift in my attention away from her to her brother, and calculates.

Moments before, Gigi was reluctantly chewing a bite of something she says she “can’t like” with her mouth wide open. She chomped obnoxiously to demonstrate her compliance with my request that she please “chew, chew, chew” so as not to choke. As is the case in any meal, I’ve begged, bribed, and pleaded that my daughter eat something, or at least anything not named ice cream, pretzel, Cheerio, or Goldfish. After she swallowed, I smiled towards her and nodded with a “Nice job.” But then my focus switched to her brother.

As THE WIFE and I attempt to resurrect a conversation already disjointed from interruptions while fielding requests for milk or retrieving spoons flung on the floor, we burst into applause after Gus’ latest gulp. It’s been twenty whole seconds since we last glanced in Greta’s direction. She’s been ignored long enough.

Gigi somehow plants a foot spitefully on the table edge, waiting and hoping for a reaction. We’ve been here before. The first time she pulled this stunt, I surprised myself by taking as strong a stand as I did. I actually raised my voice, which I hardly ever do, and spontaneously proclaimed the imposition of a new household edict while uttering the almost one-word: “GRETA-JANE- TERAVAINEN, DON’T-YOU-DARE-PUT-A-SINGLE-TOE-ON-THIS-KITCHEN-TABLE-AGAIN-OR-YOU-WILL-BE-IN-A-TIMEOUT-IMMEDITATELY!” as my eyes bulged and I breathed heavily. She sheepishly withdrew her foot, and I felt ashamed at what was probably an overreaction. Why was I getting so worked up?

On one hand, I of course know that I don’t want to be in a restaurant with Greta in ten years when she suddenly kicks back in the middle of an entrée with her Manolo Blahniks or Nikes (who the hell knows what’ll be in for twelve year-olds then) in my salad. But on the other hand, what probably bothered me more, was my imposition of a new rule that would compel enforcement with regular consistency or otherwise risk undermining my authority as co-CEO of the family henceforth. The prospect made me uncomfortable.

Since the time I was a teenager, I bristled whenever I sensed an adult’s imposition of an arbitrary or seemingly pointless rule. (The “no hat” in school bullshit, for example, always struck me as ludicrous.) College, therefore, was a most welcome emancipation. I spent the next decade and a half reveling in not being told what to do. No accountability to anyone but myself. Spontaneous drunken adventures with buddies that occurred without the need of four weeks’ notice and 57 e-mails debating over dates and locations. Entire Saturdays spent on a couch in my underwear recovering from the previous night’s follies.

Then I began dating THE WIFE and a new order of rules gradually ensnared me like a pumpkin’s ivy tentacles. By the time we were married, I was back to living under a Taliban-like rule. (Here’s one for you – we can’t listen to classical music because it reminds THE WIFE of horror movies and scares her – seriously.)

Fast forward back to today, and suddenly I’m yelling at Greta for putting her feet on the table. I feel like such a hypocrite. If this was ten years ago, we’d both place our feet in the pizza box we were eating around and pull cheese out from the cracks. But instead, I’m scanning the table like a hawk to ensure that no sparkly rhinestoned sneaker graze the vicinity of the Dora place mat. What has my world come to?

Gigi, I hope we can laugh about this twenty years from now. It’s just one of those things I have to do, which I swore I’d never do, but I feel compelled to make you suffer through it, as your loving father. Hopefully, we’ll clink our wine glasses and chuckle, which would be sweet – so long as your feet are not on the table.

The Fruit of My Loins

2011-05-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

Like Canadian geese flying north, or crocus buds poking through thawing earth, spring has many harbingers announcing the new season’s arrival. At Chez Teravainen, the seasons have officially changed when THE WIFE trades her hot coffee for iced and her Pinot Noir for Sauvignon Blanc. Welcome, spring.

As spring itself transitions from normal to monsoon, it will come as no surprise to anyone that both of the kids have grown and developed rapidly in all respects with each passing month. However, Greta and Gus recently manifested different physical changes for which I feel genetically responsible. Specifically, Gigi got the Gap and G-man got the Big Eye.

The Gap is about a quarter-inch space between my two upper front teeth. While my Gap's definitely not in the neighborhood of say Michael Strahan, it is wide enough to put me on the same page of say, Anna Paquin or maybe even Condoleeza Rice. Over the course of my life, the Gap has evolved from a dental defect of which I was completely unaware during childhood, to a source of self-conscious insecurity during puberty, to an eventual state of acceptance during college, and ultimately to a personal symbol of pride for my imperfection.

We Gap folks are like Jeep owners and Harley riders. When we pass each other on the street, we respectfully nod or subtly wave with two fingers only. It’s kind of an unofficial fraternal order.

Gigi definitely qualifies as a rank and file member of the Gap team at this moment but her eligibility may be premature. Time will tell if the space reduces as her molars come in, or if the current Gap distance changes when the baby teeth are replaced by adult ones. For the time being, I’m happy to emphasize an appreciation for the Gap’s advantages such as the access it provides for easy gleeking, or the ease with which we can whistle. As for whether Greta opts someday for braces, I will happily acquiesce – especially if she inherits her mom’s bucky beavers in which case we'll have a dental hot mess.

On the other hand, the Big Eye was a phenomenon that developed when I started wearing glasses around 7 years old. My right eye was fine, so the right lens was clear. By contrast, the left eye’s prescription was so strong that the lens was just a giant magnifying glass.

Since I was a kid constantly outgrowing shoes and clothes, my parents figured, “Let’s get him glasses on the bigger side, so he doesn’t outgrow them quickly." Consider also that this was the early 80’s, so large frames were de rigeur. As a result, when people looked at me closely, they’d realize I had one normal sized eye and another that was borrowed from an angry giant squid. I'm traumatized whenever I look at photos from 1982 to 1989.

G-man’s left eye also now requires specs as the eye doctor suggests that use of the glasses on the earlier side may help improve the little man’s vision in the long run. As you may suspect, ten month old kids are not big fans of wearing glasses. Consequently, we will invoke a technique popularized by pioneers Kurt Rambis and James Worthy from the NBA’s glorious years of the 80’s: the rec specs with elastic band around the head.

Fortunately for him, the Aug-Dawg looks way cuter and cooler in his glasses than I ever have. THE WIFE checked out a few prototypes and we’re waiting on them to arrive. I am optimistic Gus will not be upset when viewing pics of himself from 2011 and beyond. Simply due to the small size of his face, I think G-unit will be safe from any Big Eye situation in the near future. But when the time is right, I’ll show him how we can burn ants with our left eyeglass lenses. Great bonding.

Like father, like daughter and son.

Mowing Another Woman's Lawn

2011-04-16T07:41:00.001-07:00

After the end of my sophomore year at the prestigious Universitas Viritis Montis, I was leaning towards staying in Burlington for the summer. During the school year, my parents had no objection to paying my rent. But once summer came, my dad said, “You have a free place to stay at home. If you don’t want to stay here, you pay your rent until the school year starts.” Fair enough.

Fortunately, I had G-money. G-money was going home to his parents’ house for the summer, but the room in his apartment on North Street was paid for already. He could have demanded that I pay him rent for the summer, and either pocketed the money or given it to his parents, but instead he told me to just pay my portion of the utilities for the summer and enjoy. Done deal. I was staying.

Meanwhile, my bartending job was only one or two nights a week. I needed a full-time day job to supplement the income. Enter Karen.

Karen ran a landscaping company as well as a horse and buggy service out of her home in Underhill, a small Vermont hamlet tucked just below Mount Mansfield. (The commute to and from Burlington to Underhill is still my favorite of all time.)

One of my fraternity brothers had been working for Karen already and told me she was looking to hire someone else. He introduced us. She asked what experience I had landscaping. I told her I mowed my parents’ lawn but not much else. She asked where I was from in New Hampshire. I answered. “Flatlander, eh?” she replied in her Green Mountain accent while sizing me up skeptically. She hired me anyway.

Karen is about ten years older than me. We haven’t seen each other in years but I remember her kind of like the big sister I never had. She was a strong and rugged woman yet unquestionably feminine. She was just as comfortable changing the oil and sharpening a mower blade, as she was getting gussied up for a night out with girlfriends. While she loved her horses and her pick up trucks, she also enjoyed making pretty flower gardens. One of my favorite Karen quotes was that she needed a husband so he could do the dishes and clean the house while she ran her businesses.

Karen had a wild and crazy fun side that showed up when the time was right. She’d throw a couple of us guys in the back of her truck as we drove around her pasture. We were supposed to be searching for missing horseshoes because the blacksmith was coming to shoe the horses. While we held on for dear life, she’d hoot and holler while accelerating the truck over hills all while honking the horn as horses galloped wildly around us.

Karen once arrived at a job where we had been working already to check on the progress with the customer. Like the idiot that I’ve always been, I avoided wearing a shirt whenever possible partially to fortify the tan but also to put any young ladies on notice that the gun show was in town. Karen preferred that we keep our shirts on whenever customers were present but she didn’t care if it was really hot or if our crew was working alone.

As Karen and the customer walked around, she flashed an urgent look in my direction. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or what. I was worried I planted a flower in the wrong spot or something. Or maybe it was because the shirt was off. Once the customer was out of earshot, I asked her what was wrong. “You’re damn pubes are sticking out of the top of your shorts!” she said while shaking her head but laughing at the same time. (I don’t remember owning much for undies in college.)

At the end of a summer work day, as the setting sun turned the sky orange-pink and stretched our shadows longer and darker, Karen would duck out for a short bit. A few minutes later, she’d reappear with a beautiful six pack of Molson, Moosehead, or Labatts (it was always an “Ice” brand of beer) to reward the crew on a job well done. That was the whistle ending our shift for the day.

After two summers, Karen and I logged in many hours together. Lots of laughs. Many great times. Before we met, I’d never operated a weed wacker, an axe, a chainsaw, a hedge trimmer, a rider mower, a tractor, or a truck with a trailer attached to it. I had never planted a flower, a bush, or a tree, for that matter. She was the first to teach me how to do any of that manly stuff. Of course, there were the occasional rough patches when I broke something expensive and we negotiated how much of it she’d have to take out of my pay. But we got over it and moved on. After all, she wasn’t just my boss anymore. We were friends.

A few years after I graduated college, I called Karen to tell her I was coming up to VT for a visit. I didn’t have a car and I was taking the bus. In classic form, she told me she’d leave a truck for me downtown with the keys on the tire. I tried to object but she wouldn’t hear of it. When I got to town, of course the truck was waiting for me. I had wheels for the weekend. That’s just how she rolls.

Now that the weather has improved, I’ve begun dusting off my own landscaping tools and oiling up the rusty skills. Not much has changed except that I’m more likely to weed with my shirt on. And I can’t help but think of Karen every time I either plant something nice, or break another rake.

Hey Karen, I know you are out there somewhere in the world working hard and enjoying life. If you happen to be in the neighborhood some time, I hope you swing by the casa on Gawaine Road. Just give me the head’s up so I make sure the lawn looks good before you come. Here’s a toast to you with an “ice” beer, and hoping this finds you well.

The Huffinpuff

2011-04-01T17:51:00.000-07:00

Before THE WIFE and I procreated, she had the reputation of easily logging in ten to twelve hours of sleep any night given the opportunity. Obviously, that dynamic has changed dramatically since February of 2009, and even before then for that matter, considering the preceding nine months of vacillating body temperatures and various extremities kicking and scratching from within the uterine confines.

As for me, I can’t deny that the occasional weekend morning sleep-in past 10 was quite enjoyable. Two kids later, though, my internal alarm generally alerts around 5:30 a.m. whether the clock radio is set or not and whether it’s Wednesday or Sunday morning. It’s some kind of cruel curse.

Fortunately, Greta and Gus take after their mom (knocking on many surfaces of wood around me) in the sleep department and crush it with day naps and uninterrupted night sleep. Currently, Greta logs in one afternoon nap every day from 2 to 5 and then she’s down at 8 until between 7 and 7:30 the next morning. Sometimes, Gigi will even pull an 8 to 8 such as last night. That’s some serious Rip Van Winkling.

G-man is a bit less predictable at least during the day. He goes down between zero and three times per day for naps that average between 30 minutes and two hours. At night, Gus is usually out by 8:30 and up between 7 and 7:30.

Irregahdless, THE WIFE and I realize we’re fortunate that both kids are pretty good sleepers and we generally can’t complain.

Keeping that in mind, there are occasions when one or both of the peanuts wake up in the middle of the night for a myriad of reasons. Every once in a while, it’s a diaper situation. But mostly, it’s totally random.

A few weeks ago, for example, Greta was crying. Each of us responded at different intervals. Both times, Greta said a butterfly woke her up. We calmed her down and she fell back asleep. Peace however was not yet restored in the master bedroom where a middle-of-the-night, loud whisper debate occurred as to whether a bat had been flying around in Greta’s room or not. (You can probably guess who thought a bat might actually be in there and who disagreed.)

This week, G-man woke up for no apparent reason at like two in the morning on a Wednesday. I was in a wonderfully deep and sober sleep totally oblivious to his crying but fortunately THE WIFE heard Gus and rescued him from the crib. She brought him into bed with us, which might not be surprising except that it’s a rule she’ll bend maybe as often as Jillian Michaels eats a quarter pounder with cheese.

From somewhere around the 5th sub-floor of Inception, my mind jolted my body to real life as a small finger poked multiple times into my eyeball. When my lid lifted, I saw my little G-man smiling back at me mischievously. I smiled back at him exhaling heavy hot sleep breath into his face. He politely did not notice as he lifted his legs at a ninety degree angle and pulled at his own toes, as if bragging of his flexibility.

To be clear, these occasional sleep interruptions don’t bother me at all. It’s part of the parental package. I get it. You just find that extra gear in the heat of the moment and deal. It’s the same impulse that fuels a Clark Griswald to continue driving in the middle of the night while everyone else is passed out in the family truckster.

Now segue to the distinctly different dynamic of spousal bed-sharing. I’ve heard many a nightmare story of wives enduring husbands who aspire in their sleep to chop down Sequoias and Redwoods with rusty axes. These boys try to suck all the air and furniture out of the room through their nostrils and mouths followed afterwards by some bizarre exhalation of gurgling and/or whistling noises escaping back through the mouth and nose. In defense of these wives, I’ve unfortunately experienced many a drunken weekend away with these boys who sound like a symphony of log czars chainsawing their through an Amazonian forest.

In sharp contrast, I sleep more like a mime or a ninja - virtually silent (barring the occasional fart) with the exception of whatever sound the sheets make as they rise and fall with my inhalations and exhalations. To enhance sleeping conditions even more, I’ve slept with a fan, humidifier, or other pleasant white noise-maker almost every night since I was about 14 years old.

Admittedly, there are two, very infrequent exceptions to the example of my asleep-in-space-like patterns. One, if my allergies are bothering me and/or I have a cold, there may be a snore or two during the night if I’ve turned onto my back. Two, if perhaps I’ve had one or two more drinks than I should have consumed, a snoring incident may occur. Those isolated instances result in what THE WIFE eagerly calls the “disgusting, open-mouthed snore.”

About two weeks ago, I experienced the rare double whammy: I had a cold and one too many beverages before bed. I vaguely recall being elbowed in the vicinity of my thoracic spine about two or three times as I slept otherwise peacefully that night – until of course, the dreaded huffinpuff came out.

The huffinpuff is a technique created and patented by THE WIFE that she employs when she is annoyed that I’m sleeping and she’s awake. Ironically, the huffinpuff is its own loud and distracting sound of exhaling in a distinctly, complaining manner often accompanied by pillow punching and thrashing around in the bed so the vibrations jolt me out of my position. The huffinpuff has about a 99% success rate of ruining whatever peaceful sleep I may have been previously experiencing.

Naturally, THE WIFE huffinpuffed me awake during the hybrid allergy-drunk snore I exhibited last week on a Saturday morning. After I couldn’t fall back asleep, I went into the kids’ playroom, wrapped a holey afghan around me, and surfed the web until the family finally woke up.

The huffinpuff situation would be fine, except that every once in a rare while, the kids and I will still be asleep when THE WIFE wakes up. Due to her particular sensitivity to any noise at all, one may think she’d considerately exit the bed and go downstairs to be quiet. But no. Instead, she pulls the Blackberry into bed and starts Facebooking/Googling/e-mailing away. Clickety-click-click-click. Clickety-click-clack-clack. Then, quiet for like ten seconds. Then, clickety-click-click-click.

It’s an ever-so slight noise but it’s so effective in ruining for me what was a previously peaceful late morning snooze. When I hear this noise, I want to smash her phone with a baseball bat into a thousand pieces. The double standard drives me nuts.

But yet, what do I do? Absolutely nothing. I’m too cowardly to complain. Plus, I’m on my third glass of vino tonight and a second bottle could be opened before bed tonight. Perhaps I'll have my revenge after all...

Two Years Later

2011-03-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

Two of Grandma Kirk's three leprechauns, above.

My Grandma Kirk passed away two years ago, this Wednesday. In that time period, she has assumed a celestial watch over three great-grandchildren, not just the 4-week old peanut she met shortly before her passing.

Since she's been gone, there is a lot about my grandmother that makes me reflect.

On the deeper side, I have just one major regret. The last time I saw Grandma, she was in her hospital room smiling and laughing with other family members. Even with her health ailing, I couldn't believe that she might not pull through. She always came out on top before. It dawned on me for a second that I might not see her again. But either due to denial or naivete or haste, I neglected to tell her exactly how much I loved and cared for her before I left. Even though I know she knew then and cosmically knows now, my failure to seize the moment still haunts my insides a bit today.

On the lighter side, I can still hear in my head the exact way she said my name. Even though I asked my relatives to stop using my nickname when I was too "old" for it at about 12, I never minded when she continued to call me "Denny." She just pronounced it in her way. Perhaps the thought of hearing her pronouncement of my name induces some type of a Pavlovian response that anticipates imminent spoiling, or grandmotherly love and affection.

There is so much more about which I could write, but I'd rather just post what I wrote back then because it still rings true and reading it makes me feel a bit better. Love you Grandma!

"Ireland's Gift to my Family" - March, 2009

My Grandma Kirk used to call me "pet" when I was a little boy. The memory warms my heart. If something made me cry like my brother breathing on my side of the back seat, she might say, "What is it pet?" in a sweet voice that still hinted of her Dublin roots. Obviously, I wasn't the only pet of her seven grandchildren, but I relish that I was first.

Grandma's wit often escaped me as a child such as when she'd say "You're in the will!" after I did something to amuse her. I always thought it was some kind of Irish saying that meant "Good job!"

Even as a 20 year-old, Grandma's humor flew over my head. We were on a vacation together (known as "Kirkfests") when I was off socializing with some ladies. At some point later, I rejoined our family and Grandma asked innocently "Chasing the birds, Denny?" My literal interpretation of her comment must have been apparent in my facial expression because she politely explained that she wasn't talking about the birds that fly.

Grandma and Grandpa never miss a birthday, a Christmas, or any other important event without at least a card and a gift. Never. Ask Grandma if she's ever attended any of her grandchildren's graduations and she could probably lead the band in "Pomp and Circumstance."

Recently, my aunt relayed a story to me that she and Grandma were at the beauty salon when a conversation arose about whether she had any great grandchildren. If I remember correctly, her lighthearted response was something like "Why do you think I've been holding on?"

A few hours after Greta Jane was born, I called Grandma to tell her that her new title was official: she was a great grandmother. She gleefully exclaimed that our little Gigi would have to call her "G.G." It was a special and private moment for me.

Pauline Cullen Kirk passed away peacefully yesterday in the warm company and thoughts of her loved ones. My grandmother's warmth, wit, thoughtfulness, and generosity are only a few of the indelible impressions she left on me just by being herself. I will miss her dearly. But rather than dwell on the sadness accompanying her departure, I choose instead to focus on the happiness of her presence.

Two weeks ago, we shared our last special moment when I introduced Grandma to her great granddaughter. On any given day, the situation may not have been particularly significant from the perspective of a passerby: an elderly woman holding a newborn child. But in those precious few minutes, I didn't care about anything else in the world. And for that, I am so grateful to G.G. that she waited to see us before she moved on. We love you Grandma. Rest in peace.

Two Reasons to Shop On-Line

2011-03-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Before I get to the typical stuff, I have a brief public service announcement. Two married friends of mine from way back in the day, live in New Hampshire where they are raising two great kids. Their oldest is a beautiful, sweet, smart little lady named Taylor.

Not long ago, she was diagnosed with a lesser known autoimmune disorder known as PANDAS. To raise awareness and help educate those who are unfamiliar with the condition, her dad asked me and his other buddies to forward information about PANDAS. And here we are.

Take a look at http://www.pandasresourcenetwork.org/about-pandas.html. The site is worth a glance by parents and non-parents alike. I never heard about PANDAS until her diagnosis.

And for those wondering about Taylor, she is fighting the fight and making her parents proud every day. Send some good vibes their way - we are proud of you, too, Taylor!
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Walking into the supermarket the other day, I spied three or four attractive twenty-year olds sitting at a small table outside the entrance. They were Stonehill students raising money for some kind of charity trip to Central America. They smiled as I approached. A rusty, creaky part of me formerly known as "game" suddenly cranked into gear from a chamber buried deep within my bodily archives, probably next to the boiler room. I smiled and smoothly exclaimed how I love their radio station. Was that a wink I just saw from the cute blond, my kryptonite? Did the pretty brunette just blow me a kiss? Suddenly, my inner Barry White was dusting off like Chester Copperpot's cobwebbed boat sailing out to sea. I smoothly pulled three or four mangled singles out of my pocket (it was a miracle I even had cash) and dropped them casually into the coffee can. You know, like I was wealthy and the money was worthless to me. Just as I was preparing to say "Sorry ladies, I'm married. I couldn't possibly accept your invitation for a pillow fight in our undies back at your sex dungeon," the blondie said "Thank you, sir." The impact of that last word landed like an overwhelming thud. All machinery ground to an immediate, noisy stop and I walked defeated through the automatic doors to pick up milk for the house...
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This morning, THE WIFE was expecting some of her GFs for a play date at the Gawaine money pit otherwise know as our house. Like a good team player, I volunteered to help with the frantic effort of making our abode look decent before anyone arrived. She was appreciative and mentioned that she actually needed to go to Target. I told her I'd handle it.

Now, let me interrupt by saying that I think I'm a humble man or at least I intend to be. So I say the following only for purposes of explaining my perspective.

I've managed to survive law school. I've passed a couple bar exams. I've tried a couple cases. I've even taught some college courses in my life. To some, that would be sufficient proof that I'm capable of at least putting my pants on correctly in the morning. But judging by the way THE WIFE explained to me what she needed from the store, you would have thought I was Australopithecus or wrote "tiger blood" on our grocery list. Or maybe I'm just over-sensitve. Anyway, here's a brief re-cap:

Her: (with total shock and/or disdain) "Why are you offering to go to Tar-jhay?"
Me: "Um, because it's two minutes away, you only need baby wipes and milk, and I will get it done much faster than you."
Her: (shrugging with almost zero confidence) "Okay."
Me: (quietly wondering if I was missing something)
Her: (suddenly worried about my anticipated product selection) "Well, make sure you get 2 percent organic. We're done with whole milk now..."
Me: (eyes rolling)
Her: "And double check the date before you buy it. Remember that time when you..."
Me: (annoyed and biting my tongue because I've got a morning free pass coming in one hour)
Her: "Hmmmm, did we need anything else? Make sure you bring your phone in case there's something I forgot."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "So when you walk in, the wipes will be on your right in aisle-"
Me: (scoffing) "Um, Shell, I think I can figure it out, okay? I'm on it."

I arrived there about ten times as fast as it would have taken Old Lady T to drive at ten and two with an inevitable stop at Dunkies. Grocery aisle was well marked with the gigantic "Grocery" sign that was visible from 5,000 feet away.

Selecting the milk wasn't an issue. But then there were like 80 varieties of products to wipe a kid's ass and I started to sweat a bit. Do I get the sensitive Huggies or the extra thick Pampers? Do I get a 3-pack, an 8-pack, or a 47-pack? Damn, I needed clarification! No way I was calling home though. How could there by so many options? Defeat was not an option.

Even with 2 customers at 8 in the morning, of course red shirted, khaki pantsed peeps were nowhere in sight. I went with the 8-pack. Pampers. Conventional. No bells and whistles.

So it's been about twelve hours since I got home. So far, so good. I stashed the wipes in our downstairs bathroom next to the changing station. Anytime I had to change the kids, I did it upstairs so as not to bring any attention to my selection. Hopefully, I can keep it going tomorrow. Duh - winning!

Messy Messes of Emesis

2011-02-25T20:18:00.000-08:00

I'm in a funk, there's no other way to put it. The frequency of my blogging kinda reflects my recent moods. I think the combination of my undiagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder and the kids being sick since earlier in the month have given me a case of the poopy pants that I just can't kick. February always makes me consider why the hell I live in New England because I.fucking.hate.winter. I don't like being cold. I don't like being indoors. Snow is cool for about 3 days and then I'm all set. I much rather prefer to go commando and wear flip flops every day. I want tan lines near my eyes where my sunglasses should be. I want sand in my scalp, not dandruff. I want to work on my new garden, not snow blow the driveway. I know, I know, "weah, weah, weah" but let me vent. I feel better already. Just a bit more complaining and I swear it's done.

To re-cap the infirmary chronology, Greta got sick before G-man. First and only (knock on wood) ear infection of the winter for her. I forgot how awful those are. She got over it in about a week and a half. (Just realized I forgot to administer her dose of antibiotic tonight - sweet, now I'm preoccupied.) While it sucked to witness her in pain and discomfort, it was just as bad to see her personality totally morph from mood swing to mood swing. If puberty is anything like that, I'm relocating to a tent in the backyard.

Gusto is still fighting some mystery illness. He has an awful cough, but he hasn't had a fever at all. He's had a boogie nose for like two weeks. His mood fluctuates a lot and he mostly just wants to be held. He's not himself. He's also been puking about every other day. It's weird because it doesn't seem like a flu per se, but it's not just a little cold either.

By the way for those keeping score at home, this winter, the over-under for cumulative pukes between Greta and Gus is somewhere around twelve and a half. And how many of those landed anywhere near a toilet or sink, you may ask? Absolutely none. I'm not talking about little, formula spit-ups by Gus either. I don't even flinch at those. He and I will be mid-sesh with a bottle, I'll pat his back, he'll spit up a bit, a stray burp shrapnel will plop into my eyebrow, I'll rub it in to straighten out a few of my renegade brow hairs in the vicinity, and we continue. That's nothing.

When August actually vomits, on the other hand, the projectile spray encompasses an area greater than a fire extinguisher. For most of those explosions, THE WIFE was the unfortunate bystander. Last night, though, he got me good. My guard was down. When that ominous cough started, I shoulda been sprinting immediately towards a toilet, a trash can, a boot, anything. Instead, I half paid attention and patted his back. Next thing I now, warm thick formula exploded in waves over my shoulder and on my neck in varying directions of our entryway to the house. Think Lard Ass and blueberry pie a la Stand By Me. We stood there for a moment. Me dazed, he triumphant. Eventually, I shrugged and stripped the both of us down on the spot. Post-puke, he was all smiles and giggles as we ran through the house - white diaper/undies only.

Moving on. Feeling better. A couple bright spots and discoveries lately, truth be told. First: WSHL 91.3 FM. I stumbled upon the Stonehill radio station, a few weeks ago. What a pleasant surprise. Of course, there are the occasional, inevitable, embarrassingly immature broadcasts by awkward nineteen year-old know-it-all dee-jay tandems discussing private jokes that seem hilarious only to them, but overall, the music selection is consistently original and most of all, enjoyable. I'm listening right now on my bedside clock radio, as a matter of fact.

Speaking of the clock radio, Greta's arsenal of new moves, combined with her increasing confidence to dance unabashedly in front of her circle of trust (me, WIFE, Augey, Nana, Pep, Mimi, "CC", cousin Sophie, cousin Johnny, and Auntie Steph), is one of the highlights of the day for me. Generally, we jam out as a family of 4 at least once per day: before dinner in the kitchen, after dinner in the kitchen, or before bed in mummy's and daddy's bedroom. The shoulder shimmy, the Nana a/k/a Elaine move, the jump around on tippy-toes, and the newly-added, spin around on the floor like Marty McFly channeling Hendrix - I wish you could witness just one of the moves but G-sizzle's sight of anyone outside the circle watching is enough to paralyze her for hours without speaking, unfortunately.

One other note on little Miss G - and I have no idea if this is early, late, expected, right on time or what, but it made me so proud irregahdless - earlier this week, we were getting ready for her bedtime. Typically, that means she'll run around in the hallway between her room, her brother's room, and our room in a last ditch effort to procrastinate going to bed for however long she can pull it off. During this time, she also often hides in my closet. So that night, I decided to don the headlamp and read books together under my ties, suits, and dress shirts hanging just above our heads. We closed the door. I switched the spelunking gear on. Meanwhile, Greta had snagged a bunch of flash cards that are bent and torn and beat up from weeks of circulation, to go along with Good Night Moon and Oink or whatever else I had brought in to our hideaway. Anyway, out of nowhere, she started to count the number of cars in a flash card. One, two, three - all the way up to nine! Totally unprompted. I was shocked and very impressed. I didn't know what to do so I hugged and kissed her and told her she was "Gorgeous Greta the Great Genius!" like I used to chant when she was a baby. (Sorry, but normally every number is 2, every color is pink, and every letter is L-M-N-O.) Whatever annoyance or frustration that was leftover from a dinner of "NO!" to every question or request just evaporated in an instant.

And, like Kaiser Soze, "as mysteriously as he arrived, he was gone," my poopy pants seem to have disappeared. Thank you all for being my therapist. Check's in the mail. My parkah (or park-er for you massholes) is retiring for the season. Good day and good night.

Just Hibernating

2011-02-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

It's a lame excuse but whatever creative bones exist in my body have been dulled by the seemingly unending shitty weather. The past few weeks, if I muster up the strength to write even just a personal e-mail, it's late at night after the kids and the wife are in bed. The house is finally calm and quiet. No tantrums, no television blasting noise, no domestic emergencies. I treasure those few daily minutes of tranquility so dearly that I usually toast to myself with a glass of wine or whiskey. But lately I've either bypassed those moments and went directly to bed, or my brain was too fried to write anything half interesting.

Irregahdless, here's a brief re-cap of the recent happenings in our neck of the woods other than clearing snow from the driveway and staying cooped up in the house every day. We've experienced leaks of varying amounts in basically every window of the house, which explains why one may see half-soaked and half-frozen beach towels laying around random sills on any given day. We were shrugging it off and hoping for the weather to improve but things got worse before they got better. One day, we found water dripping through our kitchen ceiling, which was sweet. I reported the damage to our insurer. The adjuster recommended a company that clears snow and ice from roofs. After I spent a couple hours dangling from a ladder with a shovel and hammer in my hands, I opted for the professionals. A few days later, as two guys chipped and shoveled icicles and pieces of shingles from our roof, they broke one of the sky lights. More sweetness. At this point, I'm just waiting for a pipe to burst or a tree to crash through the living room. No sense getting all worked up about it, so I segue to the kiddos instead.

Gigi is turning two next week and I scratch my head at the speed in which that's happened. She is going through a phase (at least I hope it's only a phase though we're going on two or three months now) when she either says absolutely nothing or cries when anyone other than me, the wife, her grandmothers, or her babysitter walk into the house. It bothers me partially because I fear she's painfully shy but mostly because the people who don't see Greta often don't get to witness her constantly expanding personality and vocabulary. For example, Greta is big into "hiding" right now, which she announces to us before doing it and usually amounts to one of four situations: 1) kneeling under the kitchen table; 2) in my closet sitting on my safe (you know, for our jewels and stacks of cash) below the shirts and ties; 3) under a desk in our kitchen; or 4) she's closed her eyes and thinks she's become invisible. It never gets old to me.

She also loves to walk around on her tippy-toes before and after her repertoire of dance moves and shoulder shimmies. When she wakes up from her nap, and I ask what she dreamed about, she says almost every time "Frosty, Santa Claus, and Mrs. Claus" a full seven weeks post-Christmas. She sings "kinkle kinkle little stah." She even gives kisses and hugs unsolicited every once in a while. She even tilts her head and looks at me with a convincing charm when she's trying to get out of eating something usually. She has me wrapped around her finger already. I could go on and bore with every detail, but I'll close out the topic with one last story. A few weeks back, the wife and Gigi had a girls' day out shopping complete with a restaurant lunch. Thinking she had Greta thoroughly impressed, the wife asked who her best friend was and she answered correctly, "Daddy!" Yes! Score: Me (1) Shell (O).

As for G-man, he's kicking ass and taking names. He's rolling around like a tumbleweed, sometimes ending up unhappily against a chair leg. His head and neck strength are improving every day. We torture him constantly with tummy time, but he takes it like a champ until he's exhausted face down on his belly screaming for someone to come get him. The nice part about Gus being able to keep his head up (aside from not using the N.G. tube!) is he can sit in a high chair where he's still trying to decide if he likes cereal yet. And G-man also had his first co-ed tub while sitting in the bath seat this week. He smiles at anyone who hugs, kisses, or cuddles with him. He babbles "da-da-da-da" every once in a while, which Greta likes to imitate. We are constantly encouraged by his advancement, which still seems to be very consistent with a typical kid. We're grateful.

Meanwhile, I'm getting a little older, fatter, and wrinkled in my large forehead every day. I know I can't beat the age thing. As for the spare tire, once the temp creeps up over 20, I'll don the running kicks and get back outside. Regarding the wrinkles, do guys really put lotion on their faces? Or should I just accept that my dome is morphing into a raisin? These are the things I think about when I'm stuck inside waiting for the snow to melt. If it snows again, and you see me on the roof with a hair dryer and blowtorch, please tell me to get down. The hibernation is almost over.

Playing the Field

2011-01-07T22:55:00.000-08:00

Bare chested and dripping wet, he stood by the pool. "Come here often?" he asked quite un-smoothly.

She was crouching with her back to him. Her skin glistened beneath the sunlight passing through the natatorium's opaque ceiling. So happily focused on patting her little girl dry with a towel, she did not hear him advance. Once realizing the presence of someone behind her, she turned around quickly and asked "Oh I'm sorry, did you say something?"

He hesitated. "Uh. Nothing. Just, ah, see you next week," he said nervously while hurrying away holding his own daughter's hand. And ... SCENE.

No, that was not an opening from Danielle Steele's most recent paperback featuring a shirtless Fabio lookalike on the cover. It was a re-enactment of me with Greta at the pool trying to pick up a married mom last month. (The audience laughs.)

Seriously, a couple weeks ago, I tried to ask out one of the moms at Greta's swim classes. But I couldn't muster up the guts. (Nervous laughter now.) What can I say, I'm rusty. I haven't blatantly hit on a girl since I tried unsuccessfully to french THE WIFE in the Seapoint parking lot back on St. Patty's Day, 2005. (The audience fidgets. "Is he drunk?" someone whispers.)

What? Oh no, it's not what you think. I'm not Tiger Woodsing pre-Thanksgiving/Escalade/golf club-through-the-window. Not at all. THE WIFE put me up to it. I swear. (The audience begins to buzz with gossip. "Do they have pink flamingos on their front lawn?" "Oh my god, that's why they drink Menage A Trois!" The crowd begins to riot.)

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Please, folks, settle down. And... SCENE.

Okay, so the real story is Greta has a friend that she met at a playground in town named Ashley. I met Ashley's grandmother, who watches Ashley on Mondays when I do my Mr. Mom thing. Anyway, whenever Greta went to the playground, she always asked if we'd see Ashley and oftentimes, she happened to be there. Fast forward months later to G's swim classes at the Y and sure enough, Ashley's parents have enrolled her in the same class. THE WIFE and I rotated every week who took Greta to class. I happened to go to the last class of the session. Before I left, THE WIFE told me how she really liked Ashley's mom and wanted to see about hanging out sometime since we haven't really made any friends since we moved to Easton so I should ask her about getting together some time. (That's the truth, I swear.)

When the moment came at the end of class to ask for Ashley's mom's number, I just couldn't go through with it because it felt so, well, weird. I was suddenly transported to junior high again, with my jeans pegged, trying to muster up the courage to ask a girl if she wanted to go out with me for the first time. Except this time, I was 35 and 80 pounds heavier, asking another married couple with a daughter to go out on a play date with me, my wife, and our kids. Enter, the married with kids, living in a new place dating game.

Shell and I are fortunate to have different, great circles of friends. Of course, the tightness of each circle varies but we've both got our own besties from home, from the schools we've attended, from our jobs past and present, etc. - basically wherever we've left a print somewhere. In most all of those instances, we were not yet parents. Those bonds and friendships naturally began as we became drawn to those with similar interests. Granted, some of our friends experienced similar paths as us at their own pace, but none paralleling the exact dynamic we currently have in terms of having kids period, the same number of kids, or the same ages of kids.

But now, having relocated to a totally new community, we've started our most recent chapter of our life together, which obviously includes the kiddos. The four of us are, in the truest sense, the new kids on the block. So by extension, the courting process of meeting new friends has officially begun. And I can't help but notice how much the experience resembles - well - dating. Hear me out.

When one dates (and I distinguish from simply being out on the prowl barhopping for you virile, adventurous singeltons), one generally seeks a mate with similar interests, similar values, similar roots, similar goals, etc., right? The match one seeks when single all transcends to the match a couple seeks when married with kids. You want someone who seems like you. You also don't want someone who pursues you too hard and by the same token, the other side won't be into you if you're too interested. It's almost a game that borders on arrogance because one obviously has certain "standards" for lack of a better term, but at the same time how the hell do you ever meet anyone if you think your shit don't stink?

Am I really this serious or selective about just making new friends? Of course not. To me, it's never too late to embrace a connection I've made with someone new. That's how everything started with my oldest friends in the first place. We've just had the benefit of meeting earlier in our lives and sharing the crazy experiences that help to mold our bond together.

The reality is that dating - fortunately - is separate and distinct from the genesis of a friendship. In the search for your life partner, spouse, whatever you want to call him/her, everyone carries around the scars and/or baggage of failed relationships past. Maybe that ex cheated on you, broke up with you in a text message on your birthday, or you could never get past that Seinfeld-ian tragic flaw that all your friends laughed about after you broke up. There's a million reasons why old relationships never worked out. So you left the ex behind, the ex left you behind, or you both went separate ways.

Luckily, when the opportunity arises to begin a new friendship, you don't have to ever give up your old pals. You're just looking to add to your posse. And if your entourage remains as is, so be it because it's probably a pretty damn good one.

So I guess that's where we Ts find ourselves currently. (Thinking.) Hmmm, maybe there's a social networking web site lurking here. I think I'll friend request Mark Zuckerberg and see what he thinks.

Well, until we figure out the match.com for married peeps with kids, THE WIFE heads back to the Y tomorrow for a new round of classes. Perhaps she'll have more balls than me and ask out Ashley's dad...

The First of Many

2010-12-26T20:01:00.000-08:00

My parents, THE WIFE, and I stood together in the living room on Christmas Eve. The kids were asleep. We had toys to assemble. And it was already eleven o'clock. My parents were calm. They've been there before. My dad's reaction was unsurprising and amusing. "Ah. (pausing) You got a dry red? Merlot?" I ran to the basement and snagged a bottle of Chuck Shaw. We got to work - on the wine and the toys.

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From ages 18 to 33, I appreciated the time spent with my family during Christmas of course. But the supposed magic or aura of the actual holiday gradually decreased with time. The religious aspect never did it for me. The songs stopped appealing to me. The movies ceased moving me. I'm indifferent about cookies. And though I loved giving presents, I rarely enjoyed receiving them. I don't think I was necessarily a Scrooge by any means, but the holiday hype was more bothersome and irritating than enjoyable.

Then, Greta was born. Last year, she was too young to have any palpable reaction to the festivities. But this year was a whole different story. All of those fun things about Christmas that I forgot re-emerged and reintroduced themselves.

We kicked off the season by riding on a Polar Express train ride excursion with both of the kids, her cousins, and the little ones of THE WIFE'S Carver neighborhood friends. The kids were all dressed in their pajamas. After caroling, dancing, and looking at lights, we got off the train and strolled around. A little reception hall had hot chocolate, face painting, and a place to make ornaments. Greta was eating it up.

The highlight of that night was when Greta walked right up to her new BFF Frosty the Snowman. She waved at him fearlessly while beaming with adoration. It shocked me because our experience with Santa the year before didn't go as smoothly. Granted, Frosty was probably a stoned teenager on break from college underneath the costume, but I was grateful nonetheless.

A week later, we put up the tree. G loved hanging the ornaments, which she dangled almost entirely on one branch at the very end. Classic.

Of course, the tree stand I used was too small, which caused the tree to fall over twice the next day breaking several ornaments, making Greta cry, and resulting in my curse-filled, frantic drive to Lowe's, but Greta and THE WIFE were relieved as the tree rose again this time with something like 20 more strands of lights. (Still standing, by the way.)

While her fear of real-life Santas continued like the Real Wives of Beverly Hills fear normal sized lips or faces that move, Greta became a huge fan of cartoon caricatures or small version models of St. Nick. Rudolf is cool but probably only because of his resemblance to Bambi. We even waved at baby Jesus together when passing by the town center's Nativity scene.

After a few weeks, the seasonal songs began to take reawaken my Christmas cheer's soul. Listening to Gigi sing Jingle Bells or Frosty the Snowman comprised the best five seconds of my days leading up to the big event. Greta only knew the first four words of each song but it's all I needed to hear.

Then, the other little things also began to impress: the outdoor light displays of any quality (the inflatable jobs are her fave), Christmas cookies (she baked some with Mimi), wrapping paper, and even just playing in the snow. I hadn't paid any attention to these things since Teenwolf was dunking on the Dragons or Gizmo got fed after midnight.

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On Christmas morning, Greta's new trampoline, toy kitchen, and chalkboard/drawing easel sat freshly assembled. (The Grandparents and parents gratefully sipped their coffee or tea.) All three gifts seemed to be big hits, though the trampoline probably had a slight edge. As Gigi bounced gleefully, I understood why my parents were so quick to accept our invitation to sleep over. I think I felt that old-school Christmas magic again.

My only gift to Greta - a set of hers and hers ice skates (a pair to Greta and a pair to THE WIFE) - got pushed aside immediately after opening so she could go back to the trampoline. Poetic justice! That was fine by me, though. I was just happy the kitchen's appliances all beeped properly. Now if someone wouldn't mind telling Greta that the decorations and tree have to disappear for a little, that would be great. Thanks.

Have a happy and healthy 2011 everyone!

Wakeup Call

2010-12-10T21:32:00.001-08:00

Perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by three-plus months of encouraging doctors' visits, I didn't think much about Gus' visit for x-rays this past Tuesday. G-man has been consistently impressing his cardiologist, endocrinologist, primary care physician, physical therapist, and basically anyone related to him by blood, marriage, and friendship. Granted, he's had a loud kind of breathing sound since he was born, but Gus has been growing at a fine pace and his personality has been more animated than ever.

The quiet hero of our family is definitely Michelle. Both of us have amazingly compassionate employers and supervisors, but my job keeps me on a random road schedule that is difficult to predict - so our matriarch somehow handles every single medical appointment for the kids, while balancing a full-time job. Fortunately, we both went to Gus' recent consult at the Children's Hospital DS Clinic, so I was well aware of the reasons behind the referral to have him swallow barium with his formula. They wanted to be sure he was not aspirating when he ate. In other words, was formula getting into his lungs when he swallowed?

I knew the outcome of the swallowing study the second I heard Michelle's voice when she called. "Okay, temporary setback," I thought. So we just have to thicken his formula. No big deal. Wrong. He would return as an in-patient on Wednesday. Here we go again.

It's funny how easy it was for me to forget about all of the potential complications that could arise due to Gus having DS. After so many weeks of development that paralleled pretty much all of our "typical" experiences with Greta's first four months, I became naively confident that no other medical issues would arise with our little superstar. But there I was, packing a bag and panicking that I might forget some critical piece of clothing or toy before we left for who knows how long.

Of course, I wasn't upset in any way towards the G-man at any time whatsoever. But the unexpected news about another potential obstacle to our quest for Gus to have a clean bill of health alarmed me. What was all this business about feeding tubes? Our little guy was fine. These doctors gotta be overreacting, right? I was at stage one already: denial.

And, frankly, the interruption to our family's daily routine frustrated me. Why Gus? Why us? Hasn't he and we been through enough already? Who would watch Gigi while we were gone? Both Shell and I couldn't have had busier weeks with our jobs. Plus, we were re-entering the hospital world where the promptness of scheduled visits by doctors were as reliable as arrival times by an MBTA bus or subway. Fucking A, man. Now I was at stage two: the self-pity percolated.

Then, we got to the hospital. I looked around us. Worried and caring parents abounded with children of all ages enduring a myriad of disorders and illnesses that spanned a vast range of severity. Reality check. Forget about the small stuff that was seemingly important. Focus on Gus. Listen to the doctors. Ask probing questions. Be sure to understand what they're saying. Make educated decisions. Be a good father and a strong partner to my wife.

After our admission, we immediately became reminded of why Children's Hospital is so great: the nursing staff. Shannon and Ann were yet more all stars in the Hall of Fame cast that has cared for the G-man during both of his stays at Children's. And, to their credit, the doctors seemed to be appearing much more frequently than I unfairly stereotyped. Everybody - literally - was again phenomenal. Very empathetic. Extremely patient. Totally assuring.

As for the cold facts of Gus' situation, Shell and I have different understandings of what is causing the aspiration. Without dispute, he has laryngomalacia - basically, a narrowing in the passage between his mouth and stomach. Doctors have also said he has a floppy airway. (I think they mean the same thing. Shell thinks they are two different issues.) Irregardless, somewhere in Gus' airway, it apparently allows formula into the lungs when it should only be air. This creates a higher risk of pneumonia and long-term lung damage, among others. Consequently, he has a nasogastric (NG) tube for the indefinite future.

The NG tube is a small tube that goes through Gus' nose into his stomach that gets hooked up to a pump for every feeding he has (about 5 or 6 a day.) Fortunately, we can feed him one ounce of formula immediately before activating the pump so he won't forget his eating reflexes. The good news about the NG: it's relatively easy to put in and pull out. Plus, other than the annoyance of its placement through the nose, the tube isn't anchoring into anything internal or external.

The bad news about the NG: it's relatively easy to pull out. Vegas already posted an over-under line for Greta's first successful removal of the NG at one week. I'll take the under.

Not surprisingly, Gus' mom is already a champ at installing the NG. After installing one for practice, Shell got called into duty in the middle of Night 2 when Gus yanked it out in his sleep. But what else would you expect from a mom who, although she trusts dad's abilities entirely, insists on sleeping over to be present "in case anything happens"?

There is a possibility that the NG tube could be replaced by a gastrostomy tube (G tube), which goes directly into his stomach through his belly, but for the time being he seems to be handling the NG okay. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

We got the green light to go home on Friday and rejoin Miss Greta where she was being thoroughly spoiled by her Mimi, who came to the rescue on extremely short notice. As was the case in July, everything worked out, just not in the way we originally expected.

Triumphantly, Gus, Shell, and I exited through the lobby into the chilly frenzy of pedestrians and traffic of Longwood Ave. As we passed by Santa Claus and an elf standing idly on the sidewalk, I nodded with a smile whereupon Saint Nick extended his hand and said, "Here you go, dad. Happy Holidays." Expecting to see a coupon for 10% off at Dunkin's or the like, I was shocked to find what appeared to be a $50 bill in my hand. By the time I inspected the gift for authenticity (it's bona fide) and turned back to thank the philanthropists, they were gone.

While astounded to be the recipient of such an unexpectedly generous gift, we were much more grateful to be going home with our still perfect baby. Happy Holidays, everybody!

A Night in the Life

2010-12-02T19:12:00.000-08:00

The doorbell rang. Standing in the kitchen with Augey strapped to my chest in the baby bjorn, I was smackdab in the middle of a dinner jam session with both kids. (Pretty sure it was The Clash playing in the background.) Using Gus' left arm as a guitar neck and his right leg as the bridge, I was channeling my inner Pete Townsend by windmilling a G-man air guitar. Meanwhile, Greta was demonstrating her version of "devil horns" (or the Longhorns sign for you Texans) as she sat confined in her highchair, which looked more like a double finger mom dance at a wedding after a few white zins.

"Uh oh," I thought. "Hope it's not DSS."

Fortunately, it was just the former owners of our house who were picking up some mail during a Thanksgiving trip back home. "C'mon in," I offered waiving them inside with Gus' feet dangling around in front of me. Clad in suit pants and white undershirt stained with spit-up and Greta's dinner shrapnel, I explained that THE WIFE was out galavanting with her GFs at a nice adult dinner free from constant threats of timeouts, Tinkerbell sightings, and Gigi's claims of "accidents" after she's spitefully hucked a broccoli branch to the ground. They politely declined the tour and insisted that I return to dinner.

Next up, bathtime for Greta as Gus reclined in the rainforest vibrating seat, tripping out as frogs and parrots moved simultaneously. Then on to PJs and diaper changes for both peanuts. We return to the kitchen for a nightcap: sippy cup of milk for Greta, 6 oz of Similac for Gus, and a tumbler of Jameson for Daddy - strike that, a Polar lemon seltzer for Daddy.

The three of us subsequently retired to the living room where we queued up "Ellyfants" per Gigi's request a/k/a National Geographic's "Great Migrations" series. (Yes, she's daddy's little girl alright.) Little miss sipped her organic whole as G-man whacked back his formula. We "do" books when mommy's home and we're in man-to-man coverage, but that night I was scrambling with a 1:2 zone-D, Gus was hungry, and I wasn't gonna risk messing up his mojo. I was on the verge of getting these two down by 8:30 and then a quiet house was all mine until THE WIFE returned, so I wasn't taking any chances.

While distracted by a food coma and full belly, I temporarily deserted Augustus in his swing and threw the original G. over my shoulder. Off to bed for you, young lady. Quickly, I zipped up the sleep sack (yes, we still use one - our house is frigid), plopped her in the crib (yes, we still use a bumper - the shame!), and handed over the three (gasp) binkies (the horror!) that Greta promptly plopped - one each - into her mouth and hands.

Incidentally, our daughter does this thing with the pacifiers in her hand where she rubs them on her eyes as she settles into sleep. It's kinda funny and I have no clue of the significance. But it's worth mention because THE WIFE tells me the blog's infrequency of late is failing to record our family's history, so there.

Then, the main event. (With a nod towards Leslie Nielsen.) Summoning Enrico Palazzo, I began my nightly serenade to Greta. My concert usually entails a random combination of nursery rhymes, rock classics, improvisational ballads, and the occasional Irish ditty, which all depend on the energy/enthusiasm level of course. That night, it could've been "Itsy, Bitsy Spider" (Greta loves the tickle part) into "When I'm 64" into "Whistling Gypsy" into "Cheerios" (my creation). To signal that I'm done, I saluted my little love as usual with blowing kisses, I love you's, sleep-tight-don't-let-the-bed-bugs-bite, etc., all while inching towards the door - but that night, like most every night, she sweetly requested an encore. "One more?" I heard somewhat mumbled beneath the binky.

I paused and listened for any squawks from the Gus-man. All quiet. "Okay honey," I replied. "Twinkle, twinkle..." Just another night in our little paradise.

No, Really

2010-11-11T20:11:00.001-08:00

For better or more likely worse, I've realized that my enthusiasm for our kids in their newborn states - was well, not as enduring as I think it should have been. I know. Go ahead and gasp. The shame. The horror. It's my dirty little secret of fatherhood. (Eeeek, re-reading that last paragraph makes me worry I'm not articulating well. Let's try that again.)

After the initial excitement of the kids' arrivals, the routine of feeding, burping, diaper changing, clothes changing, sleep, etc. grinded on me sporadically. The Groundhog Day moments wore me down at irregular times. And I'm only home for a portion of the day to parent.

I confess with some shame that there were times where I manufactured excuses to leave the room, abandon Gigi and/or Gus with their mom, in order to escape temporarily to recharge and regain my sanity. Perhaps it's the sleep deprivation, the disappearance of a social life, the paranoid pressure to rush home from work as soon as possible to avoid the "where are you" phone call, the bouts of monotony, or a combination of all. Maybe it's just the forced transition of becoming less selfish. Who knows?

With Greta, everything was gravy once she began sleeping 6 and then 8 hours a night. With Gus, I thought, he just needs to turn that sleep corner and everything will stabilize.

Now don't get me wrong. The experiences of becoming acquainted with my two children in their newborn states provided many moments of utter happiness. Greta was our first, so of course the newness of parenthood was invigorating in its own right. And with Gus, after all that he endured, I shouldn't complain about anything for even a millisecond. But I'm an American. I want it all the easiest and fastest way possible. And I'm the guy who complained of a shoulder cramp while holding THE WIFE's leg during Greta's delivery.

Why am I writing all of this? Because G-man has turned that corner from newborn to baby. Forget about not needing oxygen or calorie-enriched formula, he's sleeping (knock on wood - please no jinx) eight hours a night. My boy holds his head up by himself. His little legs kick crazily when his sister dances carefreely around him. And my absolute favorite development - he smiles and laughs if you chat gently or make ridiculous faces at him. August, simply said, continues to impress all of his loved ones after a matter of just minutes together.

Take last week for instance. One night, I somehow forgot to put a diaper on Greta before putting her to bed. She woke up soaked at 2 a.m. Mama cleaned up our girl and the bed. Of course, Greta wouldn't go back down, so I took over guilt ridden trying at 3 o'clock attempting unsuccessfully to induce her sleep until 5:30 a.m. came and I showered for work.

Three nights later, the fire alarms' low battery beeps began at 3 a.m. without stopping until 11 a.m. Standing in my underwear on a coffee table, after apparently installing dead replacement batteries, I made a 4 a.m. drive to Mobil for 9-volts cursing the entire time. Long story short, I disconnected the culprit from the electric supply only to discover hours later that it still somehow had enough power to continue beeping. If only I had thrown that alarm out the window, then Greta, THE WIFE, and I may have been able to go back to sleep.

On both of these awful nights, though, G-man snoozed away peacefully until he woke up at his normal time, smiling as soon as his gentle cries were answered. His happy face was contagious. How could I not grin back at him?

Now I realize it was never my kids who needed to turn any corner. It was me and I'm definitely there. And as for Gus - really, he's still doing great.

Trick or Treat

2010-10-28T21:22:00.001-07:00

Greta will be fluttering around our neighborhood as a butterfly this Sunday, while Gus scavenges around (mommy's/daddy's arms) as the cutest skunk ever. Photos will ensue on FB aplenty, I'm sure, so stay tuned.

Halloween is a curious holiday, don't you think? It's a strange breed who enjoy it. Personally, I love it. You won't see me in a Twilight werewolf or vampire costume at work tomorrow, but I will nod with approval/amusement at those riding the subway in one. The witty, creative costumes are the best ones in my opinion though I will not complain one bit at the French maids, (adult) Catholic schoolgirls, naughty nurse/nun/librarian/bus driver and any woman dressing like someone from the Jersey Shore this weekend but that goes without saying. And yes, Greta will be a butterfly or the like until she's 30.

As a parent, the dress up part is easy to sell and experience enthusiastically with the little kiddos. The candy isn't so important right now as G-man is still pounding formula and little miss' treats are just an occasional cookie here and there.

The scary component of Hallow's eve is a little more difficult to introduce, however. Greta still gets freaked out occasionally if a bunch of us just clap and yell at the same time in close proximity to her. This brings us to a minor dilemma. When do we watch our first scary movies together? I don't want the kids to be so freaked out that they have nightmares or need to sleep in our beds, but it'll be fun to scare them at least just a little - when they're old enough.

I'm not a huge fan of horror movies, per se. But I do enjoy scary movies in a flossing/John Cougar Mellencamp/hurt so good way. In no particular order, here are a few my personal faves:

1.) Poltergeist - Saw this for the first time on HBO when my family took a road trip to visit one of my mom's college roommates. Little did the adults know as they chatted and laughed over a couple drinks in the next room that I sat terrified under a blanket, transfixed on the television hoping never to wear braces in my future adolescence.

2.) The Wizard of Oz - Yes, this is a horror movie as far as I'm concerned for a 7 year-old. I'm not sure how it holds up today against CGI or even documentary/Blair Witch/Paranormal Activity-like scary movies, but the wicked witch, the music that accompanied her bicycle riding, and the evil, flying monkeys rendered me sleepless on multiple occasions.

3.) Ghostbusters - Granted, I haven't seen this flick in years but the transformations of Rick Moranis and Sigourney Weaver into the gargoyle-like possessed keymaster and gatekeeper creeped me out. (Yes, I was and continue to be a slight pansy but "So what, who cares?" as Fred Armisen says a la Joy Behar from The View.)

4.) Silence of the Lambs - What I would give to be able to talk like Hannibal Lecter at work. Plaintiff attorneys might just dismiss their clients' cases voluntarily without any settlement offer if I could deliver lines like: "Quid pro quo. Yes or no, Clarice? Poor little Catherine is waiting." Too bad sequels water the original down.

5.) The Shining - The big wheel. The twins saying, "Come play with us, Danny." Tony living in Danny's tummy. The river of blood. Jack. Awesome.

6.) Friday the 13th - Great for token boob shots during a hook up scene followed immediately by one or both of the horny lovers massacred. The lesson, as always, don't ever try to get after it in a horror movie.

7.) Se7en - Other than Gwyneth's head in a box, I always remember the glutton's death for some reason. Spacey was great in this. It's tough to turn the channel whenever TNT mixes Se7en into the rotation with Road House and Red Dawn.

8.) 28 Days Later - Zombie movies could fill their own category as far as I'm concerned but my sister's cinematic obsession is contagious. Of all the Z films, this one got me hooked. It also triggers an impulse to scan the streets every so often for quick exit points in the event of sudden, civil unrest. Remember, crow bars and machetes don't need reloading.

Nos. 9 and 10? I'm leaving that up to you.

So those are my treats this week. If you prefer a trick instead, come on by 20 Gawaine this Sunday and don't be surprised to see a little Thriller dance coming at ya.

Happy Hallow's Eve, ghosts and goblins!

Brainfart

2010-10-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

I've got nothing this week because my brain is shot and THE WIFE abandoned me with the kiddos to go out with her girlfriends tonight. Greta and Gus alternated like tag team wrestlers on me with hysterical crying spells as I tried to feed, bathe, change, and get them to bed. Once I was able to sedate them successfully, I got my revenge by gleefully selecting delete every time the DVR asked if it should turn the station from the NLCS Championship to Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice, or whatever other horrible show was scheduled to begin.

Like a bad dream, I keep thinking about Saved By The Bell as a blog topic. With nothing else coming to mind, I guess we'll go with it. Re-runs of this show are on at 7 a.m. on TBS every weekday. I know this because the girl who works at the front desk of the gym who ignores me every morning as I enter or exit is deeply engrossed in whatever zany antics that Zack, Slater, Screech, and company are up to. Due to the fact that she's catching up on episodes missed from 20 years ago, half of the TVs in the gym are also showing it. So of course, I watch too when I'm struggling through an elliptical workout. But with no audio. And with the perspective of an archaeologist. Be warned, I have no point. Just a few observations.

First, Dustin Diamond has to be the most fake stage name in the history of terrible television. Second, I don't care how much action Dustin got from hangers-on or women currently in their 30s looking to blow away their girlfriends when opening a conversation with "Guess who I hooked up with last weekend?" - I would never, ever, ever, ever trade places with that dude.

As for Mario Lopez, is he the new and improved version of Dick Clark? That guy hasn't aged a single bit since he's been on the show. With the exception of no longer wearing pastel tanktops and Cavaricci jeans, he looks exactly the same. Well, maybe he's done away with the Latin soul glow too.

Every time I see Elizabeth Berkley, it makes more and more sense to me why she did the "Showgirls" movie. (I think the supposed male sex symbol for that movie was Kyle MacLachlan - a/k/a Bree Hodge's husband on Desperates - how funny is that?!)

Zack at least got to be on NYPD Blue. Or was that Ricky Schroeder? I can't remember.

Mr. Belding unfortunately for him was like Mr. Walsh on 90210 - never to be heard from again. And that's all I've got to say about that.

Thumbs up this week to... the dudes who work in a dilapidated parking garage across the street from where I work. These dudes squeeze way more cars than I'm sure any applicable building code allows into three levels of a garage that is ready to collapse any second. For $20 a day, it's a bargain. And I'm pretty sure they drive customers' wheels around like the Ferrari in Ferris Bueller... the creepy beard sported by San Francisco's closer. It's frightening to me in the same way when I notice a dude wearing manliner. Mission accomplished, bro, I'd be intimidated if I was digging into the box to face you.

Thumbs down this week to... Men's Wearhouse. I had to retrieve some suit pants that sustained an unfortunate tear during a worm at my buddy's wedding. I feel so molested by the eyes and words of salesmen in there, it's almost as though I'm a Mexican sports reporter with a bedonkadonk and serious cleavage in a NY Jets locker room... Tim Lincecum's hair salad. As a man who enjoyed his own mangy locks during the early glory days of groovy oovy (UVM), I appreciate a carefully sculpted coiffure. But Tim's mane needs to decide: either go with the "business in front and party in back" flowing mullet or wrap that crap up in a hair net under his baseball lid. I'm not an anti-long hair. I just need to see a direction... While we're here, as if Tom Brady's neon white teeth weren't bad enough, the blond highlights of his Fabio-esque locks should make every true Pats' fan feel downright embarrassed. As soon as a dude begins to pay more than $14 for a hair cut, he's officially high maintenance. With his Brazilian supermodel wife, gazillions of dollars, and 3 Superbowl rings, I'm sure he's hurt by my opinion.

Thumbs comme ci comme ca this week to... kitty heels. While I appreciate that they give a minimum amount of lift compared to (ho-hum) flats, they still don't do it for me. I read a couple months ago in Vogue I think (I swear there wasn't anything else interesting in the magazine rack at Gold's) that kitty's were the next "in" thing. Yawn. I'm a fan of the standard high heels, thank you very much. (Yes, I was the same guy ripping on Brady's highlights a few sentences ago.)...

You Do Milk?

2010-10-11T19:13:00.000-07:00

Two kids in two years. Back on October 25, 2008, I launched waitingforbabyt/daddio de novo with "So you've got swimmers..." (anyone remember back that far?) at the encouragement of THE WIFE, as we braced for the arrival of Greta the following February. I was kind of just feeling my way around in the dark - both on the writing front and on the expecting parent front. Two years and Gus' addition to the family later, we Ts are still kicking like ninjas. And somehow amongst the chaos of our routine, the blogs have continued - albeit infrequently but technically they keep coming.

Meanwhile, you all reading these words have also stuck around. I wanted to take a second to thank you for that. Sharing with you in this way has been fulfilling for THE WIFE and I on many levels. I'm particularly grateful to those who have taken the time to comment either here, on FB, or during conversation. The encouragement and positive feedback means a lot. I am especially indebted to THE WIFE as my editor, guinea pig, muse, therapist, and consigliere on all matters blog-related and otherwise. Heart you big time Bug.

Who knows how long this blog will go? I certainly have no idea. But I know undoubtedly that I still enjoy writing it. So, I hope you still enjoy reading it. When it starts to get stale or boring, do me a favor and throw a rotten tomato at me. Until then, keep reading and enjoy.

*******

My pops, Griswald, has many peculiar sayings - several of which my brother captured in a small book a few years back. One quote that stands out to me is Clark's strange inquiry to visitors at our house asking if "you do milk?" As a teenager, I cringed with moderate embarassment when he said this to my friends because it was just weird to me on many levels. Was he asking if someone was lactose intolerant? Was he asking if someone liked milk so much, they "do" it as if making love to it? And, by the way, who offers glasses of milk as a beverage to guests older than five years old anyway? Well, Griswald does, that's who!

Another staple comment of my dad involving beverages is actually a question - "You drink your juice?" He is adamant that we eat a "propah" breakfast and juice is apparently an important component to Grizz.

When it came to cooking the meal, my dad was very territorial about the kitchen. Once you enter the kitchen, he starts rattling off everything on his menu for the morning. If you open a cabinet while Grizz is at the helm, he'll hover next to you to peek over your shoulder and ask impatiently what you're looking for. Once his apron is on, I don't even try to interfere. Plus, he makes a damn good omelet.

Breakfasts in Greta's and Gus' home are a newly developing ritual. I'm slowly building a monopoly Gordon Gecko-like on breakfast as my meal to cook. G-man is easy: two ounces formula, two ounces water. The original instant breakfast. Done.

Gigi's tougher. Her juice (insert Clark's nodding approval) is half prune juice, half water - you know, to get the plumbing working. Her typical plate is a few handfuls of cheerios, some fruit, and a fried egg. Surprisingly, she's lukewarm on french toast and waffles. I've tried plain, maple syrup, butter, and fruit. (PB is the last resort but it's just so messy.) Greta will sit there channeling her inner Tom Colicchio, chewing inquisitively as I hope for a positive review. It's hit or miss.

Lately, I've resorted to a key weapon in the parental arsenal: manipulation. One morning after the sunlight hit my fork just right creating a reflection on the ceiling, Tinkerbell suddenly began gracing us with appearances on her way home from all-nighters with Peter Pan. After we all exchange initial pleasantries - G and I saying hello/how are you while Tinkerbell shakes around in respone - I send Tinkerbell away and suggest to Greta innocently that perhaps Tinkerbell will return if she eats her pancake. Today, I carved some cats and fish out of an apple so we meowed and bubble mouthed. Whatever it takes!

C'mon by the casa next time you're in Easton. I'll ask if you "do omelets" and fire one up for you as we wait to see if Tinkerbell shows up.

XOXO

2010-09-30T20:36:00.001-07:00

Last week, I read an editorial on CNN.com commenting on some type of a "Dear Abby" letter from a mother who was concerned or jealous that her husband kissed their (5 year-old?) daughter on the lips. To be honest, I'm not sure what her real beef was but the general idea inspired me. But then, I caught a cold and forgot about it.

Then a couple nights ago, we watched an episode of Modern Family that loosely related to the patriarch not showing affection to his adult son, which in turn made the son reluctant to show PDA with his partner. Sweet, I remembered what I meant to write about last week!

There's an SNL skit from the past few seasons that came to mind. A family is uncomfortably affectionate with each other to the point that mom, dad, son, daughter, and anyone else in the act are blatantly making out with each other by the end. It makes me laugh and squirm at the same time.

In real life, some people are kissers. Some people aren't. I'm a kisser. I'm a big fan of hugs, too. But if I had to choose between the two, I'd have to go with smooching. And not one of those weaksauce air pecks inches away from a cheek. Those are lame. At minimum, I'm talking a peck with lip contact somewhere on the recipient's face. Best case scenario, we've got a lip kiss however brief.

Now before anyone jumps to conclusions, let's be clear that I'm not talking about attempting a wet tonsil hockey maul session on one of my buddy's wives after a dinner date at their house. No. If I lip kiss a friend or relative, I'm simply trying to say "hey, you're closer to me than someone with whom I'd just shake hands - let me lay one on you." If that person smacks back, even better. Granted I'm supercreepy in general, but I promise there are no ulterior motives with my affinity to osculate.

My smooch philosophy applies equally to family and friends but especially to my two little beauties. Greta recently turned the corner on the hugs and kisses department. Although she usually runs away from me yelling "no, no, no" after announcing I need a kiss, she does indulge me once in a while. Granted, on those occasions, her kisses have been innocently open mouthed - but she's starting to bring her lips closer together.

As for G-man, sometimes he makes an expression with his mouth that reminds me of a seahorse's pucker. And I just want to kiss him whenever I see that face. It killed me last week because of my cold and not being able to kiss him. Every time I had the urge to show him a little love, I had to restrain myself from getting close because there was no way I was risking getting him sick. I'm better though now so the smooches are back on.

Getting back to the Dear Abby lady, I'm not sure I believe that the letter was from an actual reader or something manufactured for the sake of provoking a potential reader. Assuming it was sincere, here's my reply...

Dear Weird About Your Husband Kissing Your Kid:

Are you serious? Hugs and Kisses, Daddio De Novo

Making the Cut

2010-09-07T18:59:00.001-07:00

I cringed with empathetic pain while reading the sports page recently. Executives and coaches adjusted their final rosters to determine who made the team and who got cut. Inevitably, NFL teams crushed the dreams of many aspiring football players when telling them somehow that they were being "let go." Most of those being cut fall into two groups: 1) the unproven rookie who didn't impress enough; or 2) the expensive veteran with deteriorating skills.

Despite my hulking physique, you may be astonished to learn that I was never an aspiring professional football player. As a kid with an August birthday, I barely squeaked into my grade based on age. In other words, when other guys were shaving and experimenting with facial hair, I still sounded like Peter Brady during his "sha-na-na-na-na" solo. Similarly, I was always undersized compared to the rest of my class. My mom thought soccer was a better fit, which was true in retrospect. Next thing you know, she and my dad are reffing, coaching, or hanging nets on goal posts along with other parents while 22 kids move like an amoeba encircled around the ball.

I played many sports through junior high, but soccer emerged as my best sport in high school. My coach was an unorthodox, passionate, crazy, master motivator called "Crash." We never won the big one, but we had some great wins and amazing moments together. (My first foray into writing was actually a manuscript I hashed together in college about that experience. It sits hidden in a drawer in my desk at work because I'm embarassed at its naivity whenever I get the nerve to take a look again.) Anyway, my point is that soccer's importance to me as a seventeen year-old ranked somewhere just below eating and breathing.

In the summer before college began, I trained and practiced my ass off. I was going to walk on the varsity team of a Division One school with players from foreign countries and American kids who played on traveling teams. With the exception of a disastrous high school freshman basketball tryout (I became the manager, which deserves a blog entry all on its own), I was not accustomed to athletic failure.

Once I arrived at the University of Vermont, I discovered a disturbingly serious problem: I wasn't that good compared to everyone else. In the fall, I played on the B-team with other dreamers still hanging on to the possibility of a call up. The audition continued through practices and scrimmages in the winter and spring.

Before my freshman year ended, everyone met individually with the head coach. I wasn't invited to the summer preseason. I was welcome to try out again but only with other walk-ons. I read between the lines. He didn't think I was good enough. I was crushed even though my financial livelihood was unaffected, which is the case for most of the guys whose names I read under the "Release" heading of the above-mentioned sports page this weekend.

Making the cut is a rite of passage in virtually all sports at every level. For the rejected, the cut system is a brilliant test of character, cajones, intestinal fortitude, etc. They have two options: accept their fate and move on elsewhere, or get better and keep trying. It's a brutally honest and cold but necessary process. It's a lesson that overlaps with any pursuit for that matter: job applications, dating, auditioning for the Jersey Shore, you name it.

As for me, I did what many other hasbeen athletes do - I traded in my jersey for a whistle. I had the pleasure of coaching the Hunt Middle School boys' soccer team of Burlington, Vermont for three years and fell in love with the sport again. I just wasn't ready to let go of my connection to the sport. That opportunity was the perfect transition. Nowadays, I'd probably pull my hammy getting off the couch just to turn the channel to a soccer game.

****

Assuming that Greta and Gus are interested in sports (or other activities with "cuts"), I'm not so secretly hoping to don a whistle again. Make no mistake, though, it will be all about them. I have no interest in being that annoying coach who plays their kid every minute of every game, or pressures them to succeed a la Emilio Estevez's detention for administering wedgies.

Whatever interest my babies pursue, I pray that they make the teams they try out for a whole lot more than the alternative. But in the event they don't "make it" on a team some day, I will be there with a sympathetic ear. Hopefully, my war stories won't sound too boring for them then...

Going From Zone to Man

2010-08-29T07:57:00.000-07:00

I’m pleasantly surprised that the transition of our parental defensive scheme from two-on-one to two-on-two hasn’t been as scary as I originally anticipated. Don’t get me wrong, the level of difficulty definitely increased significantly. Fortunately, though, THE WIFE and I aren’t coming apart at the seams all the time … just occasionally.

With one kid, mom and dad are both guaranteed some down time to recharge during every nap (which is fairly often with a newborn) or in Greta’s case now about two- to three-hours in the afternoon. Those moments are ideal for house tidying, telephone calls without preoccupation or distraction, possibly a jog, or even a mini-house project.

Then at night with one, mom and dad get (at least if you’ve got a good sleeper like Gigi has been) consecutive hours first for some adult time and then sleep. Greta nowadays goes uninterrupted for about 11 hours, which has generally been the case since she was a few months old. Usually, THE WIFE and I would eat dinner, chat, and watch TV or use the computer during that time.

Nowadays, the only windows we have when both of the kids are down concurrently is maybe an hour in the afternoon and two stretches of three hours at night. It’s barely enough time to do anything.

When I get home from work and walk in the door, still numb from the commute home, all I want to do is decompress from the day. (Translation: not talk.) Usually, I'm assigned duty on Greta whose running rampant through the house. Then, THE WIFE fires questions at me without fail like an overcaffeinated machine gunner: “Who’d you talk to today?” No one. “Where did you go?” To work. “Did you find out what time that party starts that doesn’t take place until two months from now?” I sigh. She moves on to the next question and so on. But who can blame her? She’s been home all day singing along with DJ Lance Rock, eating Greta’s rejects from the high chair, returning from a doctor’s office possibly, and lucky if she actually showered.

But, like most parents, we manage. This is what we signed up for. We re-group in that moment when Greta is down for the night, Gus is snoozing on one of our chests, the house is quiet again, and we smile at each other. Maybe it’s only twenty minutes or so of calm for just the two of us defensive coordinators, but it’s a coaches’ meeting worth having. And then we press the reset button and start all over again.

As for the two little Ts…

Gus is snoozing next to me as I type. He makes more noise sleeping than any person I’ve ever encountered. And we love it. He snorts and grunts like a truck driver eating a whopper from the drive thru. Strangely, it soothes me and THE WIFE when we hear his chainsaw firing from the bassinette at night. When he’s actually quiet during sleep, it freaks us out.

As for his health, G-man is doing really, really well. He’s off the oxygen, eating a ton, and gaining weight. Giving him a bottle is so nice because he just looks at you with these beautifully innocent blue eyes. I don’t know if he can actually see me yet but I hope so.

Gus also does this thing where he puckers his lips and widens his eyes when we pause during a bottle. Suddenly, he’ll paw my t-shirt collar. I’m convinced he’s telling me to hurry up and get back to his bottle. He just melts me with that irresistible mug.

We watched “Hard Knocks” together last night and I tried to give him a little background of what it means to be a Jet fan. I think he’s keeping his options open.

Meanwhile, Miss Gigi is my other heart melter. I am stunned at how quickly her intelligence and personality are developing. I know I’m biased but she is the cutest little girl I’ve ever known. She mimics everything we say with a “sh” lisp instead of a “th” sound on esses. For example, August is “Augeesh.” “Ice” is “eyesh.” “Sue Sue” is “shoe shoe.”

When G runs through the house, she’s often on her tip toes holding her arms out to balance as her curly hair salad bounces around. I may be hiding out in a different room, trying feverishly to fix something (almost always unsuccessfully) on the DL. But within moments, I inevitably hear the patter of her bare feet coming and then she’s calling for me. She is my little shadow. And I love that.

Recently, my name has transitioned from Gaga to Dah-dee. She enjoys eating raw mushrooms, red onion, pickles, and olives. And the nicest most recent change is the occasional hug from G that comes unsolicited, complete with a gentle pat on my back from her little hand. It’s priceless. She’s learning how to manipulate me already!

Quick Update

2010-08-23T09:30:00.001-07:00

A more thorough post will be forthcoming soon. Gus is totally off oxygen, which is of course great news. More about him and Gigi to come.

Just wanted to share a link to an on-line magazine based in the Boston area that will be featuring my posts over the next three weeks about Gus' birth. It's a pretty cool magazine so take a look here: http://www.goodmenproject.org/. The posts will be under the "Dads" section. "August in July" went on-line this morning - the headline refers to the G-man as "Augustus." He's getting new nick names already!

Take a look at the other articles, too - the magazine has some really talented writers. Enjoy.

Two for One

2010-08-10T19:24:00.000-07:00

Part A - One Week Later, The Dust Settles

After meetings with who knows how many doctors, countless numbers of tubes, wires, and probes pinching, poking, and annoying Gus, we finally got the green light to take our baby home around 9 p.m. last Tuesday night. I may have jogged slightly while lugging the G-man towards our car. Hospitals are terrible places to visit and wonderful places to leave. We were finally getting the eff out of dodge.

Fast forward to today: we’re basically in typical “parent of a newborn” mode - feed baby, burp baby, change baby’s diaper, swaddle baby tight for snoozing, hold/squish/hug/kiss/love baby whenever, then repeat. Oh and one more thing: sleep deprivation. One minute, I feel fine. The next minute, I’m nodding off thinking “Did I just finish a Thanksgiving turkey dinner and an entire bottle of Mark West pinot noir (one of the wife’s faves), or am I just really sleepy?” Then I realize it’s 11 a.m. And it’s still summertime. And I’m watching my fifth episode of Yo Gabba Gabba in a row with Greta.

Seriously though, the only real difference compared to our initial few days home with Greta when she was a newborn is that we have to hook oxygen up to Gus’ nose when he sleeps. His face crinkles and his tiny fingers swipe at my hand when I slip the cannulla into his nose (I imagine it tickles his nostrils a bit) but we’re following the doctor’s orders. Otherwise, everything is status quo. At last count the G-man was packing on some pounds – well, a few ounces at least. And he’s looking great.

Meanwhile, the wife and I have been watching Greta closely to determine if there’s any change in her behavior that may be attributed to Gus’ sudden arrival in her territory. As an older sibling myself, I understand that she merely expressed curiosity and affection for her little brother when she attempted to gouge out one of his eyes and hucked a ball in his face. That doesn’t concern me. The only unusual change in conduct I noticed is that G is suddenly very interested in showing you her “boo-boos.” She points at the supposed injury, furrows her brow in a grave face towards you, and says boo-boo repeatedly until you nod in sympathy and/or kiss the subject area. Honestly, I think she’s fishing for band-aids because Gus has circular ones on each of his cheeks to attach the oxygen tubes. All things considered, we Ts are doing great.

Thanks one more time to all of the family and friends who have reached out in their own way from messages to cards to car rides to watching Gigi to working at our house to gifts and more. We appreciate it very much and thank you all again!

Part B - Try Some O’ Me

By no means do I intend for this blog to become some type of soap box solely for Downs syndrome (“DS”) awareness, but a few of the same questions have popped up from loved ones about DS so I wanted to answer them at least based on the information we’ve been digesting. Again, I reiterate that a medical professional will probably cringe at my hearsay explanation but I think I’ve got a handle on it. So here goes:

1.) What is DS, how does it happen, and why?

DS is a chromosomal disorder. Of the 23 pairs of chromosomes that each of us has, people with DS have an extra one usually at the 21st chromosomal pair. Thus, DS is more commonly known amongst the medical pros as “trisomy-21.” (All of the doctors and nurses in the hospital used this term, which kind of confused us at first but by the 100th time we figured it out.)

Generally, the chromosomal abnormality occurs at the time of conception. Either the egg or the sperm carries the extra chromosome so from the time of fertilization until the fetus develops, the extra chromosome becomes replicated in every cell formed during the subsequent instances of cell division – or meiosis for you high school bio nerds.

I haven’t found any research that affirmatively proves exactly why this happens. However, the evidence states it has nothing to do with anything that mom or dad did during the pregnancy. In other words, neither Shell nor I did anything wrong when we smoked crack and took bong hits during that first trimester.

The likelihood of a baby with DS during any live birth is pretty uncommon: about 1 in 800. However, as you consider the age of the mother, the risk becomes much more significant. For example, 35 year olds have something like a 1 in 380 chance of having a child with DS. 45 year olds have a 1 in 20 chance of having a child with DS.

2.) How will DS affect Gus?

Every kid with DS has a different combination of symptoms and/or complications that distinguish his/her health from that of a typical child. Generally, kids with DS have a higher risk of genetic heart defects (though surprisingly, not the kind that Gus has), gastrointestinal complications, thyroid instability, hearing problems, vision problems, musculoskeletal problems, mental deficiencies, speech difficulties, shorter life expectancy, obesity, and the list goes on.

So far, we know of Gus’ coarctation and hypothyroidism. He has low muscle tone to the extent that his head and neck are even more floppy than a typical infant. We won’t know about his vision until he’s older.

But most importantly, G-man is a warrior. He survived pregnancy. He survived the delivery. He survived the hospital. He has made it home. He also passed his newborn hearing test (which was so weirdly important to me because I love music so much and I need to teach him all about the bands I love), though I was reminded that this can change at any point in Gus’ development. We are choosing to dwell on the positive instead.

3.) How “high” or “low” functioning will Gus be?

This is a valid question and one that Shell and I had immediately, though I must admit I hate the sound of it because it almost suggests we’re doubting Gus before he even has a chance to show us what he’s got. In any event, we have no idea. There is no way to tell at this time. A wide spectrum exists for the potential cognitive and motor function of any kid with DS. The lesson we keep hearing from doctors and parents alike: early intervention. Basically, we need to team up with speech therapists, occupational therapists, and many other professionals as soon as possible to get our future Special Olympian bocce competitor and/or disc golfer (bocce is a Special Olympics event but I’m working on the disc golf) in training for growing up.

4.) Do we face any higher risk of having another child with DS if we have any more kids?

I understand that there are three varieties of DS. The most common type (about 95%) is as I described above when the chromosomal abnormality occurs at conception. The other two are called mosaicism (not applicable to Gus apparently) and translocation. Translocation occurs when one or both of the parents carry a particular gene that results in a higher rate of conceiving children with DS.

According to the genetics testing that occurred when we were at Children’s Hospital, neither Shell nor I are gene carriers. Therefore, the risk of having another baby with DS is only about 1% higher than another couple with expecting mothers of the same age. The wife and I are nowhere near any decision on that front yet but we know that's a question that's been kind of floating out there.

So that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We have a lot to read and learn. If you want to ask and/or educate Shell and I about anything, fire away. Maybe it’ll be a question we haven’t even thought of that we can pitch to G-man’s doctors…

Wow

2010-07-31T20:15:00.001-07:00

In an age when parents stage the escape of a hot air balloon occupied by their boy in the hopes of securing a reality show, I was slightly paranoid of whispers that we may have overstated the Gus-man’s health status – but in my real world anyone who knows me realizes that I much rather prefer to blog about fart innuendo as opposed to one of my children confronting a potentially life threatening medical situation.

The past week has been an emotional roller coaster ride with a track in the shape of a Jackson Pollock painting. On Wednesday night, Shell and I went home with the understanding from Gus’ cardiologists that surgery on his aorta was happening on either Thursday or Friday barring the less than one percent chance that he improved. Considering that children born with Down Syndrome (see sidebar) occur in about 1 out of every 800 live births in the U.S., we should have been cognizant not to rule out small percentages. We also neglected to realize that every relative, friend, acquaintance, and friend of friend who heard about our situation were sending their prayers, positive thoughts, and good vibes towards the hospital room that held our little fighter at Boston Children’s Hospital.

By Thursday, the newest echocardiogram forced the Ivy League educated team of doctors to pause. Gus’ pulmonary pressure was suddenly improving. They decided to wait 24 hours before green lighting surgery. Still, they reminded us, be prepared that they may have to take immediate action if necessary. By that time, our support network had been dialing in favors to saints and others were asking deceased loved ones to pull some strings. The tide was turning.

On Friday night, our cardiologist came back to us smiling and scratching his head. Gus’ latest echo indicated that not only that surgery was no longer an option but they were going to taper his oxygen immediately and discharge the G-man out of intensive care.

On Saturday morning, I got to hold my son for the first time in I don’t know how many days while Greta wreaked havoc on a breast pump and anything else she could get her hands on in Gus’ room. Last I knew, Gus had been off of oxygen for several hours, he was eating, peeing, and pooping - just like many of the babies born on July 23, 2010. We’re hoping to get August Thomas home some time early next week.

I cannot adequately express the gratitude that Shell and I have for every single message or gesture of hope, encouragement, kindness, love, and support that we received these last few tumultuous days. My faith in humanity is restored a hundred times over. While some may have preferred not to publicize these quite personal events, this small blogging project became a therapeutic outlet for me. I had a lot bottled up inside and I needed to get it out. Thank you for reading along and being there with us. At this point, I’m looking forward to making light of the little things in my family’s lives again.

I’m spent. I haven’t felt this range of emotions in a single week in my entire life. I hope never to experience anything like it again. The only emotion I hope to experience now is the sheer joy when I’m pulling into my driveway and lugging my baby boy’s car seat into our home. When that happens, I’ll be happy to tell you all about it followed shortly by the ensuing chaos of raising two beautiful children 17 months apart.

Rolling With The Punches

2010-07-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

First let me say thank you to all of our family and friends for their comforting words, offers of support, kind gestures, good vibes, and prayers. We are blown away by the vast array of people who have taken the time to reach out: total strangers; old friends from grammar school to law school; friends from former jobs; and honestly many folks with whom we haven’t spoken or seen in several years. Wow. Many of you have made Shell and I smile, laugh, and/or cry with happiness. Thank you, every single one of you.

Speaking of the wife, she’s reminded me to call our son August – not just Gus – every once in a while, too. Done. Moving on.

Since Monday afternoon, we’ve been in a whirlwind. Up to 4 pm that day, we were under the impression that Gus’ heart was basically okay. But his second echocardiogram showed a change from his original one over the weekend. Around 7 pm, an ambulance took Gus in a tiny box on a stretcher from the neonatal ICU at Beth Israel to the neonatal ICU at Children’s Hospital across the street. On Tuesday, he moved up one floor to the cardiac ICU. He is stable and resting comfortably there as of Wednesday night.

At the risk of butchering the proper medical terms and a technically accurate summary of his status, here’s my understanding. A duct in G-man’s heart was supposed to close when he took his first breath but it stayed open. A portion of his aorta (probably defective already) began narrowing as the duct stayed open. Meanwhile, pressure increased in his lungs, which caused Gus to breathe more often and rapidly, which further worsened the pressure. The doctors are now medicating Gus and intentionally keeping the duct open to prevent increased pressure in his lungs. He’s on an IV for food/hydration. He’s got tubes, wires, lights, and buttons connecting different body parts to machines making all sorts of noises. He will almost certainly go to surgery to correct the narrowing in his aorta and relieve the lung pressure either tomorrow or Friday. Unbelievably, no one with whom we’ve spoken knows when exactly his operation will take place – but that is literally my only complaint with the hospital. (Well except the traffic situation leaving the parking lot – can someone please sort that out?)

To back up, Shell checked out of BI on Tuesday morning. We spent all day at Children’s NICU bonding with Gus and meeting with various medical peeps. The news kept getting worse. Hi, I’m an endocrinologist. Gus has hypothyroidism. We need to give him a pill every day now for the rest of his life. Much more seriously, the cardiologist was concerned that Gus’ lung pressure was worsening. They wanted consent to transfer him to the cardiac unit and put him on a ventilator. The punches just didn’t stop that day.

We went home that evening, which was difficult to say the least. (Shell has made about 90% of Gus’ caretakers cry. It’s her test to make sure they care, I think.) But we needed to get home to change clothes, shower, sleep in our beds, but most of all, to see our little Greta. She needed us and we needed her. She brightened our moods immediately. I think G’s bath went a little long that night. And we had an impromptu dance party before bed. It was therapeutic for all.

So today, we spent the day at Children’s cardiac ICU. The staff there (and everywhere else for that matter) have been absolutely wonderful. Most importantly, Gus looked great. He just seemed better. Your and our prayers are being answered, I swear.

Though we could not feed him, August’s mom got to hold him. I kissed him whenever I could. It was finally a good day.

Before I sign off, I’d like to share something special that happened today. We asked to meet with a chaplain when we arrived. Before Gus was born, the wife and I agreed that we would do something for both of our kids at the same time, which would be analogous to a baptism or christening – but done by us at our home in our own way in the company of family and friends. We hadn’t hashed out the details yet but the seeds were germinating. However, in light of the unpredictability of Gus’ impending heart surgery, we wanted to improvise a little somethingsomething to recognize both the little man’s arrival and the immediate challenge he faced.

Not long after we arrived, a woman stopped by and introduced herself as one of the staff chaplains. We explained our spiritual beliefs as well as we could in the ten minutes we were together. We explained Gus’ situation and the work-in-progress we had originally planned to do at home. She left to go to her office and returned within 30 minutes. She came back with a proposed outline. We added a few tweaks.
And just like that, we experienced a beautifully simple meditation of sorts together. We forgot about everything except how much we love our son in those moments. It was perfect.

We’ll continue to keep you updated the best we can. Thanks again to all pulling for Gus out there. Keep up the good work.

The Curveball

2010-07-26T07:06:00.000-07:00

By eleven or so, we were in our hospital room waiting to be reunited with Gus. He was in the nursery undergoing what I assumed to be regular tests. After a little while, I went to check on our little guy. The pediatrician told me that Gus’ body temperature wasn’t quite stable enough yet for him to come down but it shouldn’t be too much longer. I updated Shell and we continued calling and texting our good news to loved ones.

Around one, I was in the middle of writing the last blog when the pediatrician came into our room. I knew immediately that something was wrong by the look in her face. She closed the door. Then she hit us with a sledgehammer. Gus had several characteristics of a baby with Down’s syndrome. They would not know for sure until completion of a certain blood test but they were pretty sure.

I wanted to vomit but I comforted my wife instead. She was angry, hurt, and scared because the doctor was telling us that our beautiful son whom she carried in her belly for nine months and held in her arms for the first time only hours ago was not the baby we thought we were having. Shell engaged the pediatrician challenging her to defend her position. I sat by numbly holding Shell’s hand. Moments passed by in a blur as they spoke. Finally, Shell and I were left alone with our son to think and talk.

When I saw Gus shortly after he was born, I noticed that he had a lot of skin going all the way around his neck – almost like a huge double chin turtleneck. I presumed there was simply a lot of fetal fluid or something. He was only minutes old and still transitioning from the womb to the world. I didn’t say anything so as not to alarm Shell unnecessarily. The doctors didn’t say anything so I had no reason to worry.

When I saw Gus in the nursery for the first time, his neck was still unusual to me. Even though the temperature thing seemed reasonable, I thought they were spending a lot of time with Gus. Then I remembered that I was sleeping before they brought Greta to us for the first time so I tried not to overreact. No need to panic.
When the pediatrician came in to see us, I said inside my head “Don’t say Down’s - don’t say Down’s” over and over until she actually said it. Holy shit, I knew it.

Only two minutes after the pediatrician left us alone, Shell and I were sitting together still dumbfounded when all of a sudden we realize that Gus is turning blue. I ran for a nurse, they grabbed him and started running down the hall, I looked at Shell to see what she wanted me to do. “Go with them!” she yelled bawling. I ran behind the nurses to the nursery. I feared that our son was about to die in front of my eyes. This isn’t possibly happening right now. I want to wake up and start this day over again. Please save my son.

Finally, they gesture to me that he is okay and breathing. I return to Shell and we hold each other.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

On July 23, 2010, everything changed for my family and nothing changed for my family. Greta is now a big sister. Our siblings have their first nephew. My parents have their first grandson. Nana has her fifth grandchild. My grandfather has his third great-grandchild! We all loved August Thomas before he even got to the party.

I don’t believe in religion. But I do believe in goodness, karma, and an energy that is greater than all of humankind. Perhaps that is what God means to you. Whatever we call this unknown force, it gave my wife and I a gift in the form of our son.

Gus is our flesh and blood. He is our gorgeous baby boy. He is a Teravainen! He happens to have Down’s syndrome. I refuse to let an extra chromosome define him as a person. And I will strive to be the best father I can possibly be, just as I have since the arrival of our first Baby T in February last year.

Our family and friends have asked what they can do to help and support us. Here is our confident answer. Celebrate Gus’ arrival with us. Congratulations are what we want to hear. High five me. Bro hug me. Drink a toast with me to Gus. Love our son dearly with us just as you love our daughter. We are not sorry that we have a path ahead of us that was different from what we originally expected. When you sign up to be a parent, you inherit all of the unexpected turns and twists that come with that child.

Gus is still in intensive care because he cannot breathe on his own yet. I understand from the doctors that his respiratory issue is unrelated to Down’s. We will know more as the week progresses. Fortunately, his heart appears to be healthy based on all tests conducted to date.

Michelle and I are going home on Tuesday to reunite with Greta and to sleep in our own beds. Gus will be staying at the hospital for the time being. We are disappointed to not be bringing him home with us right away but we know he needs to be a bit stronger before that can happen.

We appreciate all of the kind words and offers of support our loved ones have extended. We will try to be in touch as much as possible but don’t be discouraged if we are a bit slow to respond. For the time being, just say a prayer for Gus that he will be breathing without oxygen soon. That is the only wish we have at this time!

August in July

2010-07-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

In keeping with tradition, we’re blogging to you live on the eve and morning of Baby T 2.0’s arrival.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

6:00 p.m. – I am painting Greta’s bedroom door and touching up the kitchen. The wife is folding laundry because she is obsessed with washing clothes in Dreft these past couple days. If you’re not looking, she’ll take the socks off your feet to complete a full load of whites. I’m still in denial that a baby is coming tomorrow. By the way, I think I’ve got a corneal abrasion after a mishap at Lowe’s loading a box onto the cash register’s conveyor belt. Long story. Bottom line is it feels like a pebble is stuck in my eyelid. Sweet.

7:00 p.m. – Nana took G for the weekend so the wife and I are heading out for a quiet dinner date. We head to a tapas restaurant not too far from our place. Glass of Spanish red for the wife. She’s having a contraction. Chopin chilled straight up with olives for me. My eye hurts. Are we really having a baby tomorrow?

8:00 p.m. – We hammer back some delicious grub: scallops, mussels, beef tenderloin, green beans with garlic and almonds, and empanadas. Great stuff. Yes, I’d love a glass of what she’s drinking. We have a 6 a.m. appointment for the c-section. Let’s have dessert. It may be a while before we have dinner without bibs, sippy cups, bottles, or burp cloths.

9:30 p.m. – Back at the casa. Mad dash by mama to finish packing. We check out “Deadliest Catch” on the DVR. (Rest in peace, Captain Phil!) I try to write but I’m too tired. I’ll try tomorrow

11:00 p.m. – Finally, we turn out the lights for our 5 a.m. wake up. I’m so happy to be in bed. This will be the last time we snooze peacefully for possibly the next several months. Mama announces that she’s having more contractions as I drift off to sleep. I’m uninterested and tired.

Friday, July 23, 2010

12:30 a.m. – The wife is having more contractions, she decides to tell me after waking me up. I roll over.

1:30 a.m. – The wife is still contracting. Thanks for the update.

2:30 a.m. – The wife continues to contract. What do you want me to do about it?

3:30 a.m. – You guessed it. Contractions. I’m really annoyed.

4:30 a.m. – Okay, let’s just get out of bed because clearly the wife is not going to let me sleep. Why? Because she can’t sleep. Naturally, I should suffer too, she reasons.

5:47 a.m. – We arrive at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston. Contractions are five minutes apart. We check in.

6:30 a.m. – Michelle’s first measurement. Drum roll please. 4-5 centimeters. Whoa. I guess she is in labor. Glad to know that our son is prompt. How did he know he was going to arrive today?

6:45 a.m. – The original C-section was scheduled for 8 a.m. so the wife’s doctor may not be on time to deliver Baby T. She begins to cry. Don’t mess with a laboring pregnant lady.

7:00 a.m. – Phew. Our doctor made it early so we can get started! The wife is whisked off to have her spinal. I am left alone with my booties, jumpsuit, mask, and cap. I hated this part with Greta. I’m hating this part with 2.0. No other nurses or parents in waiting. I’m by myself.

7:15 a.m. – Wish they had ESPN in here. Or a sports page.

7:30 a.m. – Finally! A nurse comes in to get me. They are ready for me. I have the camera in hand.

7:32 a.m. – I sit next to Shelly’s head. I am avoiding looking beyond the curtain for fear of passing out.

7:45 a.m. – The doctors, nurses, and Teravainens are all chatting as if we’re in a coffee shop sipping lattes and exchanging light hearted small talk – except the wife’s insides are exposed to the world to see and I’m trying not to let on that I’m freaking out inside. The doctors occasionally tug and pull at her belly, which I witness in a shadowy silhouette I wish I could not see.

7:50 a.m. – The wife and I squeeze our hands together in anticipation. They say he’s almost here.

7:55 a.m. – We hear a squawk, finally! And, we’ve got a dong. “It’s a boy!” they announce officially. “What’s his name?” they ask next.

We happily reply, “AUGUST THOMAS TERAVAINEN!” Thus, we give you, August in July.

TO BE CONTINUED…

House of Pain

2010-07-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve tried to write so many times the last couple weeks without luck. Not sure if anyone missed the posts besides my baby mama and me, but it’s been killing me that all this time has gone by without writing anything considering how much has been going on with our family. We closed on our place finally, moved out of Nana’s basement, painted indoors without AC (can I trade one of my kidneys for central air?) during “vacation” from work, packed up and unpacked, etc. - all of which would have taken much, much longer if not for the help of really supportive loved ones, etc. Anyways, think I’m jammed up on the boards partly because of fatigue from all the unpacking but also because the original post I was trying to write just sucked. So I decided to scrap the last draft and start from scratch.

After who knows how many hours logged watching HGTV with the wife, combined with my two whole summers of painting experience in college, I was ready to go Van Gogh on our house’s ass after we closed two Wednesdays ago. Well, sitting here now in retrospect of the work we crammed in last week, I kinda hope never to watch any show ever again whose title contains the words home, house, makeover, design, or color splash. These “hosts” who double as “workers” subliminally mislead weekend warriors such as myself into believing that a single room, or even a whole house for that matter, can be transformed in merely thirty minutes (twenty-two without commercials). Of course, these half-hour facelifts even include a montage of how bad the place looked before the work, some compelling melodrama about the residents’ life situation, and the climactic “reveal” complete with absurd decorations like a recycled Cessna plane propeller jutting out of a closet door for the 7-year old kid who casually mentioned that she might want to be a pilot some day. Naturally, six days should be enough to add another floor to our house let alone paint a paltry four rooms.

In any event, I haven’t tried so hard to do something so well lately than paint Greta’s bedroom last week. I wasted so much damn time in that damn room trying to make it just perfect. I should’ve saved it for last because the paint part of my brain needed a bit of a refresher course. In any event, we ran out of the really pretty light lavender for G’s walls when we needed one more coat. A few days later when the paint finally arrived from the web site where mama ordered it, the wall got its final coat. When I removed tape from the ceiling to finish off the job, of course I peeled off between one and three layers of prior paint coats from years passed and the ceiling’s edges looked like shit. It was late, it was hot, and the new carpet was arriving the next morning. Hastily, I slapped a coat where needed in the hopes that all peel spots would be covered up. My new mantra of “touch it up later if necessary” mouthed silently from my lips without me even realizing it. To the tired yet still critical eyes of Nana and myself, the room looked a million times cuter than it did before.

At some point during that whirlwind, I experienced a sense of fulfillment performing these “dad” jobs last week that was unrivaled in my whole 17 months of prior experience on the job. In Southie, we had no yard, no garage, no workshop. The environment wasn’t exactly conducive to traditional fatherly duties except maybe assembling hellish Ikea furniture pieces or cooking breakfast on weekends. I couldn’t even hose down our cars because there wasn’t any outdoor faucet to connect a hose. Consequently, in a convoluted way, it felt good to slide a closet door over my middle finger and tear off part of my nail – not because I’m into S&M but because I was yanking up an old carpet in preparation of laying a new one for my children to walk over barefoot on Christmas morning for several years to come. The prospect of future experiences under this roof with my wife and two children genuinely excited me. It was a nice feeling. And then my finger was bleeding on the floor, which felt not so great.

Fast forward to last night, entering G’s room in search of a diaper, I spotted a small layer of paint peeling away from the ceiling and dangling above the crib. I cringed with frustration immediately and hung my head. Slowly, I moved my head upwards towards a higher, invisible being before sighing and reminding myself it could be worse. I could be a Cleveland Cavaliers fans. My advice to them: “touch it up later if necessary.” I’m going to get my roller right now.

Apropos of Nothing

2010-06-13T17:53:00.000-07:00

Boston Globe Sunday Sports Page enthusiasts may recognize my title. And I say that imitation is the ultimate form of flattery, Nick Cafardo… On Saturday, the T family went to a birthday party for the Conn triplets that was so cute and fun for both the kids and adults alike. (Thank you, Jess and Mike.) At home later that night, I realized that my attention span and level of preoccupation are at their worst when we’re interacting at social gatherings with Greta. Someone could be in the middle of explaining how Jessica Biel wants to sleep with me no strings attached but I cut them off because G is about to drink from an unattended wine glass or she’s trying to pry a sippy cup from another little one’s hands. While the veteran parent is empathetic, I still feel horrible in retrospect - especially if I was talking to a non-parent. My “clarking out” (my dad’s been preoccupied when I speak to him for the last 30 years) is only going to worsen once Baby T2 arrives because the wife’s and my defensive scheme at parties will naturally have to shift to man-to-man from our current 2 v.1 zone. My apologies to anyone I left in the lurch mid-conversation… My new favorite antic of G’s is easily the sudden and spontaneous dance party that ensues when she’s digging on a good song. She’ll be in her own world playing with a toy when she senses a good jam, moves to a clear space in the room, and begins to hop around in a circle on her knees jerking her head from side to side – all the while smiling and flailing her arms in delight. It melts my heart to see her so happy… When G farts audibly and obviously, she smiles with guilt as her eyes dart to the faces of all around for fear of discovery. It cracks me up… Changing G’s diaper nowadays is like trying to lasso a calf while on horseback. When she’s dropped a bomb in her drawers, she’s inevitably way more squirmy and I just pray she doesn’t get poop on her hands while I struggle to secure the adhesive straps around her waist in a barely symmetrical final position… The next time you see her, please ask G to show you her “pretty eyes.” Pep added this trick to Greta’s arsenal, which she usually reserves only for males. Occasionally, she greets me with her “pretty eyes” unsolicited as I get her out of the crib in the morning. Other times, G will crane her neck forwards to do the honors as we eat dinner, making sure to bat her eyes at each person sitting around her. Once in a while, she even follows it up with a flirtatious wink that is more accurately described as G keeping her mouth open and one eye larger than the other… Speaking of eating, we use these bibs with a snap in the back because Greta can’t yank them off. About a month ago, Nana accidentally caught some of G’s hair as she snapped the bib around G’s neck. Consequently, G says “ow” pretty much every time someone either takes it off or puts it on… While we’re on the meal topic, I’ve been trying to teach Greta that throwing her sippy cup or food on the floor is bad. Basically, I make a stern face with my eyebrows pointing down, lower my head towards G, and say in a deeper voice while pointing to the floor “No!” When she puts the sippy cup back on her tray, instead of the floor, I say “very good” or something encouraging. Shortly after these disciplinary “lessons” began, G has changed her behavior minimally. She still hucks food and the sippy cup like a brat, but instead of just carrying on nonchalantly, she actually stops and points to the floor, shaking her head, while saying “Nooooo” in her own deep voice. I can’t keep a straight face and the adults at the table look away because we are trying not to lose our shit laughing. Basically, I suck as a disciplinarian… On my bath nights, I kind of treat it like a starting pitcher. First inning, G and I turn on the bath and check for the right temp. We pour in the soap. We wave at the toys as they begin to float. Second inning, I take off G’s clothes and diaper. I place her in. Third and fourth innings, I scrub her down and give sound effects as she plays with the toys. Fifth inning, we shampoo and rinse the hair. Sixth inning, I rinse off the rest of her body. As soon as I switch the valve down to drain the tub, G says bye-bye to her toys. In the seventh, I wrap G in a towel, pick her up, and stand in front of the sink. We wave at the mirror and grab the Elmo tooth brush. She likes to stick the brush repeatedly under running water, and then we go to the dreaded changing table. This is where I begin to tire as the starter. 95% of the time, G fights me with her diaper (see above) and I am hoping for a conference at the mound with my catcher and pitching coach so that the reliever a/k/a the wife comes in to finish off the game. 67% of those times, my pitching coach is nowhere to be seen or updating her status on FB oblivious to or simply ignoring my struggles. Somehow, we make it through to pajamas, the final bottle, her sleep sack, and finally bed. Complete game shutouts are rare, but no matter what the result, a celebratory drink in the clubhouse is often automatic.

Tootie Fruity

2010-05-31T19:22:00.000-07:00

While I certainly enjoy sweets once in a while, candy and ice cream don’t pose as much of a temptation to me as compared to, oh I don’t know, say an eight-months-pregnant lady. Overall, I’m much more a fan of savory over sweet. But that's not to say I don't enjoy sweet.

Before G’s arrival, my eating habits weren’t necessarily bad but they weren’t the greatest either. Once G transitioned into eating real food, it was a perfect opportunity for me to rediscover a very simple pleasure somewhat forgotten: fruit.

As a kid, my parents always had at least apples, bananas, and oranges lying in a bowl around the house at 2 Bert Street. When in season, peaches, pears, plums, and grapes were common, too. During holidays, figs, dates, dried fruit, and nuts appeared in bowls on the dining room table for nibbling with coffee and dessert after a big family meal.

From the time I was in college through my glorious years of freedom that preceded cohabitation with the wife, 90% of my meals were prepared by someone outside of the kitchen where I lived. It’s fair to say I wasn’t ordering a fruit basket from Cappy’s Pizza. But once the wife and I were under the same roof, she reminded me it was possible to shop at the supermarket and make your own meals. Suddenly, bananas became a part of my diet again.

As Greta graduated from bottles to real food, I looked to the wife to explain what we’d feed her first. Cheese steak bombs with mushrooms, peppers, and onions? Chili cheese hot dogs with sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, and hots? Boloco tofu burritos with peanut sauce and Asian slaw? None of the above. I think we started with mushy plain cereal of some sort. But fortunately for G and her colon, she made it to fruit pretty quickly thereafter. G eats grapes like a dog eats anything in a mass quantity – if you leave too much in front of them, they’ll scarf it down like contestants on The Biggest Loser the night before arriving at the ranch.

Fruits are fun food. Nothing says summer like eating cherries and spitting out the seeds as you go. Grab a handful, pop em’ in your mouth, sit back, and just carry on with your conversation. Watermelon’s good like that, too. And there’s something about slicing up an orange or apple to share while sitting at a table next to somebody. It’s a communal thing, I guess.

Of course, the novelty of fruits’ natural sweetness has begun to wane now that G has dabbled in bites of ice cream, animal crackers, and other tantalizing treats. She’s a lot more likely to huck a strawberry over the side of her high chair now that she’s become more of a fruit pro. I guess we need to step things up a bit in the produce department. Maybe some mango or kiwi fruit. Perhaps a nectarine. I know. I’m a wild man.

Still to come: other culinary frontiers for us to conquer. Raw oysters. Buffalo wings. Sushi. Hot sauce. And the best treat is just around the corner: G’s first peanut butter cup!

Baby, Baby, I Got That Fever

2010-05-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

On Sunday night, the wife and I were winding down the day watching the Survivor finale when we heard Greta stirring in the other room. After dinner, the wife thought that our little girl was a bit warm and I of course disagreed. I thought G was fine.

I did G’s bath, got her into her PJs, and filled the night bottle. (I suspect the wife is mortified now that the public is aware we still do a bottle because we have apparently broken some unwritten rule where a 15-month old should have graduated to sippy cups by now. The horror!) As she often does before I turn to leave her crib, G clutched a binky in her mouth, a binky in each hand, laid down on the mattress, and said “bye-bye” before turning over to fall asleep. (Uh oh, now everyone knows G still sleeps with a binky. More shame on us. We're utter failures as parents.)

Around nine o’clock, just about when the jury was listening to the final arguments of Russell, Sandra, and Parvati, we heard G. I got up to investigate. Misplaced binky perhaps? Bad dream? Poop? Lots of potentially harmless reasons.

G was crying groggily. She looked uncomfortable. I felt her head. En fuego. I immediately took off the sleep sack and the PJ pants. The wife came in to see for herself. Our collective red flags were now standing straight up. Eventually, the wife decided appropriately that we take G’s official temp. Fortunately, we purchased a digital thermometer for recording from the ear so we didn’t have to go in through the out door. Unfortunately, Greta equally disliked the ear instrument.

We tested the thermometer on ourselves first by placing it in our ears and pressing the button. A beep activated within seconds giving a reading on the digital display. I was a hypothermal 95 degrees. The wife was somewhere in the same neighborhood. I wanted to huck the piece of crap out the window and smash it with a hammer. Moving quickly because of G’s growing restlessness, we anticipated having to calibrate by roughly adding three degrees to whatever reading we got on G. It came back at 97 and change.

G had been noticeably drooling and teething recently so we knew a higher temp may be the simple by-product of her molars coming in. Even so, G was a bit moody compared to her usual happy self during the past day’s events. To be sure, we decided to be, well, anal and get a more accurate reading. As is generally the case in tough parent situations, mama was bad cop while I was good cop. (The wife’s tougher than me, what can I say? I start to wilt the second I hear G whimper.) I soothed our little girl and tried to keep her still as the wife probed dutifully. 102.7. Yikes! We were nervous now.

My grandmother Grace lost her firstborn son when he was two years old. As I understand it, my grandmother went to the hospital with her baby because of a fever. The doctors sent them home with instructions to take aspirin. He died shortly thereafter, most likely from meningitis. Undoubtedly, my dad’s parents were never the same again.

I have thought often about that family tragedy since becoming a father. I can’t even fathom the level of devastation my grandparents must have experienced. They did nothing wrong. They listened to medical professionals. The medical professionals were catastrophically mistaken. Eventually, the doctors of course moved on while my grandparents mourned their son’s loss for years. I tried to block out that thought and to focus on our little girl. I realized now that she was almost panting in her breathing.

The wife called the doctor's office and consulted with Nana who came down to help. We followed the nurse's instructions: lukewarm bath, Tylenol, and fluids. If the temperature increased, go to the hospital. Otherwise, prepare for a long night. The wife and I did the bath, administered Tylenol, reduced G’s layers, and comforted her back to sleep.

Without saying anything, we both knew the other was part scared and part nervous while trying to remain calm. We tried to distract ourselves by watching Survivor again. Suddenly, these “reality” characters' struggles to “survive” seemed more trivial and less entertaining.

We checked in on G at first every 15 minutes. I volunteered to do the 2 a.m. shift before we turned in at 12:30. G awoke around 1:45 and mama beat me out of bed. She soothed G back to sleep. I checked on G at 4. Sound asleep. Still warm but okay. Hour by hour, we rode out the storm until the morning. After another up and down day, G was back to her normal self by dinner time the next day. Phew, we made it. Cue the big sigh of relief and nervous laughter wondering aloud what we were so worried about.

I know this instance is of course only the first of many fevers, calls to the doctor, and other inevitable scares that will cause us to lose sleep in the future. But as long as we have the same outcome with G laughing, playing, smiling, and otherwise being her normal self, I’ll never complain.

Nice work mama. Thanks for being my partner … and for being the bad cop. Now where’s that damn digital thermometer? I don’t care if it cost 40 bucks, it’s outta here.

A Tradition Revisited

2010-05-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

A belated Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, the wife, nana, and all of the other ladies who are loving and wonderful mothers to their children. And a special Happy Mother’s Day to those who recently became moms including my cousin Kat who welcomed Aiden Patrick last week and Castleton Kristin E. who welcomed Lydia Eve a few weeks ago. Congrats ladies!

So, the T family had a really big night tonight. You may recall that when G entered the world last year, we were fortunate enough to watch an episode of Friday Night Lights (“FNL”) at the hospital before the labor went into full speed ahead. As a result of the show's timing just before G's arrival, FNL has a special place in our hearts. Turns out we’re not alone. To uphold the precedent established during G’s introduction to FNL, we’re fulfilling tradition with a running diary blog of 2010’s season opener.

To re-cap last season, Coach Taylor lost his job at the end of the football season because of the evil, rich father of a rising star quarterback J.D. who rigged the system to depose our beloved head coach. Meanwhile, the town of Dillon became redistricted resulting in the transfer of many students from Dillon High to previously defunct East Dillon High. In a curious twist, Coach’s wife Tammi remained as principal at Dillon High when Coach took the helm of the decrepit football program at East Dillon. Several other things took place but we don’t have time or space to summarize. Now to the basement at 46 Great Meadow Drive in Carver...

The wife and I are hunkered down in Nana’s basement. The DVR is 98% full and we're anxious to cross this one off the list. The wife is enthusiastically chewing on Swedish fish. Her crinkling of the bag as she reaches in for another is distracting me. I request a volume increase in the hopes that she gets the point without me having to ask her to be quiet. I forgive her though because she's carrying our second baby and she hasn’t been this pumped for a season opener of a high school drama since Gossip Girl and the new Bev Niner. She presses play.

Coach Taylor and the detective discuss who will most certainly become the juvenile delinquent turned football ringer at East Dillon this season. Let’s just call this kid Smash part II. I'm leery… Tim Riggins is in college with very fluffy hair. Looks like he’s been using a lot of Pert Plus. Also appears that he’s quitting college after one bad literature class. We knew it was too good to be true. Riggins’ Riggs here he comes… Tammi Taylor is still the hottest high school principal cougar ever. Redonculous. Parents are yelling at her because of the redistricting. Not fair. Not her fault. I can't believe she's over 30…

Matt Saracen’s sad story continues. The Dillon graduate and former starting QB couldn’t go to college because of his ill grandmother. He’s now a pizza delivery boy driving my brother’s old Chevy Celebrity station wagon. Even worse, he has to deliver some pies to the sophomore quarterback J.D. whose dad was behind Coach Taylor’s firing in addition to Matt's benching last year. By the way, J.D. has become a villain douchebag since last season. I see this ending ugly…

The wife almost just went into labor. She just fast forwarded with the remote over commercials a little too far and freaked out because Riggins is topless after a one night stand with a bartender (by the way, his bar going character is 18 still) who took him home to her house. The wife's finers are frantically struggling with the fast forward, play, pause, and rewind buttons. Wait for it. Wait for it. Now she’s paused it to look at Tim’s eight pack. I think I had one of those around 1985. I hate him. Anyway, Riggins’ milf lover has a hot daughter who is now singing the national anthem at the East Dillon game...

Game night is finally here and the camera is toggling between each of the school’s opening football games. I’m thinking that rich Dillon will be upset as J.D.'s leg breaks in half like Joe Theismann's by Lawrence Taylor while scrappy, underprivileged East Dillon will pull off an upset in Coach Taylor’s debut. Ok, maybe just wishful thinking. Let’s see what happens…

J.D.’s dad is an even bigger douche than his son. I want him to get run over by a Cadillac Escalade from Buddy Garrity’s dealership. I also want Lila to be back on the show. Derek Jeter is a lucky man… As suspected, Dillon is romping and East Dillon is not faring so well. The Lions are getting crushed and the locker room at halftime is filled with more injury clichés than Any Given Sunday or The Program…

Coach Taylor just forfeited the game at halftime. I can’t believe it. This is not the Coach Taylor we all know and love. This is also not the FNL that we all know and love. Too many unoriginal story lines. Too many predictable plot "twists." We are in for a long season. I hope that East Dillon’s football team and the show’s writers turn things around. Soon. Like next week. Go Lions!

Nana's Basement: Temporary Tenants

2010-05-02T19:04:00.000-07:00

When I tell people that we have moved in with my mother-in-law, most of them kind of laugh and smile the same way my buddies do when someone announces they’re getting a vasectomy. The reasons may be sound and logical on paper, but every married man still kinda cringes. Fortunately, I sincerely enjoy my mother-in-law’s company so our recent cohabitation until July should be relatively painless.

(For those just tuning in, the wife and I sold our condo a few weeks ago and we close on a house in Easton on June 23rd – knock on wood. In the interim, my mother-in-law graciously offered and/or surrendered to putting us up at her Carver home in the interim.)

In the blog, I was inclined initially to call the wife’s mom the “M.I.L.” but then I realized the name may be confusingly similar to “M.I.L.F.” and that’s just plain dangerous territory. Instead, we’ll go with “Nana” and move on.

Yep, so we’re living in Nana’s basement. If you told the wife in 2000 that she, her husband, and her firstborn child would be living in her mother’s basement by 2010, I’m pretty sure she’d think that something went terribly wrong. After a few weeks, though, it’s been pleasantly successful in my opinion. The change in scenery has resulted in a lot of changes for all involved.

For example, Nana’s house has transformed from a meticulously clean home straight out of Martha Stewart to a childproof day care center overnight. Her stairway is now a labyrinth of child gates. Her kitchen tablecloth and floor have souvenirs from every meal that G eats. Nana’s living room table was replaced by a tent in the shape of a green frog complete with roll out tongue. Sippy cups and plastic sporks have taken over her cabinets. Total bedlam, as you can imagine.

As for me, the biggest adjustment (besides not openly farting in three weeks) has been an overhaul to the daily schedule. Wake up is 5 a.m. (don’t cry for me Argentina) so as to avoid traffic on Routes 3 and 93. Dinner is at 6 p.m. on the dot, which is the greatest sight (besides my fam) after getting home from work. After sundown, I wear my headlamp to get around because Nana doesn’t use lights in her house unless she’s hosting guests – and now we’re technically housemates. Lastly, my bedtime is around 9:30 p.m., which makes me feel like I should be watching “Golden Girls” or “Matlock” with an earpiece connected to the TV.

Besides one major faux pas on my part (I flushed the toilet instinctively after a wake up pee, which activated the septic pump and woke Nana immediately – whoops!), we seem to be settling right in. Gigi is loving her new digs and all the attention from her Nana and Pep. The wife is happy to spend so much time with her clone, I mean mom. I’m beginning to like this “All in the Family” thing. Maybe we should drag this living-in-the-basement thing out a little longer.

Well, gotta go. The light’s just went out. Is it 7 o’clock already?

(Editors' note: Thank you very much Nana. We very much appreciate you letting us disrupt your life for the next two months!)

Original Besties

2010-04-02T21:41:00.000-07:00

In a prior life, I am convinced that G was living somewhere in Asia – and possibly vacationed in Rhode Island. My conjecture is based solely on one of the many ways that G presently pronounces “Hi” (by far her favorite word) when she is being melodramatic, which is often. Anyway, it goes like this:
“Hiiiiii-eeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggg-ga.” To me, it sounds like what would happen if one combined 95% Mandarin and 5% Pawtucketese, then poured it over Bostonian English. Just saying. Moving on to the matter at hand…

As her mom and dad, the wife and I have taken credit for all of Greta’s breakthroughs and accomplishments in her first 14 months of life. I’ve come to realize, however, that accepting future praise without disclosing full credit would be like Brangelina or the Gosselins suggesting that they personally parent Maddux or Alexis for more than an hour a day.

In what is probably a long overdue post and confession of sorts, I finally have the opportunity to discuss one of the most important players in the T family parent team: Kate. Honestly, I'm ashamed it's taken me this long to introduce her to you because she plays such an enormous role in our small family's life.

When the wife prepared to end her maternity leave and rejoin the work force last spring, our original babysitter option fell through. We scrambled to find somebody on short notice. I’ll go out on a limb and say that the wife was a bit anxious about finding the right person to watch our two-month old at home. Kate's arrival was timely, to say the least.

Kate came to us by way of an enthusiastic recommendation from one of my own high school besties who had employed Kate part-time to watch her daughter. Next, the wife set up an “interview” in which she prepared notes on index cards and positioned a hot lamp over a chair in anticipation of a thorough interrogation. Surprisingly, when Kate walked in, the two ladies realized they used to work together at a bar in Southie and it was all gravy from that point forward. The wife and I breathed a sigh of relief.

As the time between Greta and Kate went from days to weeks to months, mama bear and I were increasingly stoked. Kate is a registered nurse - awesome. She lives in Southie - nice. She is trustworthy and responsible - essential. She is wise beyond her years - bonus. She’s taught G how to say “dude” along with probably every other word in her vocab - wow. She is sweet, funny, totally grounded, and devours books faster than anyone I know. She also enjoys teaming up with the wife and ragging on me for my lack of contemporary music selections in the iPod. You get the picture. (Yes, I’m crushing on her but minus any creepiness.)

Most important of all, however, Kate has come to love Greta (or at least it seems to me) in a way that’s as close to being a parent as we could ever hope. And Greta, in turn, loves Kate like a third parent-slash-older sister, cousin, aunt, and BFF. When Kate enters the door, G-Sizzle usually howls some indecipherable noise of glee and convulses in joy. Kate hardly has time to even take off her coat before she scoops up Gigi and they start catching up on all that they’ve missed since their last visit together. That dynamic, to me, is more precious than say the novel Push by Sapphire. (Thanks Oprah.)

I happen to write this blog entry at the same time a strong possibility exists that we could lose Kate in the very near future. Considering her professional ambitions and her superlative qualifications for same, it was only a matter of time. While we absolutely prefer to be a stepping stone on Kate’s journey – and certainly not an obstacle – I admit we’re shamelessly holding onto her pant leg for as long as possible! Just as you do during one of G’s moments, Kate, please forgive us for kicking and screaming.

Now, as for our reincarnated Chinese Ocean Stater, she and her three parents will be basking in the rediscovered sun during our remaining week of residency in Southie. After that, the wife and I quietly hope we’ll be seeing you down in Cahvah. Whatever the future holds though, Kate, thank you so much for being G’s first besty and her original third parent. We couldn’t have asked for better. We wish you the best and thank you for all of the wonderful influence you've had in raising G with us for the last year. Oh, and by the way, G says "Tanks."

Pack It Up, Pack It In

2010-03-26T21:06:00.000-07:00

In the immortal words of DJ Lance, Brobee, Foofa, and our other friends from Yo Gabba Gabba land, “Goodbye, see you later, we had fun… and now it’s done… it was fun… now we’re done.” (If you know the song, please just imagine it playing in the background while the photo montage plays. Please also cue Toodie crying next to a tree because we’re leaving. Thanks.)

Knock on wood, we’ve sold our 861 square-foot condo in Southie that we’ve called home since November 20, 2006. That same night, I proposed to the then-gf in our empty kitchen - except the table, four chairs, and an empty pizza box - when our adventure officially began. We got married in 2007. We learned of the pregnancy with Greta in 2008 and welcomed her in 2009. Most recently, we discovered that male Baby T will be arriving this coming summer. Obv, lots of milestones for the T family at 410 East Third Street in just over three years.

Besides leaving the first place the wife and I ever owned (subject to whichever bank most recently bought the mortgage of course), we are also leaving Southie. At last count, the wife has lived here for something like 38 years. Technically, that’s not possible given her actual age, the fact that she grew up in Carver, and went to college in Vermont before returning home, but who’s going to argue with a pregnant lady?

For years, I’ve chuckled at commuters in panty hose or suits with sneakers walk/jogging very un-athletically to South Station as they hustled to make a train. At other times, I would smirk after seeing another commuter tightly gripping a steering wheel, teeth clenched, staring laser beams into the traffic light just waiting for a green, so he or she could floor it onto 93 or the Pike in whatever direction only to slam on the brakes and crawl home in lurches and starts for miles on end. In a few short weeks, I will become that sucker. Oof.

In addition to leaving behind either the red line subway, a number 7 bus ride, or my bike ride to work or downtown, there are many other treats about Southie that I will miss dearly: 4th of July; St. Patty’s Day; our roof deck; double parking with reckless abandon; walking distance to more bars and coffee joints than I can count; Castle Island; any of the beaches; liquor stores that deliver (even though I’ve only ordered twice, I swear); Rainbow Dragon; proximity to multiple playgrounds and parks for G within stroller distance; and affordable cab distance to most any location in Beantown.

On the other hand, a few of my least favorite things that I will not miss whatsoever: a single wall or floor separating the neighbors above, below, and next to us; shoveling out and saving a parking space; cabbies honking instead of ringing a doorbell; vicariously fearing parking tickets for our visitors; and moving our cars because of street cleaning on Thursdays.

Gotta admit, though, I’m looking forward to walking around barefoot outside again. And to starting my own veggie garden.

So, one chapter ends and another begins. City slickers no more, we’re off to the burbs. Thanks Southie. It’s been a great ride. Now get out of my way, I’ve got a train to catch.

Backed Up

2010-03-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

Let’s get right to it. Constipation’s a bitch. We’ve all been there. No one enjoys it. Some go the route of Metamucil, laxatives, or over-the-counter stool softeners. Others prefer the dried fruit/bran consumption path. With a 13-month old, we preferred the latter approach combined with cheese abstinence – which is very difficult for this family.

So why do I bring this up? Perhaps my inspiration tool box is a bit blocked up as well this week, but mostly because constipation has been dominating the T household headlines. (Pardon the absence of "industry standard" in the following - I can't figure out the spacing.)

INT. OFFICE LAW FIRM

DENNIS sits at his desk typing furiously on his computer keyboard as his office phone rings incessantly around him, which clearly interrupts, bothers, and disrupts him. His tie is crooked. His hair is disheveled. His face is more wrinkly than normal. His cell phone begins to ring. He opens the phone and places it to his ear.

DENNIS
(wincing)
Hi.

WIFE
Well she finally pooped. Good one, too.

A co-worker knocks on his door. DENNIS waves her off politely while mouthing that it’s the WIFE on his phone.

DENNIS
Wow. (pause) That’s great.

WIFE
Yep. It wasn’t hard like the last one. She didn’t cry either.

DENNIS
(nodding )

The office phone rings again. DENNIS ignores it.

WIFE
Just thought you’d like to know.

DENNIS
Okay, heart you big time.

WIFE
Heart you right back. Oh, WAIT! I have something really important to ask you. What should we have for dinner tonight?

DENNIS
(sighing loudly) I gotta go.

We’re not sure of the cause for G’s pipes being backed up. We think it may be due to her recent conversion from formula bottles to whole milk plus the tail end of an antibiotic cycle for the latest ear infection. It honestly broke our hearts to witness it but when she pooped during this period, she cried and writhed in pain until the stool passed. When the poo finally flung into the diaper, its consistency was like play-doh that’s been sitting exposed for like 12 hours – not quite hardened but definitely no longer malleable.

Last weekend, we ventured to Strong Island, New York to visit the wife’s college BFF and husband, as well as some relatives on my mom’s side, and a few of my own college besties on the way back home. At each of our stops, we fed poor G-sizz with prunes, raisins, fiber one bars, prune juice, pears, and a double espresso. Her digestive system was like a Republican senate minority, just instinctively saying no to anything that came down the pike.

Fast forward to the Mass. Pike last Sunday night. As we approached the eastbound Charlton rest stop, we detected a faint hint of dumpsky in the air and decided to pull over. As I unbuckled G’s car seat belts and lifted her out, I saw that one of her pant legs had the appearance as if she had slid into home plate on a rainy day.

We jogged quickly inside as I held my baby under the pits. I went into the men’s room but a dad and son were bogarting the koala ahead of us. Panic-stricken, I ran back to the arcade area in the hopes of catching mama before she entered the ladies’ room. A waiting and sympathetic bystander mom motioned towards a door. “Family restroom,” she said. “Thanks!” I responded.

After placing our protective sheet down, I laid G onto the changing station and buckled her in. This was going to be tricky.

I tried to do what I could. Unfortunately, every ounce of dried fruit that my daughter consumed that weekend appeared to have manifested in and around her diaper. I opened the door and yelled for mama. She was kibitzing with one of our best friends who had left New York before us next to the Buck Hunter machine.

Long story short: three parents, a sacrificial onesy, a full outfit change, a crying/naked 13-month old, and many, many paper towels and wipes later, we had a happy little girl again. Somehow, the wife managed miraculously to salvage G’s pants. Nothing like having a stranger open the door to see me consoling an unhappy toddler as the wife washed poopy pants in a sink. Kudos mom!

My profuse apologies to the custodian of Charlton’s Rest Stop family restroom. My gratitude to Helen Zilla for assisting in our time of need. And my special thanks to Sunsweet Gold Label prune juice. May this message find all of you on a comfortable and regular schedule.

Eat

2010-03-06T21:40:00.000-08:00

When G-sizz started eating real food, she was generally agreeable to anything reduced to a puree: veggies, fruits, protein, bologna, Indian takeout, basically your standard baby food. There were of course the occasional bites that rendered faces of confusion and pure disdain. Peas come to mind. Blueberries, surprisingly, too. On the whole, though, we couldn’t complain because she ate most everything else. I was cautiously optimistic.

Food pickiness is a lesser discussed category that truly factors into relationship compatibility. I should know. I dated a vegetarian. And then I dated someone who basically ate only chicken sandwiches. I didn’t marry either of them.

Eating is one of the simplest activities every human engages in (hopefully) on a regular basis. Yet eating can be so easily complicated. I love the thought of “breaking bread” together. No matter where you come from or what you do, everyone needs to eat. And sharing a meal with someone has a certain special aspect to it that cannot be denied.

When Jules discusses the Big Kahuna Burger with Brett and declares that dating a vegetarian basically made him a vegetarian, I agree and disagree. In her defense, the ex-veggie gf didn’t lecture me about ordering veal oscar, nor did she predict arteriosclerosis if I ordered a Coney hot dog. Her aversion to meat was not because of religious or ethical beliefs. She just didn’t care for the taste or the way her body felt as meat digested. I respected her position – and still do – as well as anyone else who avoids meat or animal products for whatever reason. I just feel sorry for peeps of that persuasion.

Me: Your Honor, I move to admit “bacon” as Exhibit 1.
Opposing Counsel: Objection, your Honor, and move to strike -
Judge (glaring at opposing counsel): Overruled. Proceed counsel.

How can anyone, anywhere, anytime resist bacon? Or steak? Burgers? Sausage with peppers and onions? Turkey on Thanksgiving? Franks at Fenway? Brats in Milwaukee? (Ok, I’ve never been but I want to and heard they take their meat products seriously there.) My dad’s chicken francese? My mother-in-law’s roast beef? My Uncle Tony’s ribs? My wife’s pork loin? My Uncle Carl’s anything-with-meat? The “Big Bitch” at Scranton U.? The “Morning Shiner” at Kountry Kart? The turkey hash omelette at My Diner in Southie? WHO ORDERED THE CODE RED, COLONEL JESSUP?! I WANT THE TRUTH!!! Your witness, Captain Ross.

As for the other ex-gf, it didn’t matter what kind of restaurant we went to: seafood, Mexican, fast food, steak joint, Chinese – she ordered a plain chicken sandwich. I can’t tell you how many times we’d walk from restaurant window to restaurant window reading menus for god damned chicken sandwiches as I fumed when Duxbury oysters or tuna tartare were on the appetizer list.

By no means whatsoever am I some kind of food snob. Honestly, I'm probably an awful critic because I like almost everything. At minimum, I'm willing to try anything. I love to ask a server at a restaurant to order my meal for me. Or going "splitsies" with someone else at the table to hedge the odds on missing a real winner. But if a partner is vegetarian or chicken sandwich only, it significantly limits one's options.

Unfortunately, G has recently evolved into some kind of cross between Padma Lakshi and Gail Simmons: none of them cook in any professional capacity but all of them are full of expert opinions about how to make or present food.

G started off by discretely depositing rejects quickly over her shoulder when she thought no one was looking. Soon, she moved onto vise clamping her mouth shut and twisting her face away, while swatting annoyingly at spoonfuls of peach yogurt with Cheerios like they were bothersome flies. Now, she smiles lovingly at me as she grasps an apple slice, followed immediately by a spiteful drop of the fruit over the side of her throne, all the while making eye contact as chunks hit floor. I just sigh and bend down to eat whatever hasn't sat for too long.

Oh well. At least I know my baby mama will go for a steak and a ginormous glass of red with me about six months from now. Until then, leftover apple chunks and yogurt with Cheerios will have to do. Looks like I’m eating vegetarian all over again, but at least it’s not just chicken sandwiches…

Summer 2010: Rise of Baby T2

2010-02-26T19:04:00.000-08:00

Since discovering that the wife was pregs with Part Deuce, my focus (in the stereotypical spirit of an emotionless male preoccupied solely with solutions, not feelings) has concentrated almost exclusively on selling our condo and finding a house ... with a driveway ... and grass. So, the thought of Gigi's sequel has been extremely slow to absorb.

For weeks, I knew that we had an ultrasound appointment at 8 a.m. this morning. We were going to learn about our next baby's sex. Unfortunately, in the interim, I somehow scheduled a 10 a.m. work appointment immediately after. Minus ten points right there, dad.

Southie to Brookline is approximately 4 miles. No train goes between them directly, so driving is really the only option. Due to my work thing, the baby mama and I took separate cars. 40 minutes and 4 miles later, I miraculously found a meter spot.

"Usually, these ultrasound visits are no more than a half hour," I thought. It was 7:55 a.m.

Me: [Standing idly sans coffee in my system.]
Me: [Staring at the meter but not really reading.]
Me: [Squinting and staring without focus.]
Me: [Coming to and slapping 4 quarters for 60 minutes. Plenty of time.]

The wife and I met shortly therafter and arrive together at the waiting room. The most recent olympic SI issue beckoned to me as soon as we entered. She checked in - I dove in to the photos first and articles second.

Like any random group of professionals, doctors are mostly good and decent, some great, and a few who constitute the rotten apples that spoil it for the rest of the crew. I am, unfairly, prejudiced against doctors until they have proved themselves worthy of my trust. Admittedly, the bias is rooted in a jealousy that they were able to pass chemistry in college (my original major was "undecided" but leaning towards pre-med freshman year until encountering Chem II) but mostly because I detest waiting for anything and no medical office on the face of this earth sees any patient on time.

Miraculously, we only waited until 8:10 a.m. for our 8 a.m. appointment to begin. The assistant pulled a fresh sheet of paper over the examination bed and my baby mama - a seasoned pro - immediately recognized the drill. She hopped on, pulled down her pants to the hips, exposing the slight bump in her belly as her shirt moved up, while the assistant tucked more paper around for modesty's sake. The assistant left.

We sat alone together. It was quiet. We waited. Suddenly, the wife looked at me and smiled energetically. I widened my eyes lazily and raised my brows to reply without speaking.

"Aren't you so excited? We're finding out if there's a penis or a vagina!"

I was about to smile and chuckle when the doctor came in. Naturally, she acknowledged only the wife and pretended I'm not in the room. I was annoyed. I hate when they do that.

Granted, my ankles aren't swollen and I haven't puked without warning because I suddenly smelled my husband's hungover breath, but my DNA is in 50% of that creature swimming around in utero - and I drove 40 minutes to get here! I remembered how much doctors annoy me again.

They spoke here and there. My mind drifted to the 10 a.m. appointment. "Should I try the parking lot across from work or resident parking?," I thought. "Oh man, Huntington's going to be a freaking nightmare when I get out of here." The inner monologue continued similarly.

About 20 minutes later (the clock on the flatscreen for the ultrasound image said 8:35 a.m.) after the doctor has referred to our baby as a "she" at least twice, she asked if we want to know the sex.

"Yes!" we replied almost sheepishly, just like in the operating room the night G was born. The doctor replied, "You're having a ... boy." Her emphasis on the word "boy" was subtle and gentle. It wasn't the first time she delivered such news. The wife began to cry immediately and squeezed my hand.

Ever the cyborg, I asked "What is the plus/minus that you're wrong about the sex?" Probably not the greatest opening comment. Then, the wife piped in about hermaphrodite percentages and I think the doctor winced noticeably. Next, I asked if the baby's dong was unusually large. She said something about a third leg and genetics, while I nodded understandingly.

Okay, the plus/minus and hermaphrodite parts were true and the rest wasn't. But the moral of the story is I didn't talk for 20 minutes. When I spoke for the first time, the doctor got all annoyed at me. I stewed and thought again about my 10:00. The mean doctor threw me off my game.

The rest of our appointment is a blur. The wife and I kissed and high fived. I ran to the car. Phew, no ticket. I drove behind a Green Line E train for what seemed to be forever and arrived for my appointment barely at 9:55 a.m.

About ten minutes into the deposition and the important news finally began to penetrate my thick skull. We are having a boy. We are having a boy! Wow. It's hitting me now. WE ARE HAVING A BOY. Sweet.

Will Sanchez still be QB when he starts to watch the NFL? Will Jeter still be captain when he starts to watch MLB? Will we talk about women, sports, geography, or music? Will we compete and argue and laugh? Will he ever love me like I already love him?

Okay, it's hit me. We're having another baby - and it's a boy!

Thinking back, the doctor was annoyed she couldn't get a good view of T2 because he moved around so much. Nice work, bud. Let's pick this back up in July.

Please Phrase in the Form of a Question

2010-02-12T21:05:00.000-08:00

We might as well just get my criticisms about Jeopardy out of the way first. Number one – spastic clickers. Some use their whole body. Others violently nod their head. Even worse – the clickers who sigh disappointingly when a competitor rang in before them. Total peeve for me. Number two – when Alex pronounces anything not in English. He may be speaking properly, but it’s annoying. Number three – when Alex speaks unnecessarily between Q&A selections and the round ends without completing the board. That’s just plain unacceptable.

Aside from the above, I’m a huge fan of Jeopardy. Growing up, my family and I would watch and yell out the question as soon as possible in the hopes of earning temporary big brain bragging rights. Like most Teravainens who invent any excuse to wager against each other, my dad would inevitably create a betting pool of one dollar for each of us playing in “Final Jeopardy.” “You got a buck?” he would ask, emphasizing “buck” to instigate a competition. It was on.

Nowadays, when I watch Jeopardy with the wife on DVR, she does so only on the condition that we listen to the awkward biographical anecdotes of each competitor when we’re back from the first commercial break. For whatever reason, she loves that part. I cringe whenever I hear those awful stories without punchlines or any semblance of personality. I can’t complain, though, as long as Alex and Johnny make the cut into our DVR lineup.

Of all my interests, I pray that G shares at least just a fraction of my competitive drive. Mind you, I gave up a long time ago about competing for anything materialistic. If that’s something important to you, I already surrender. That’s not the kind of competition that interests me in the slightest. I prefer way more enjoyable contests: board games, card games, brain games, and sports.

In no particular order, the following are some of the best games ever played: cribbage, bocce, poker, Scrabble, skat, Frisbee golf, pitch, backgammon, or basically anything involving an Almanac, an atlas, or a map. There are few better sounds than that of a card deck shuffling surrounded by chairs pulling inwards and chips stacking in piles, or even just the arguments about rule interpretation between participants during a game.

I’m not sure where I developed this particular thirst for competition. Neither of my parents were anything at all like the Cobra Kai sensei or even Emilio Estevez’s apparently psychotic dad in “The Breakfast Club.” I think my folks were just way better than me at whatever we played, so I just wanted to be like them.

My mom could – and still can – blow the doors off of anyone in trivia games especially in her wheelhouse of categories regarding music, literature, entertainment, and pop culture. I shudder on the verge of any battle with her in Trivial Pursuit because she can run off four or five pie slices in a row at any given moment.

Of course, as a boy, I measured my athletic and intellectual prowess against my dad at any opportunity. I wanted to beat him at whatever we played so badly, I can hardly explain it. He wasn’t pushy whatsoever about winning. I just wanted to be on the same level as him.

Fast forward 30-plus years and the grasshopper has overtaken the master gradually in a few arenas. I write this last sentence without arrogance because the assumed advantage of youth suggests that is simply how it ought to be. However, to this day, I still have never defeated my dad in the following: chess, arm wrestling (our last battle was about 3 years ago – no joke), and racquetball.

Last week, we decided to test the waters on the racquetball front. Griswald plays pretty regularly, while I had not played in at least a year. (Can you anticipate my excuse coming on yet?) Still, I have 26 years on him. I had not yet even completed my first serve and he called some type of vague penalty against me for not striking the ball from an underhand position. I never heard of such a rule. Was he being serious, or was he engaging in psychological warfare? From that point forward, I lobbed meatballs to him and got crushed in two games, but saving face in a 16-14 pride game in our third round.

After our battle, we consulted an unbiased racquetball guru on the contested serve rule. Turns out, Grizz completely fabricated the serving rule. There were no restrictions whatsoever. I demanded a re-match. He yielded without protest.

The grudge match went down this Wednesday. Game 1 to the old man: 15 – 13. He got out to an early lead and I clawed my way back only to be bamboozled on a wily serve during game point. Game 2 to the kid: 15 – 7. Temporarily satisfying, but in retrospect, a Phyrric victory. Rubber match: the champ defends his title yet again: 15 – 11. No excuses. Age was the least of his possible handicaps, yet Clark still proved too strong for his oldest son. It was an honorable defeat.

Thanks, dad. How about another re-match? Hey, maybe we should bring Greta in on that next game…

Little Lovely

2010-02-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

On February 8, 2010, G will be one whole year old. Damn, that was effing fast! I know it’s cliché, but really that time flew by.

In some ways, G’s presence reminds me at any given time of what it’s like to fall in love. Looking back over the last twelve months, I keep thinking about how she warms parts of my heart that I never knew existed or just plain forgot about.

Think about the first time you saw your current flame or even your high school sweetheart (for some of you, this is the same person): maybe your heart skipped a beat, perhaps you gasped, or your eyes widened just a little bit. I mean, you probably felt something metaphysical right? When the doctors placed Greta’s eight pounds and seven ounces in my arms for the first time at 2 in the morning that day, I experienced all three sensations at the same time. She was the most beautiful little creature I had ever seen – even though I could see some of me in her!

Now, the first unsolicited kiss or hug from both a first love or one's child is just gold. The unexpected display of affection can’t be beat. It warms you right up kind of like a little internal fireworks burst from within your chest to all of your extremities. Up to that moment, it never happened before so you have no frame of reference to prepare for it. The first time G drooly kissed me on my cheek I wasn’t looking, but once I realized what happened, I'm pretty sure I welled up a little bit because it was so unexpected.

As for the L word, we’re talking a totally different stratosphere. I’ll probably lose my shit like the wife watching any given episode of Biggest Loser when G drops her first “I love you” on me. In stark contrast to those of us whose first relationship “I love you” occurred in eighth grade, I anticipate (gratefully) that my first L word moment with G will in all likelihood not occur while slow dancing with pegged pants during a Def Leppard song.

And of course, in any relationship, there are the “painful” memories. Since taking G home from the hospital and handling her like a Jenga stack on its last move, I’ve somehow managed to 1) hit her head on an I-beam in a parking garage while placing her in the baby bjorn at just over 1 month old, 2) leave her unattended on the couch at six months old, thus allowing her to roll off and scream bloody murder, and 3) last night, play with the shower curtain until the curtain rod fell and clunked her head – great times! (To be clear, by painful I of course meant clumsy accidents that inevitably occur after spending lots of time together – not the kind of “accidents” that happen in Chris Brown/Rihanna relationships.)

Anyway, today I was killing time during a lunch break and I somehow managed to stroll around a shopping mall that had a Target attached to it. Normally, I gravitate towards those departments that interest me only – music, books, sporting equipment – and disregard any other displays or departments that might impair my search and destroy objective. But today, my typically blitzkrieg-like shopping mission became derailed as I passed by the toy section and spied something with Elmo on it. At that moment, I was thinking about my little Gigi.

Now granted, I didn’t buy anything (we’re trying to sell the place and I couldn’t stomach accumulating yet another item to try and stuff in the toy box especially when she is just as easily amused by emptying our dirty laundry basket as she is by a toy) but I still became distracted temporarily. The thought of G made me smile and realize how lucky I am to have to her in my life. I wished she was there with me so I could give her a big hug. I must be in love again! What can I say? I’m a sucker for a pretty lady…

All that and a bag of chips

2010-01-28T19:44:00.000-08:00

[Editors' note - This was originally intended to be a side note @ side bar but it was too long. Not really related to parenthood, but we gave some wiggle room to Daddio this week. Enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.]

When the boys and the girls split up for sex education in fifth grade, what the hell do the teachers say to the girls about what happens if they do not bring an elaborate combination of appetizers or hors d’ouevres when they go to a party? Do they become branded with a hot iron or something? Is their name written down in a book called “Awful women who don’t bring good appetizers to parties so you should hate them forever!” that circulates at secret women’s clubs? Where does this hellish state of anxiety originate from?

Before I can even get the words out about some party that we’ve been invited to, the wife is already scanning recipes on the Internets and polling friends with blanket e-mails from her Blackberry about any recommendations.

Me: [INSERT FRIEND] is having a party next month. It’s gonna be awesome. I wonder if he’ll get an ice luge so that we can -

Wife: WHAT ARE WE GONNA BRING? I can’t do the bread bowl because I think I did that last time they had a party. Maybe I’ll do that shrimp dish that [INSERT FRIEND] made at my girl’s night last month. But oh no, [INSERT FRIEND] was at the same girl’s night and she’ll probably be at the party, so I can’t make that dish.

Me: (wincing noticeably and then groaning loudly) What? Who the hell cares? (exasperated) We’ll just bring booze or a bag of chips. Or something.

Wife: (indignant) We are NOT showing up with a bag (strong intonation on this word, like she was spitting out a piece of spoiled food) of CHIPS! (ending the sentence with serious disgust, as if she was Kate Gosselin describing one of Jon's current girlfriends.)

And so it goes. For every single cookout, birthday party, play date, couples dinner, or even just watching a football game – this conversation inevitably arises in some shape or form.

Granted, before marriage, I wallowed in a Neanderthal state when it came to party etiquette crap. For example, I didn’t know that writing “plus one” on a wedding RSVP even though my invite had no “and guest” on it, was inappropriate. Woops, my bad. Even worse, my go-to trick for any party regardless of the occasion was asking if anyone saw my bulldog before I dropped my pants and ran around on all fours barking to give a description of what he looked like.

So when it came to attending a party at a buddy’s house, I thought showing up with a 12-pack and a bag of Doritos was a nice touch. The furthest thing from my mind was deliberating between picking up pastries from a really cute patisserie in the South End, or buying cookies at Joseph’s Bakery on K Street. I certainly didn’t spend three hours using foreign kitchen appliances to make a complicated fruit dip while obsessing whether the partygoers would like it and then ask 20 questions after the party about how it tasted and whether I saw other people eating it.

What the hell is wrong with bringing a bag of Cool Ranch? Everyone likes the ‘Ritos. They’re like crack mixed with tortilla chips.

Honestly, can someone break it down for me? Is there like a Martha Stewart blackball list of partygoer-food-bringers? If so, I have a feeling I'm on the men's version. By the way, sorry to anyone about the whole adding "plus one" to my wedding invitation! Awkward. Anyone bold enough to confess that I did this to them? Yikes.

Going Wookie

2010-01-15T20:21:00.000-08:00

A ginormous, curly, pubic-like hair strayed way off course from my right eyebrow this morning. Upon closer inspection, there were probably five or six other renegades similarly deserting their ranks on both sides of the brow. To be honest, the furry eyebrow phenomenon has been an epidemic for me since G was born or probably even earlier. Perhaps the cause is more attributable to my age, but I can’t shake the thought that becoming a dad somehow exacerbated my body hair situation.

In addition to the brows, I’ve sprouted ear hair like a fireworks display over the Charles on the Fourth of July. I pluck em’ but they grow back like weeds. I'm a mess.

Now, the nose hairs aren’t as lush as the ear hairs, but when one goes rogue – it’s a distracting situation for any passersby. Last week, I had a party favor just whistling in the wind beneath my nostril. I roamed around completely oblivious to the straggler dangling around at different angles depending on whether I was inhaling or exhaling. Fortunately, my brother (who is obsessed with spotting ear/nose/brow hair) called me out. My cousin Emily courageously did the honors. Thank you.

Meanwhile, amongst the explosion of facial orifice hair, my facial scruff still pales in comparison to the five o’clock shadow that most of my buddies had in the sophomore year of high school. If I grow out the stache, say five days, my upper lip looks like it’s got dirt on it. The side burns are splotchy. And there’s nothing whatsoever that connects between the tomb stone area and the lamp chop. It’s kind of a Bering Strait in that region. It's pathetic. Just once, I'd like to go Grizzly Adams.

As for south of the border, it’s at least less of a disaster. Granted the trimming is much less frequent than the days pre-wife, but it’s not like I’m a candidate to star in a 70’s porn yet. In other words, I’m not wearing Chewbacca’s undies but I’m not exactly a Bic poster boy.

Speaking of which, how the hell do I ever address the issue of bikini waxing with Greta? Does that fall under mom’s department? Or is that in the “let her learn about it from friends” category? Or do I lean on one of her aunt-like figures to discuss the pros and cons of shaving versus waxing versus Nair?

On one hand, I don’t want G to be at a pool party in junior high with boys and experience a Miranda-in-Mexico-with-Carrie situation. She’ll be ostracized as the muff monster or something else horrible like that. But then again, I would have no clue how to even open the conversation.

G: Dad, I’m going to the Noonans’ pool party next weekend. Don’t worry, Jack and Molly said their mom and dad are gonna be there. But I don’t want you to go. Please stay at home. You’re a freak show and you embarrass me.

Me: Oh okay, have a great time. By the way, did you get a bikini wax?

Eeeeeeekkkkkk! Record screech. That convo’s not happening. Nevermind, I’ve got it.
Be forewarned all you aunty and godmotherly figures to G-sizzle ... when I nod at you and say “Wookie Talk” many years from now, I hope you remember this post. I'm relying on you!

And by the way, between now and then, please tell me if you catch me with a renegade brow/nose/ear hair and I’m clueless to it. Much obliged.

Say what you mean. Mean what you say.

2009-12-30T18:58:00.000-08:00

G, here are some hints to help with the translation of communication by your loving father and mother in case you ever find yourself confused:

When daddy says that he wants to leave by 8:00, he means that the car will actually be pulling away from the sidewalk en route to its intended destination within 60 seconds of the clock striking 8:00.

(I apologize for writing in the third-person but Elmo and Rickey Henderson must be rubbing off on me.)

When mommy says that she will leave somewhere by 8:00, she means some vague moment between 8:00 and 11:45 after she walks to Dunkies to get her coffee (she hasn’t missed a cup since sometime in the 1980’s, I think), showers, blow dries her hair, mulls through 4 or 5 different outfit possibilities while strewing them haphazardly throughout her room, catches up on The Real Housewives of Atlanta, checks her e-mail, and uploads some photos to Facebook. Then, she’ll be ready to go. And no matter what the clock says, it is 8:00 in her book.

When daddy says that he is tipping out on something, he really likes it.

When mommy says that something is her favorite thing in the universe or she hearts it big time, she really likes it.

When daddy says that he is fine, he really is.

When mommy says that she is fine, either you or I or both of us are in trouble.

When daddy says that dinner was good, he really means it.

When mommy says that our next door neighbor is “okay looking,” she’s lying. You can tell because she gets googley-eyed and thinks he’s a dreamy mchottie.

When daddy says that an outfit looks good on mommy, he really means it.

When mommy says that anything was “eh” and shrugs, there’s no way she liked it at all.

When daddy says he wants a treat, he would like an Irish whiskey or a vodka martini with olives.

When mommy says she wants a treat, it better have chocolate in, on, and/or around it.

When daddy says he’s going to bed early, he means sometime before midnight.

When mommy says that she’s staying up late, she means anytime after 9:30.

And when daddy and mommy say that they love you more than anything else in the world, they truly mean it.

A very happy and healthy new year to all!

Ghosts of Christmas Past

2009-12-23T19:04:00.001-08:00

Other than one visit to the eye doctor’s office last week (G got a clean bill of health), the wife has been G’s only parent to bring her to the pediatrician’s office whenever to date. My excuse is that I have a really hard time seeing G bawl. Not to suggest that the wife endures G’s crying any easier than me, but she is apparently better at accepting those necessary evils like shots – or going to the mall during Christmas simply to fulfill the sadistic parent’s rite of passage.

You all know what I’m talking about you evil moms and dads – your child’s first traumatic encounter with the mall Santa Claus just for photographic evidence of your torture. For us kids of the 1970’s, those moments of terror were captured on Polaroids in eerie tones of white, green, and severe red eye. Perhaps you wore Star Trek-like one-piece outfits that matched with any siblings (you got paisley brown, brother/sister got mustard yellow) already born. Nowadays, some of those torturous moments are preserved eternally on memory cards in a digital state of high-definition.

Sometime during a winter college break in the 90’s, I experienced Christmas at the mall from the other side. That’s right. I got a gig temping as a mall Santa. Fake beard. Fake belly. Ho ho ho’s. The works. Bedford Mall. Next to the movie theater and across from the Post Office and Papa Gino’s. $7.00 per hour. What can I say, it was decent cash.

What you might not expect was that I was traumatized all over again playing the role of the tormenter. At least once per hour, a little one peed on my leg while screaming hysterically as parents blindly trudged forward yelling at my co-worker to continue snapping shots. Older kids challenged my North Pole cred by calling me out for the high tone of my voice. The fake beard obstructed my exhalations to the point that condensation saturated my moustache like Freddy Mercury’s in the 1980’s.

One bright spot was a naughty 30-something year-old who sat on my lap with her co-workers and whispered welcomingly inappropriate comments into my ear. Unfortunately, as a 20 year-old, I had no idea how to tame this budding cougar and just hiccupped some very unwitty response to her sultry provocations.

Anyway, back at the 2009 Hall of Justice, I suppose the token Santa visit and photo is the first in many “it builds character” moments for our poor children. For those of you who are either conspirators or bystanders to this potentially scarring experience, be sure to tip your Santas.

As for G, the wife fulfilled tradition and accompanied our daughter to her first encounter with Santa. I’ll let you decide how she felt about it. Check out the photo to your right.

Paradise Lost ... Or Not?

2009-12-18T21:05:00.000-08:00

For 34 years, the bathroom has been a place of peace and quiet where I retreated to engage typically in relaxing activities. Brushing teeth? Therapeutic. Flossing? Orgasmic. Shaving/renegade brow plucking/miscellaneous manicuring? Satisfying. Exfoliating? Give me a break – have you seen my pores? Pooping while scouring the almanac for world capitals? Nirvana.

The other office has always been a refuge, or even a sanctuary, if you will. Unless, of course, my 83 Westland Ave. roommates and I devoured Cheung Kee grub on Mass. Ave. at 4 a.m. before calling it a night, in which case the next morning’s activities were generally violent.

Probably the least mentioned lifestyle change that veteran fathers warned me about was the extinction of peaceful bathroom use. The days of a crossword puzzle followed by Sudoku, all while on the bowl, are long gone.

On my early morning shift days (the wife and I rotate every other day), G-sizz and I stir mama around 7:30. In the days before February of 2009, wifey required several minutes to make the adjustment from sleep to awake. While she’s come a long way since bringing our daughter into this world, sleeping beauty still doesn’t exactly jump out of bed when beckoned.

To assist with the transitional stage, G and I adjourn to the bathroom where we brush our teeth together. I keep the peanut cradled like a bag of groceries in my right arm so as to prevent her from crawling around near the toilet or trash can. As G arbitrarily decides between chewing on her brush’s bristles or waving it around as she inspects her reflection in the mirror, I fumble left-handed around the upper molars with my brush.

I place G on the bedroom floor so both hands are available to apply the shaving cream. Before touching the blade to my right cheek (always first for some reason), I hear the alternating sound of a toothbrush clicking and a bare hand plopping against the floor as pajamas shuffle along. Next, I feel the tiny fingers first on my heels, then ankles, and up to my calves as the little creature stands, demanding to be restored to her prior perch. Now she wants to eat the lather on my face.

After the shave, I go right for the shower knob. Next, I abandon G-unit back in the bedroom. Maybe 30 seconds later, the shower curtain is pulled back. She flinches from the wet spray hitting her eyes, but the mini-monkey proceeds to grab at every one of the 37 assorted bottles of mama’s shampoos and canisters.

“Hey you!” Yes, the wife has come to save the day! She's my hero. Ahh, a peaceful shower. I love her – but ... wait a minute. Nope, she’s not taking Greta. Just peeing. Great. So now, the entire family of three is within four square feet of each other in our 30 square foot bathroom. Greta’s hair is now dripping and she’s eaten half a travel bottle of No Frizz conditioner.

On second thought, I love my ladies and I love my mornings. My bathroom is still a paradise after all. (Just don’t mess with my almanac, please.)

Before Playlists...

2009-12-05T07:49:00.000-08:00

Okay, G, another musical history lesson of sorts.

Back in the day, one could take a rectangular cartridge called a “blank cassette tape” to record 1) entire albums of music, 2) clips from the radio, or 3) the prehistoric ancestor of the iTunes playlist called the “mix tape.” From my personal experience, choices 1 and 2 were pretty rare although I admit to a brief stretch of listening (in the 80’s, mind you) to Z94.5 forever so I could record New Edition’s song that went, “You got to cool it, now. Oooh, watch out. You’re gonna lose control. Robbie, Bobbie, Ricky, and Mike. If I love the girl, who cares who you like?” or something like that. I loved that jam.

In any event, the “mix tape” was a serious endeavor when I was in junior high and even in high school. Unlike the relative ease in which a playlist maker can simply add or delete tracks with the click of a mouse, a mix tape maker had to pause at the perfect moments between songs. We also had to calculate the amount of available recording space on Sides A and B depending on whether you were going with the paltry 60 minute mix or a marathon 120 minute-er. Plus, you had to have the music on hand already! You couldn’t just pull up iTunes and download the song on the spot. You either recorded the song from a friend/the radio already, or bought an original version from Strawberries, Lechmere, or Bradlees.

Distinctions from a playlist aside, there were several, complicated components to a mix tape. First, who was this for? Was this a pump up the jam mix for yourself while jogging with your Walkman? A mix for someone you were hoping to make more than a friend after he/she heard your final product? Or was this a sex-you-up mix for your significant other? (Wait a second, G, that must have been after college because no one had sex until they were married, I swear.) Basically, the song selection was entirely contingent upon the tape’s recipient.

Second, you had to decide how to decorate the package. Was this just a straightforward the-music-speaks-for-itself kind of operation? Or was this a try-to-show-your-artistic-side-by-drawing-what-you-thought-were-really-cool-designs on it? Would you write the name of the band and the song? Would there be a common theme in your song selections? Would you write some really deep message on the inner lining? These were important considerations.

Third, and most importantly of course, how do you select the right song? To answer truthfully, I have no specific recollection. However, music (kind of like a rediscovered scent) has that wonderful element of reminding you of a forgotten memory. Accordingly, I broke down a list of possible “mix tape” songs depending on whether I was in junior high or high school as you will see, in no particular order...

1987 to 1989: Hooksett Memorial Junior High School – Home of the Hawks

1. Love Bites – Def Leppard – 8th grade dance drama.

2. Here I Go Again – White Snake – the crazy model who does the split on the car and married that pitcher from the Angels whose name I can’t remember – dudes, amen here?

3. You Shook Me All Night Long – ACDC – 7th grade hoops bus rides home.

4. Livin’ on a Prayer – Bon Jovi – skiing at MacIntyre and drinking peach wine coolers in the parking lot – yeah I was pretty tough.

5. (You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party) – Beastie Boys – Before they were Buddhist humanitarians, the Beasties goofed around and had fun.

6. Sweet Child O’ Mine – Guns N Roses – Axl. Nuff’ said.

7. The Flame – Cheap Trick – 7th grade dance drama.

8. Never Tear Us Apart – INXS – Remember seeing this video a lot.

9. Red, Red Wine – UB40 – Thought this was reggae. Forgive me.

10. Like a Prayer – Madonna – Basically on repeat during the bus ride with my French class to Quebec and Montreal.

1989 to 1993: Manchester Central High School – Home of the Little Green

1. Gonna Make You Sweat – CC & the Music Factory – Riding in the back seat of Tolp’s Mazda as he drove 80+ mph anywhere.

2. Good Vibrations – Last song I remember before losing my virginity. Puke. Sorry, I lied before about no one having sex in high school.

3. Summertime – Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff – Driving around with the windows down to this song was just great.

4. Moon Shadow – Cat Stevens – Suddenly, I was a serious music fan.

5. Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd – Absolute staple to any mix tape.

6. In Your Eyes – Peter Gabriel – Go John Cusack! Perhaps this song went back further but movies and music took a little while to make its way to Hooksett, sometimes.

7. Under the Bridge – Red Hot Chili Peppers – This crazy kid from Iceland in my French class used to throw the best parties during and after school. I always associate this song with his basement.

8. Smells Like Teen Spirit – Nirvana – Distinctly remember sitting on the bus ride home from a track meet when I heard it for the first time. It rocked me to the core. Just the right sound at the right time.

9. Release – Pearl Jam – Just an absolutely beautiful song, period. I’m sure it reminds some peeps from my generation about tender moments. (Has Pearl Jam played anything since that can match its debut album? As Troy Aikman would say, I’m not so sure.)

10. One – U2 – Most likely for a significant other or someone you were trying to win over.
Well, readers. I’m sure I missed a million other staple mix songs from 1987 to 1993.

Tell G what I forgot to include. What were on your “Spring Break 1992” or “Graduation 1989” mixes? Let’s hear from the people who curled their bangs or donned flat tops, wore pegged pants and Coed Naked t-shirts, while drinking Natural Light and running from the po-po in the woods of Candia or Reynolds Field.

Spreading the Good Word

2009-12-01T17:08:00.000-08:00

A true blog post will be forthcoming, but in the interim I wanted to advertise a few worthy causes and some business-related announcements:

Charities:

Boston Firefighter's Local 718 Burn Foundation. My buddy Phil is one of Boston's finest and happens to be an enthusiastic supporter of this charity. You can help out by purchasing some wine (go here: http://www.grapesurfer.com/Boston_Firefighters_Burn_Foundation_s/88.htm) or by attending a party this Thursday at the Greatest Bar in Boston beginning at 7 p.m. (see here for more info: http://www.facebook.com/#/event.php?eid=299498385857 ). For more information about the charity, check out http://www.bostonfirefightersburnfoundation.com/events.htm.

For those who didn't see my Facebook update last weekend, my friend Nikiki has started a scholarship for students in Jamaica that is really amazing. For more information about the foundation and how you can contribute, go to http://www.educatechild.org/. She recently organized a great fundraiser in Boston in association with the play "Jamaica, Farewell." Nice work!

Ventures:

Partygoers in the Hartford, CT area may be interested in attending Ugly Sweater Karaoke on December 17 at 10 p.m. hosted by my friend Erin who is the longtime proprieter of a cafe and beverage establishment called Tisane. For info about the cafe, go to http://www.mytisane.com/. You gotta love the advertisement to the right, eh? Cheers, E!

For those in need of assistance with hiring of finance and accounting professionals, my enterprising buddy Doug recently opened his own business called Bay Colony Search after many years in the industry. The complete web site is still under construction, but you can get his contact information and a little background on the business here: http://www.baycolonysearch.com/. Congratulations and good luck, Bonesie!

My ambitious friend Megan recently launched a venture of her own called LocalizeIt, which assists businesses with search engine marketing as well as pay-per-click advertising models. Check out LocalizeIt's web site at http://www.localizeitonline.com/. Best of luck to you, Mountain Girl!

Please help spread the word and support these locally and independently owned businesses.

Homage to the Jacks

2009-11-19T19:57:00.000-08:00

My brother, my sister, and I have loved movies since we were kids. One of our favorites, if not the favorite of all time, is “Mr. Mom.” We used to be able to recite every single line, which generally annoyed anyone within earshot.

For those who may not either recall or have not yet seen the film (gasp), I’ll briefly re-cap the plot. The Butler family lives in a Detroit suburb in the early 1980s. The father, Jack, gets laid off from the car plant. The mother, Caroline, goes back to work to support the family. Jack becomes part of the housewives clique and adjusts to being the stay-at-home parent. Meanwhile, Caroline adapts to the dog-eat-dog world of advertising.

About halfway through the movie, Jack and Caroline are experiencing a strain in their marriage while adjusting to their new family dynamic. Both parents thought Jack would be able to find a job and return to being the bread winner. Consequently, he never really embraced his role as a househusband and underachieved during the day by drinking beers, watching soaps, ironing grilled cheese sandwiches, and letting the house fall into disarray.

Inevitably, tension erupts between the couple when Caroline comes home after a long day at work only to find Jack playing coupon poker with his newfound lady friends and flirting with the busty Joan. Anywho, Jack and Caroline confront each other about their unhappiness. Without consulting the internets, I believe Jack makes the following statement to Caroline to explain what he’s been going through:

“My brain [pointing to his head and hesitating] is like oatmeal. Yesterday, I yelled at Kenny for coloring outside the lines. Megan (his one year-old daughter) and I are watching the same TV shows. And I’m liking them. I’m losing it.”

Last week Greta experienced her first cold. Consequently, her sleep schedule was awful. Add to the situation that I love staying up late and I got a flu shot on Thursday, my brain has been a lot like oatmeal. I suddenly realized that I sincerely enjoy two of Gigi’s TV shows that we watch when she wakes up at 5 in the morning and I’m trying to get her to fall back asleep: “Jack’s Big Music Show” and “Yo Gabba Gabba.” I’ll go in order.

Jack, his dog Mel, and his super swell friend Mary are puppets who play music in his clubhouse and teach really cute lessons. Every episode they get a visit from the Schwartzmann Quartet who are a cappella puppets. They also get an occasional visit from real people like Dr. String who made a house call last episode to sing while fixing Mary’s hammer dulcimer, which Jack accidentally broke but decided to disclose after encouragement from the Schwartzmen.

I am not exaggerating when I say that this show makes me laugh out loud at least two or three times per episode, and I tip out on the music. (Seriously, I just downloaded a couple songs on iTunes.) Plus, there is a curly-haired woman who cameos almost every episode during an interlude music video who has a pretty nice rack.

As for “Yo Gabba Gabba,” it’s kind of like a more hip variation of “Sesame Street.” First, the music on this show is great. Here’s just a sampling, and yes, these are all on the iPod. “There’s a party in my tummy. So yummy, so yummy yummy.” The song stops because the carrots and green beans are upset that they weren’t eaten. Then a new beat kicks in and the party starts up again when the veggies are swallowed.” Great stuff.

However, “Gabba” is equally entertaining for the graphic design, DJ Lance, and the shots of “My name is ___ and I like to dance.” As G-sizzle and I cuddled on the couch in the early morning dark last Friday morning, I found myself hoping that Foofa (unfortunately not Fupa, as we originally thought) would have the opening solo because her voice is just so eerily comforting to me. I thought it might help lull G back to sleep because I certainly could have snoozed. G never dozed but she was pretty mellow and I enjoyed every minute of being cozy together under our blanket.

The point of the story is this – for all the Jack and Caroline Butlers out there finding themselves sleep deprived and unfamiliar with the “South to drop off, North to pick em up” school zone commute situations, I feel your pain. We’ll get through this together.

So, any stay-at-home parents out there in Southie interested in doing Jazzercise together at my place on Mondays when I work from home with G? We can watch “As the World Turns” together and comment about how Victor’s vasectomy didn’t take so Vicky’s having his baby. By the way honey, if you call and I’m not here, I’ll either be at the gym or the gun club. How’d you like a little trim on that moustache, Ron? Schooner tuna. Irv, are these tampon maxi pads on special? It’s okay Irv. Nevermind. Forget about it.

Don’t get it? Rent “Mr. Mom,” for crying out loud – or at least check out Jack and DJ Lance.

Bats in the Cave

2009-10-30T04:38:00.000-07:00

G’s boogie counts were off the charts this week due to her first bout of sniffles – not quite a cold, just a noticeable nose whistle when she has the binkie in her mouth. We use this rubber bulb to suction out the bats in her cave because 1) even our pinkies are way too big to infiltrate her nostril and 2) G has not yet discovered the true mystery and sheer satisfaction of picking her nose.

Perhaps I am nostalgic for him because it is October and the Yanks are back in the World Series, but Joe Torre was the master public nose picker. Joe would be sitting in the Yankees’ dugout knowing full well that a TV camera could be on him at any time, but he would feel the call to arms as a boogie beckoned from one of his cavernous nostrils. So Joe would employ what I like to call the “J.T. technique.” He would quickly pinch and pull on the wall of his nose with a thumb and index finger for quick evacuation and lightly flick away. Mission accomplished. No public humiliation.

As I was walking into work the other day, I saw a great looking women in a suit do the “J.T.” without even blinking. Why is this move so acceptable, yet an all out digging for gold technique is still shunned and disgusted by contemporary society? Answer: the disposal.

Obviously, a tissue is the preferred technique for boogie disposal because one can easily toss a used one in the trash. The J.T. implies that the boogies are light and crusty so perhaps they are less disgusting in nature than the alternative. Digging for gold, however, suggests that you’ve got huge boulders or possibly even the dreaded wet-dry stringer hybrids. Where does the picker dispose of the latter kind? Therein lies the scorn of any observer to such a feat.

I confess that I am a huge fan of nose picking. Especially at a urinal or while driving. It’s just automatic. But don’t worry, it’s the J.T. technique so it’s acceptable. There it is. The truth is out there. I feel so relieved. I can probably date Kate Hudson now and hit over .400 in the MLB playoffs.

Of course, the wife and I will emphasize the importance of tissue usage to G-monster as she gets older. It would be hypocritical of me to chastise G if I do catch her in the act. When that happens, though, I will be sure to watch her technique and encourage the style of Joe Torre. Go Yankees!

Reality Means Anonymity, Not Celebrity

2009-10-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

Okay I admit US Weekly is an occasional guilty pleasure for a myriad of reasons, but especially for the “Stars – They’re just like us!” section. I just imagine creepy paparazzi staked out in an Aries K-car full of fast food wrappers and assorted camera equipment waiting hours for that perfect shot of an Olsen twin emerging from an organic taqueria in Greenwich Village blasting a Marlboro, holding a 64-ounce cup of coffee, while sporting shades bigger than both of their heads added together, but she’s “just like us” because she bought a burrito.

The most recent cover of US I saw showed America’s newest celebrated divorcing mom and dad. Mom has the blond pheasant toupee that will be a smash hit this Halloween, and dad is the bloated, prematurely mid-life crisis experiencing guy complete with diamond studs. Yes, I’m talking about Jon and Kate Gosselin of course.

The wife has been a fan of their show for a long time and I’ve suffered through a few episodes here and there. By no means do I declare myself an authority of any sort over who is right or wrong with respect to their recent drama. Honestly, I don’t care. I just feel sorry for their children. In fact, both parents make me wince uncomfortably whenever I hear or see either one of them addressing a camera of any sort.

I suppose at the genesis of the show, the idea of televising their unique family situation was arguably an innocent way to supplement the household income. After all, they did have 8 mouths to feed.

Although their story was admittedly compelling, I doubt anyone foresaw the extent to which they would become celebrities. The frenzied tabloid coverage they’ve drawn since the marital problems arose publicly seems more appropriately reserved to greater accomplished head cases like Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, or Lindsay Lohan. Maybe because of this notoriety, I can’t help but suspect that both of the Gosselins privately craved fame when they decided to launch the show – or at least assumed the risk that they could become “reality celebrities.”

This brings me to my next point. (Wait a second, I’m getting out the old soap box.) The entire concept of a “reality” TV show absolutely blows my mind away. The idea of anything realistic happening on any of those shows could not be further from the truth. First, let me distinguish the reality competition shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, and SYTYCD (obv – greatest shows ever!) that celebrate actual talent, as well as those documentary-esque shows like Deadliest Catch (strangely entertaining), as opposed to those:

1) with fabricated “reality” plot lines celebrating shallow, talentless, wholly worthless individuals (see anything ever shown on MTV or starring Paris Hilton);
2) that recruit contestants from the slums of Desperateville (see above and any episode of The Bachelor/Bachelorette) to accomplish a sacred vow like, I don’t know, marriage; and
3) with main characters who go onto Larry King Live or The Today Show to publicly argue in the court of public opinion why he/she is so right and their future ex-spouse is so wrong.

Are we Americans so intoxicated with the idea that fame solves all of our problems and cures our unhappiness that we prefer becoming a celebrity for any stupid reason, instead of just living our lives as good people in anonymity? I pose this question on the heels of reports that a former Wife Swap father so desperately craves fame that he staged a hoax about a runaway hot air balloon using his poor 6 year-old son to lie and barf on national television, in order to land his own reality TV show.

Simply put, the shows that fall into any of the aforementioned 3 categories simply have little to nothing in common with actual reality. We real people go to work, raise our children, care for our homes, love our families, pursue our passions, struggle emotionally and financially all the time, fight over issues that truly matter, regroup, recover, and repeat. We are the ones who deserve free drinks and line privileges at bars – but we don’t have the time, energy, or money to go because we’re too busy working and just plain getting by!

Okay, I’m off the soap box now. Wow, I think I just blacked out like Frank the Tank during the debate in Old School. Where was I?

Let’s just say I would never in a million years sign up to televise my family life. I prefer my hugs and kisses from G and the wife to be in the warm privacy of our home, far away from any zoom lenses, confessional booth cams, and accompanying soundtracks with the coolest new Death Cab For Cutie jam – just like other real people. I mean, right?

GULP

2009-10-02T20:07:00.000-07:00

No alarm clock necessary. G is automatic for the 6 a.m. wake up. She squawks and beckons from the crib, sometimes tapping a binkie repeatedly against the rails or just plain letting her pipes loose. I got the early shift this morning. Time to get up.

I shuffle in my undies over to the bowl and pee. Flush. Hand wash. G hears the noise and you can tell she’s waiting. She’s trying to stand in the crib even though her sleeper sack easily trips her during the hurried attempts to rise up. As I creep along the hallway, she sounds as if she just stumbled. I peek my head into her room.

“Hwaaaaaaaaahhhhh,” she screeches pterodactyl-like. G is standing in a semi-squat position resting her arms on the top rail to balance as she bounces up in down with glee. I greet my little one like a female gymnast after, well, basically any event that a gymnast just completed – and she’s kicking and squirming in delight.

Sleeper sack off. Remove the diaper and wonder at its weight as I fold it up. Replace with a dry one while swatting away the kicking hamhocks. (All in the dark, thank you.) We move to the kitchen as she yanks at my chest hair with one hand and clutches in the other hand whatever object I could find to distract her during the diaper change: a stray shoe, Timmy the Turtle, a squeeze bottle of Bacitracin.

I place G into this “Phil & Ted’s me too” baby seat, which suspends off the side of our kitchen counter top with screw-in attachments. The binkie’s still in her mouth. I go over to the sink and challenge myself, as I do every time, to fill the bottle as close to exactly 6 ounces as possible. 6.5. I’m a little off.

Three scoops of formula next. Attach the remaining bottle components. Cover. Shake. Turn back to G- sizzle who’s been waiting impatiently for her breakfast. I smile until I see it for the first time.

After a few seconds, I flash back to my pledging days at college. I think of vomiting beer into a T-shirt breast pocket and slamming it with my hand to indicate I was done. I think of spewing assorted parts of multiple goldfish out of my mouth onto the head of a pledge brother. I think of Montezuma tequila blasting its way through my nostrils and the burn that dripped post-nasally. Please tell me G can projectile vomit, too.

The night before, a backing to the wife’s earring fell out. She innocently removed the backless one and then the other, placing them on the kitchen counter top. We went to sleep. A few minutes ago, I turned my back to make the bottle and saw for the first time that only one earring was laid on the counter easily within G’s grasp.

At this moment, an EKG would definitely show an uptick in my cardiac activity. I grab the abandoned earring and immediately look on the floor under Greta. Nothing. Adrenal glands now kicking in. Inner monologue tidbit: “Michelle’s gonna kill me… Guess I’ll have to call out from work today… Looks like we’re taking our first trip to the emergency room… Maybe the bottle will help induce her to puke it up if I overfeed her a little bit…”

No matching earring in sight. Okay, here goes. (Hurried walk back to the bedroom.)

Me: “Hi honey, how’d you sleep?”

Wife: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Wife: “Why are you waking me up?”

Me: “No reason. Um, so, did you happen to take one of your earrings into the bedroom last night?”

Wife: “No, why?”

Me: “Um, nothing. Just ruling out whether Greta may have swallowed the earring that YOU put on the counter directly next to where she eats without telling me. Be right back.”

Now I’m running back towards Greta. She’s pissed that I haven’t brought her a bottle. I yank her out of her seat and feel around desperately. “Could she pass the earring in her poo?,” I ask myself because I clearly do not wish to ask the wife this question when -

YES! JACKPOT! Holy shit. Thank God. Phew. Back to the bedroom.

Me: “Go back to sleep, hon. I got the earring.”

Wife: “Are you freaking kidding me right now? You just gave me a heart attack.”

Me: “Nothing to see here. Just go back to sleep. False alarm. Sorry. Ha! That was funny, huh?”

Wife: “I’m getting up, I can’t sleep.”

Crisis averted! Wow, that adrenaline was better than coffee. Returning to G, I see that she is chewing on the laptop’s electrical cord. Good times. 6:13 a.m.

Mow-Wow!

2009-09-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

Before Greta, there was Wally. He was raised in a Southie brothel – I mean apartment – by the wife and “all the single ladies” with whom she lived at the time many moons ago. They weaned him on Fancy Feast, expressions of feelings, The Bachelor, and sangria – basically the perfect recipe for spawning a pimp.

When I met Walter back in 05’ at Pacific Street, I sighed and thought “Oh great, she’s one of those single girls with a cat.” In other words, pretend to like her pussy (pause) cat if I want to get her pussy (pause) willow … but little did I know, this cat was of the coolest variety.

Wally strutted around our home like he just owned the joint. Passersby might try to call him over, but he wouldn’t just stop for anybody. You needed to have some type of rapport or history with him. Basically, you had to be one of his peeps.

The Wall-man was a hulking, feline mass of black, white, grey, and light brown stripes. He had a small pie slice missing out of one of his ears, which was a souvenir from a back alley fight during his rookie season. He went undefeated from that time until a minor setback with raccoons (yes, plural) back in 07’ but he dragged himself back to the ring to re-assert his dominance of the East Third and G Street Southie sector a couple weeks later.

Despite Wally’s tough exterior, he had a keen sense when one of his loved ones was down. He had an uncanny knack for crawling up on a lap and maybe even licking an arm, at just the right time. He was especially close to his most loving and longest-serving parent, Shell. “He is my rock,” she would tell me all the time. Let's just say, he knew her moods better than I did most of the time.

Of course, the 20+ pound mass of loving, hairy warmth won me over probably after the first time he plopped himself on my chest as I laid in bed one night. His purring was like the perfect, wonderful lullaby. The ever growing affection I had for him was eroding my machismo. My preconception that "straight men don’t love cats,” couldn't have been more wrong.

Over time, I came to marvel at Wally’s unique qualities. For example, he growled when the door bell rang. He came running from out of nowhere when I whistled for him to come home. As he crossed the street, his belly would sway from side to side as he said “mow wow mow wow” which translates in cat to “where the hell have you been, I’ve been waiting forevah fo’ ya across the street” in a thick, Boston accent. But most impressively to me, Wally could get an erection from licking his own scrotum. (Seeing his lipstick always made me think of the meat beneath the shell of a lobster claw, for some reason.) Moving on.

After I knocked up the wife, we speculated about how Wally would react to his future sibling’s presence. He was, after all, an only child for over 9 years by the time February of 2009 rolled around. When we came home from the hospital with G, our worries about Wally’s feelings towards her evaporated when we caught him affectionately nuzzling the side of her face. We were a happy family.

Unfortunately, we lost our little man during the same week that my grandmother passed away, which was a few weeks after Greta was born. Wally went missing before we had left for my grandma’s services in New York. When we returned, we received the bad news about Wally from a neighbor. He was most likely hit by a car. It was a bad week, to say the least.

Walter Cooney Teravainen now sleeps peacefully beneath a beautiful, flower garden in Carver close to where Greta will be playing happily in the years to come. I imagine that he went running with his belly swaying into the Pearly Gates. I hope he gave a nice “mow wow” to those who greeted him.

I am grateful to Wally for introducing me to a sort of fatherhood. He was the first pet that I ever called my own. He is and will continue to be missed in our home. I needed some time before I could appropriately memorialize him. I hope I did justice to his mystique.

To all of you loving parents of furry children out there, give them a nice hug, kiss, and a special treat in memory of the Wall-man tonight. Maybe that early morning wake up tomorrow will not be so bad after all!

Rip Van Greta Snoozebug

2009-09-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

(I’ve decided to temporarily discontinue updates on the Facebook about new blog postings because I’m worried that readers are on overload from me. I’m feeling a bit insecure and overexposed circa Britney Spears and her 2008 streak of photos exiting cars commando. I’ll wait until my publicist says the coast is clear.)

Watching Greta sleep at night is one of the happiest moments in my typically uneventful daily routine. The position is always unpredictable. She could be contorted like a yogi master on her side crammed into the corner. She could be on her back in the center of the crib, her chest moving ever so slightly as she breathes. Like any child’s face to his or her parent, G’s during sleep is precious, innocent, and angelic.

When Greta is sleeping peacefully, I imagine she is dreaming of limitless quantities of formula in a bottle that she can swipe away yet never leaves her mouth. Or possibly endless bath time with Mr. Crab, Timmy the Turtle, and Jenny Jellyfish. Maybe a crib piled high with cell phones and remote controls for unlimited gnawing and chewing.

It surprises me, though, that her restless sleeps aren’t more frequent considering her days are basically fodder for bad LSD trips. Think about it. Constant exaggerated facial expressions by mom, dad, or BFF Kate with over-the-top, wide eyed smiles. Songs with confusing topics like bags of wool, spiders walking up spouts, and bridges collapsing in London. Words for letters, numbers, and colors in Spanish. It’s amazing she can get any sleep at all.

The next best thing to watching her sleep, is greeting her when she wakes up. Kicking her legs, babbling, and rolling around, she looks up at me with a drooly smile and a pterodactyl screech. Maybe my daily routine isn’t so uneventful after all…

Spring Break Shark Attack!

2009-09-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

Here’s the Comcast info description of this 2005 made-for-TV movie: “A sheltered college gal encounters studly predators on land and killer sharks in the water during spring break.” I think .7 seconds elapsed before selecting “record” on the DVR. Who could possibly pass up such a horribly awesome program? Certainly not someone watching the “Sy Fy” channel at 11 pm on a Sunday night. While I watched for gratuitous scenes of wet 20 year-olds in two-pieces, I actually received valuable lessons in parenting.

This is what we learn in the opening scenes: Danielle is a busty college student who commutes to college while protecting her virginity. Her parents refuse to let her go to Florida for spring break. Somehow, Danielle convincingly justifies her desire to wrestle in kiddie pools full of jello with other girls in bikinis because father once cheated on mother. Of course, in complete disregard of her parents' instructions, she leaves the next day on a plane to meet her two girlfriends who are staying in a beach house nice enough for Puff Daddy to host his annual white party.

(Don’t forget the equally clichéd Taken also involved a girl disobeying her father’s instructions about traveling and she almost became a concubine – let’s see where Danielle’s decision takes her.)

DAD LESSON 1: Anytime your daughter is planning to go away on a trip, lie to her about natural disasters striking the exact area where she intends to travel. If she persists, chain her to her bed until the spring break week is over. She’ll hate you but at least she will become less popular and less likely to be invited on future spring break trips. Back to the movie.

While the three girls are sunbathing on the beach, one of the girl’s boyfriends (Max) is astonished to learn that they crashed his vacation plans because he and his buddy (J.T.) planned on making a spring break-themed “Girls Gone Wild” video. That night, Max is dancing with his girlfriend but unabashedly hits on a different girl on the dance floor while his g.f. is looking the other way. We soon learn that evil people die horribly in this cinematic masterpiece when Max and his around-the-way girl are devoured during a naughty swim in the ocean.

Meanwhile J.T. is somehow fascinated with humping Danielle even though her friend Karen is ten times hotter and 100 times sluttier. Fortunately for the audience, local nice guy Shane (too poor to go to college so he works with mom at their boat rental shop) enters the scene and vies for Danielle’s affection. Naturally, J.T. is overmatched in this battle to feed Danielle’s horses so he resorts to slipping a roofie into Danielle’s drink like any typical creep on spring break. Don’t worry, Shane foiled J.T.’s plan but not before Danielle called home to confess about her disobedience to her father.

DAD LESSON 2: Anytime your daughter calls you intoxicated or otherwise inebriated from a place where she was not supposed to be, you travel immediately to that location with an unloaded gun and a shovel. Upon arrival, you tell any dudes near your daughter that you intend to use the shovel to hack up their body after you shoot them. In all likelihood, they’ll help carry your daughter to the car when you will subsequently transport her home. (See Lesson 1.)

The next day, J.T. inexplicably visits Shane to “thank” him for helping to take care of Danielle. As a token of appreciation, J.T. offers to hire Shane for a 24-hour boat ride with the three girls. (Meanwhile, Max has been missing for 2 or 3 days and no one seems to care.) Shane objects but his mom really needs the money so Shane relents. Just before disembarking, Danielle’s dad arrives and embarrassingly confronts her. Defiantly, Danielle jumps on the boat as J.T. laughs in dad’s face.

DAD LESSON 3: When attempting to kidnap your daughter in front of her friends, calmly convince her to speak with you privately first, then throw her over your shoulder to complete the abduction. Punch J.T. in the face later.

The boat ride ensues followed by a near death experience with two tiger sharks. Clearly, Danielle’s virginity spared her from tragedy as the sharks opted not to attack her – the only person in the entire movie spared from losing limbs. During the struggle to evade the sharks, the boat is slightly damaged and almost sinking. The crew is forced to stay the night on an island ½ a mile away so that Shane can repair the engine. As they get off the boat, Danielle discovers J.T.’s stash of roofies, which he brought with him on the boat for reasons that defy logic. Shane, Danielle, and her two friends ostracize J.T. but allow him back on the boat the next day when they return to shore.

In the interim, the audience discovers that a businessman from a rival town previously used Shane’s boat to chum the waters in an effort to lure sharks to the new beach front that has stolen his profits. He hoped the sharks’ presence would divert the spring breakers back to his bar where they used to go. The best part about this preposterous evil plan is that the businessman is Tom Cruise’s partner, Coughlin, from “Cocktail” who apparently resorted to these guerilla business warfare tactics because the bottle throwing show at his “Hopes and Dreams” bar just wasn’t drawing the spring break crowds he had in 1988.

Anyway, J.T. decides to drown his sorrows of failing to rape Danielle by getting drunk and hitting on a different set of girls. While he parties with hundreds of other college kids on a floating stage at a beach party, they somehow fail to notice approximately 57 tiger sharks infiltrate the waters around them. Mass bloodshed ensues and J.T. (don’t forget he is evil) meets an appropriate ending as a tiger shark tears him apart. Shane, Danielle, and Danielle’s brother (don’t ask) save the day by luring the sharks away using methods that are irrelevant for purposes of my summary. Shane’s mom appropriately chastises Coughlin before police take him away. Shane and Danielle finally french. The end.

DAD LESSON 4: Pray that for every trip that your Danielle takes without permission, a Shane will be out there to protect her long enough for a tiger shark to eliminate J.T. from the equation. If your daughter turns out to be Max’s secret hook up girl, go back to Lessons 1 through 3 before it’s too late!

Say Cheese

2009-08-28T22:01:00.000-07:00

G-sizzle’s two front lower teeth recently poked through her gum. Depending on the facial expression she makes, you can get a quick glimpse of them. I try to pull her lower lip down to see the central incisors (thanks Google!) but she gets annoyed and swats my finger away with her forearm of sausage links. Upon seeing the teeth for the first time, a few questions arose in my head:

How long until I don a tutu and play the tooth fairy? What is the going rate for a lost tooth these days, adjusting for the recession and of course, the state of the current economy (the blame of all current evils)? What happens if she catches me as I’m trying to do the cash-for-tooth exchange?

Furthermore, what kind of orthodontic work is my daughter going to require as an adolescent? Considering the dental makeup of her mom and dad, it’s a good possibility that head gear, rubber bands, and awkward pronunciations of esses are in her future sometime between 5th and 8th grade.

What I notice most about braces is not the actual hardware. I mean, they’re noticeable but after a while, I forget about them. More so, it’s the awkward way that many braces wearers curtain their lips over the teeth in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence, as if to throw off the scent. “Nothing to see here folks. Just a normal set of pearly whites here. Move along.” All I can think of is a boxer before a fight after the trainer plops in the mouth guard before squirting some water in his mouth. Brett Favre and Tom Cruise always did this during their adult invisalign periods. Overall, though, no big deal.

At least the wife was fortunate enough to get braces as a kid. She apparently had a good set of bucked out choppers and did the whole 80’s grille circa Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or Martha Plimpton in The Goonies (they had braces, right?).

Unfortunately or not, AIG did not have a dental plan when we were growing up so I was blessed/cursed/stuck with my gap on the upper deck. Honestly, I’ve been totally content with my gap for a long time. It took some time and teasing of course to get there. But at this point, if dentures are in my future, I’ll opt for a recreation of the gap as long as the replica isn’t Michael Strahan-esque.

Whether G grows buck teeth, a gap, or even a shit tooth, I am comfortable knowing that cosmetic orthodontic solutions abound. However, there is one dental fear for G-sizzle that I dread worse than zombies, Sarah Palin boosters, or Greta alone in a bar with a single, 55 year-old Casey O’Connell: the dreaded food in teeth phenomenon. My teeth crevices are like a Venus fly trap for food scraps, I swear. Might as well just pack a box of tooth picks with me 24-7.

While the horror and embarrassment of discovering a post-meal treat long after several conversations, laughs, and grins with multitudes of people are excruciating, it doesn’t compare to the frustration I experience when a friend or relative who admits he/she chose not to disclose that half a pound of chicken was visible in my teeth for all the world to see beginning 2 hours ago. And don’t even get me started on the red wine/wood teeth thing.

Greta, don’t worry kid, I got your back. Not only do we have dental coverage, but I’ll give you the head’s up when broccoli or poppy seeds decide to stick around in the fangs after a meal. Just make sure you tell me, too!

Ffffffbbbbpppbbbttt

2009-08-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

While feeding a bottle to G as she sat on my lap the other day, I sensed that all too familiar vibration ripple on my thigh. As I pondered whether it was a dry fart or one with bonus features, I dare say a sly grin came across my daughter’s face. At that moment, I wanted to high five her.

Let’s be frank. Farts are funny. They sound funny. They smell funny. They are funny among friends and family. They are especially funny when occurring outside of friends and family. Well, okay, at least for me and anyone else with a juvenile sense of humor.

Just think about the word itself. FART. Could there possibly be another word that more appropriately fits its definition? “Flatulate” just doesn’t do it for me. I think queens and dukes “flatulate.” Normal folks fart. And Massholes fahht.

Usually, if a variety of euphemisms exists in lieu of a proper word, it’s a good indication that the proper word refers to a body part and/or bodily function. For example, penis and dong dong, vagina and vajajay, breasts and booby salad, scrotum and ball bag, defecate and poop, urinate and piss like a race horse, etc. Sorry, I digress.

As for farts, we’ve got a myriad of euphemistic substitutes for flatulence. One alternative is the polite “passing gas.” Then, there is the old school “breaking wind.” And, of course, don’t forget the 1980s elementary “cutting the cheese.” We even use euphemisms to temporarily distract bystanders within earshot of our gas passing such as the sincere “is that a squeaky board?” or the naturalist “did you hear that barking spider?”

Admittedly, I would classify myself as a quite gaseous person. Everything makes me fart. Beans of all sorts and pretty much any stereotypical Mexican food, no surprise. Frozen yogurt especially. Anything with garlic. Fresh fruit definitely. Multiple draft beers from dive bars, particularly. Wheat bread – no joke. For Gigi’s sake, I hope she didn’t get my colon. If she did, perhaps I write this to pre-empt some of the societal shame and embarassment of simply carrying out a function of the digestive system.

On a different note, farting is a good measuring stick to determine how tight you really are with a person. In other words, who is in your fart circle of trust? Is there really any better way of gauging how comfortable one feels in the company of another than to toot at will in their presence?

I released the hounds in front of the wife on our second date. I was tired of holding the gas in until it was safe to crop dust away. (We went out for pizza at Woody's.) I decided to cut to the chase (and the cheese, for that matter) by revealing my true gassy side. Fortunately, she didn’t hold it against me. And now we have our little girl.

So, G-Spice, I write this to you now. Thank you for letting me into your fart circle of trust. That is, at least while your diet is still just formula and rice cereal. Go ahead, pull my finger.

I Want to Ride My Bicycle!

2009-07-29T19:08:00.000-07:00

The wind whipped my slightly feathered, middle-parted bowl cut as I coasted speedily down Union Street on my 12-speed. I felt triumphant and exhilarated after a long awaited make out sesh with Carla Gresham. It was the summer before my sophomore year. My driver's license wouldn't be until the following year but at least the bike could get me around for the time being. Things were looking up.

If my bike ride was an episode from The Hills, "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas would be playing in the background as I smiled and head bobbed to the beat. Although I'd also probably be text messaging on an iPhone while driving a BMW suv without a license.

Unfortunately, my moment of euphoria was short lived. A brake handle became detached from the handlebars, which eventually lodged into the spokes of the right front tire. Several facial abrasions and an undiagnosed concussion later, I had to explain to my parents why I disobeyed their order not to pedal the 8 mile return leg from Manch to Hooksett after dark.

Now fast forward to a few weeks ago when I bought a used ("burns my fingers" hot) mountain bike off Craigslist from a shady dude in a Dorchester basement. During one of my subsequent commutes home from work, the post-frenching wipeout of 1991 flashbacked in my head and my thoughts eventually moved to G-sizzle. I think my inner monologue went something like this:

"That kiss was still so worth the wreck. Yeah, I must have been what - 15? Probably... Hmm, where was Carla's dad when the business was going down? (Downshifting as the road inclines.) What the hell am I gonna do if I catch some pumpkin haired teenager sucking face with my little girl? I mean, I don't want to deprive her of innocent teenage rites of passage. I like to think that I'm on the progressive side, but what is too much freedom?... And what about the blatant disobedience of my parents for the sake of a crush? What kind of stunt is G gonna pull that will make me cringe?... Man, this hill goes on forever. I'm definitely sweating through my shirt by now... At least I have a long time to develop a game plan... Hey, maybe I should get one of those bike cabooses so that Greta and I can ride around together."

So on that note, I look to you readers, fellow parents, and anyone who accidentally found themselves on this page. Any good or bad experiences on child seat/attachment-thingies to a bike, out there? If so, what brand and model?

And while you're at it - do you turn a blind eye to frenching under your roof, because at least you know you can find a lame excuse to enter the living room at any moment? Or is it just easier to enforce a strict "no tonsil hockey allowed" zone in your house?

The Dirty Seagull meets Crazy Legs McGigi

2009-07-19T08:28:00.000-07:00

Based on this audition tape alone, Nigel Lithgow has agreed to waive the age requirements for both Shell and Greta so that they may compete on "So You Think You Can Dance" next season. They are going straight to Vegas.

Crazy Legs gets her groove on at the 34-second mark, and then again at 1:13.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eZjhppf6e8

Reunited … and it feels so good!

2009-07-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

So three good buddies marry three sisters. They live within a few blocks of each other in Brooklyn. They have kids. They rotate Sunday dinners at each other’s homes. Their kids grow up together. Their kids party together, play games together, get in trouble together, and end up just plain loving each other. That is pretty much my dad’s side of his maternal family in a nutshell.

My grandmother Grace Teravainen’s maiden name is Triano. Grace’s sisters Rose and Dorothy (“Dottie”) ended up marrying buddies Frank Kelly and Pete (“Dude-a-bops”) Milazzo. Frank and Pete were buddies with my grandfather Allan. He was born in Finland but ended up somehow in Duxbury, Massachusetts and eventually in New York.

Last weekend, as they have done every year for more than a decade, my father’s cousin Marie (Milazzo) Williams and her husband Doug hosted a Triano family reunion at their home in Bloomville, New York. You need to get a visual before we proceed.

First, Bloomville is pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Farms dot the hilly, green landscape with pretty wooded areas separating most neighbors. As you pull your car up to a reunion, this is what you will see.

The Williams’ home is a beautiful, two-story farmhouse set on a few acres of lawn, flower gardens, and trees. A huge barn sits to the house’s left, which functions as a poker hall, concert house, and saloon – more about this later. As you walk past the barn up a small incline, you will see an old two-story schoolhouse and a large function tent immediately next to it with a bunch of picnic tables underneath. By the way, a four-wheeler and a golf cart could be buzzing by you at any moment, which are usually operated at unsafe speeds by kids too young for driver’s licenses. As you come under the tent, a charcoal grill is to your right. A covered deck adjacent to the schoolhouse is on its back side, which overlooks a large open backyard surrounded by a sprawling corn field and a steep hill with tall grass to the right. The yard is our bocce court.
Meanwhile, most folks pitch their sleeping tents in various locations of the yard between the house and the picnic tables. Some people sleep in their cars, others in the schoolhouse, while the truly adventurous sleep at the Buena Vista motel about 8 miles away.

As stated previously, my father’s generation of Triano cousins (and not just the children of Grace, Rose, and Dottie) had their own bonds and shared experiences growing up in Brooklyn. As they married and mated, many of them relocated to greener pastures. Due to the geographic distance and lack of opportunities to spend time together, the Triano cousins planned sporadic reunions in random locations or used special occasions like weddings to accomplish their bonding time.

Over time, the cousins’ spouses and children were added to the mix. They, too, began to enjoy and partake in the bonding of the reunions, holidays, or whatever event they may be spending together. Ultimately, Doug and Marie hosted their first reunion at Bloomville and the annual pilgrimage to their home began.

As Bloomville became a staple event of everyone’s summer schedule, my generation of “cousins” also began to stage our own reunions at different times throughout the year. For example, uncles and cousins come to Boston for one weekend of NFL playoffs every year. Other times, relatives of any generation are known to show up for shows by our cousin Steve’s world famous band, Peculiar Gentlemen. There is also an annual trip to Key West by any male Triano (and in-laws) over 21. Basically, we find excuses to reunite, bond, catch up … and party.

At any reunion, we have certain traditions – and most of them involve gambling. After everyone arrives on Friday, we eventually congregate in the barn. After a lot of arguing about ground rules, a massive game of scat (see http://www.pagat.com/draw/scat.html for the rules) will ensue with players of any age. After scat, poker begins. It doesn’t matter how old you are, Uncle Bob will bleed anyone dry of lunch money or social security in 7/27. Meanwhile, bodies will fade into the night to their respective sleeping spaces as the crowd gradually thins. The usual suspects who close out the barn playing drinking games tend not to be the early morning risers on Saturday.

Saturday morning usually begins with someone vowing never to sleep in a tent again because of some drunkard’s late night antics. After people return to the premises, we collect $20 from each participant for a massive bocce tournament complete with a championship belt that memorializes the first and second place finishers of years past. Again, as long as you have $20, we don’t care how young or old you are. You’re in.

As the day goes on, people drink, eat, chat, watch and play bocce, and compete in any other yard games that arise along the way. During these rituals, we reconnect with our loved ones. You trade stories. You catch up. You share news. Perhaps you relive a memory from a previous year’s reunion.

By the time Saturday night rolls around, a live music show begins. Doug sings in a doo-wop band that warms up the crowd. After the opening band’s set, Peculiar Gentlemen comes on and stokes the crowd into a dancing frenzy. The night usually ends in a similar fashion as Friday, but usually with more mutants and cretins. This year’s Saturday was highlighted by keg stands and cross-eyed daddies whose baby mamas went back to the Buena Vista sans papa.

More importantly, 2009 was Greta’s first experience at Bloomville. Our family greeted her with hundreds of hugs, kisses, smiles, laughs, goofy faces, weird sounds, and every other way I hoped they would. The highlight of the weekend for me was our chance to compete together a la Baby Bjorn in the Sunday morning Frisbee golf tournament, which is another belt eligible event and a $10 entry fee.

While reflecting on this year’s reunion and looking forward to the next one, I am excited about Greta’s future reunions and Triano experiences. I can’t wait for her first bocce tournament in Bloomville when she eliminates Uncle Bob in the first round. It will also be fun to see her holding cards at the beginning of a scat tournament, hoping that her three chips will hold up long enough to win the big money. Above all, I am especially looking forward to seeing her interact with the next generation of her own “cousins.” There is such a comforting warmth in experiencing the connection to an extended, loving family. Even though we all live far apart, the reunion lets us forget about our problems and stresses for a little while, we get to know each other a little bit better, and we have fun doing it together.

Anyway, next year’s Scrabble tourney leaders are rumored to be developing a championship sash to rival the bocce and Frisbee belts. Looks like Gigi and I have some reading to do…