Case,
I will do my best to teach you to be strong and independent, so that when the time comes, you may face life head-on and fight your own battles. Inevitably, though, there are some battles -- personal, professional and otherwise -- that even the strongest man cannot face alone. Hopefully, those times are few and far between. Just know, son, that I will always be there for you, but I will never force you to turn to me. I want you to be proud of who you are and what you accomplish as you make your way in the world. Be your own man. Live life on your terms. And when the time comes that you need a helping hand or a comfortable voice, I will always be within reach.
Love,
Dad
Monday, December 26, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Are you ready?
Case,
Saturday marks your first Christmas Eve, but for an even cooler first you won't remember, the day also marks the first time we can share an afternoon of the NFL together. Now, you won't know what you're seeing or have any understanding of it -- which means you and Bears backup quarterback Caleb Hanie have something in common -- but I'm excited to bounce you on my knee while I stifle the urge to swear at what I assume will be the demise of my fantasy team in the league championship game.
Love,
Dad
Saturday marks your first Christmas Eve, but for an even cooler first you won't remember, the day also marks the first time we can share an afternoon of the NFL together. Now, you won't know what you're seeing or have any understanding of it -- which means you and Bears backup quarterback Caleb Hanie have something in common -- but I'm excited to bounce you on my knee while I stifle the urge to swear at what I assume will be the demise of my fantasy team in the league championship game.
Love,
Dad
Monday, December 19, 2011
Curtains
Case,
I'm slogging my way through this world literature class, having just read Moliere's "Tartuffe." It's actually pretty good, as French neoclassicism goes. As mentioned before, I always have so much running through my head at a given time that reading something like this -- easy by world lit standards -- tends to be a chore. When I find something I want to read, I will devour it quickly. But if I have to read something, it can be torture. Hopefully, you get your reading genes from your mom, who's on the other end of the reading spectrum. She just loves to read. Anything. All the time. Of course, your Grandma Pallister is like that, too, so maybe it's just me. Anyway, while reading "Tartuffe," whose theme is about face vs. mask, I was reminded of a writing from a few years ago. I can remember driving down Interstate 44 to your Uncle Billy's and seeing rows upon rows of fabricated housing. I'm not sure why, but I started to wonder who lived there. What kind of people populate a place? The image of the houses seemed so sterile and soulless. Do sterile, soulless people live there? That seemed too simple, though. As the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover. You really never know the reality behind an image, whether it be rows of fabricated houses or the face of a random person that crosses your path. And it's dangerous to judge yourself through fleeting glimpses. It's human nature to wonder and want, but it's also human nature to hide. And people hide for good reason. Some things are unknown -- better left unwanted, better left unseen. With that in mind, this is what I wrote:
Curtains
Did you ever wonder
what you might find under
the masks that we wear for the show?
Did you ever ponder
what is over yonder
in places where greener grass grows?
In cookie-cutter houses
filled with Stepford spouses
How do you think that they feel?
With their heart or their head,
through their words never said?
Their act has become all too real
In mansions up on hills
where fame will pay the bills
That must be some kind of luck
But those who have it all
know that if they ever fall
they'll need more than a name to get up
Did you ever inquire
’bout the lack of desire
from those who exist on the bottom?
Did you wonder why
seems they no longer try?
Well dreams only die if you got ’em
Whether box or a palace
we're all subject to malice
Who really wants what they have?
For those with the freedom
to not have cares or need ’em,
what they lack is a rope they can grab
Did you ever think
why the housewife never blinks
when she peeks through the crack in the door?
It's for goodness sake
all the shit that she takes
to maintain and even the score
If your pity's reserved
thinking her plight's deserved
'cause she keeps herself in a haze
Just stop and consider
she numbs to what hit her
Who's not haunted by their better days?
Who knows why it happens or what it is for
Half of us want less, while half wish for more
We're all curious cats, but one thing's for certain
We all live our lives behind some kind of curtain
Did you ever choose
not to win, or to lose?
Sometimes it's not left up to us
You can keep up your guard
You can try twice as hard
But that last card will still come up bust
Did you ever ask
if you're up to the task
of living life outside your cage?
You can follow your heart
Will you still play a part?
Can you hide if the world is a stage?
Who knows why it happens or what it is for
Most find out later, a few learn before
We're all curious cats, but one thing's for certain
What we don't want to see is behind our own curtain
Love,
Dad
I'm slogging my way through this world literature class, having just read Moliere's "Tartuffe." It's actually pretty good, as French neoclassicism goes. As mentioned before, I always have so much running through my head at a given time that reading something like this -- easy by world lit standards -- tends to be a chore. When I find something I want to read, I will devour it quickly. But if I have to read something, it can be torture. Hopefully, you get your reading genes from your mom, who's on the other end of the reading spectrum. She just loves to read. Anything. All the time. Of course, your Grandma Pallister is like that, too, so maybe it's just me. Anyway, while reading "Tartuffe," whose theme is about face vs. mask, I was reminded of a writing from a few years ago. I can remember driving down Interstate 44 to your Uncle Billy's and seeing rows upon rows of fabricated housing. I'm not sure why, but I started to wonder who lived there. What kind of people populate a place? The image of the houses seemed so sterile and soulless. Do sterile, soulless people live there? That seemed too simple, though. As the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover. You really never know the reality behind an image, whether it be rows of fabricated houses or the face of a random person that crosses your path. And it's dangerous to judge yourself through fleeting glimpses. It's human nature to wonder and want, but it's also human nature to hide. And people hide for good reason. Some things are unknown -- better left unwanted, better left unseen. With that in mind, this is what I wrote:
Curtains
Did you ever wonder
what you might find under
the masks that we wear for the show?
Did you ever ponder
what is over yonder
in places where greener grass grows?
In cookie-cutter houses
filled with Stepford spouses
How do you think that they feel?
With their heart or their head,
through their words never said?
Their act has become all too real
In mansions up on hills
where fame will pay the bills
That must be some kind of luck
But those who have it all
know that if they ever fall
they'll need more than a name to get up
Did you ever inquire
’bout the lack of desire
from those who exist on the bottom?
Did you wonder why
seems they no longer try?
Well dreams only die if you got ’em
Whether box or a palace
we're all subject to malice
Who really wants what they have?
For those with the freedom
to not have cares or need ’em,
what they lack is a rope they can grab
Did you ever think
why the housewife never blinks
when she peeks through the crack in the door?
It's for goodness sake
all the shit that she takes
to maintain and even the score
If your pity's reserved
thinking her plight's deserved
'cause she keeps herself in a haze
Just stop and consider
she numbs to what hit her
Who's not haunted by their better days?
Who knows why it happens or what it is for
Half of us want less, while half wish for more
We're all curious cats, but one thing's for certain
We all live our lives behind some kind of curtain
Did you ever choose
not to win, or to lose?
Sometimes it's not left up to us
You can keep up your guard
You can try twice as hard
But that last card will still come up bust
Did you ever ask
if you're up to the task
of living life outside your cage?
You can follow your heart
Will you still play a part?
Can you hide if the world is a stage?
Who knows why it happens or what it is for
Most find out later, a few learn before
We're all curious cats, but one thing's for certain
What we don't want to see is behind our own curtain
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Too much talk is cheap
It's better to say nothing and let people think you're a fool, than to open your mouth and leave no doubt.
Case,
That was one of your Grandpa Pallister's favorite sayings when I was a kid. As an adult, I find it becomes truer by the day.
(There might be a person or two who read that and think, "What are YOU talking about, Pallister? You never shut up. Granted, I have been known to dominate the occasional conversation, but only in settings that involve a person or persons who know what kind of fool I am and still dig me.)
Anyway, words are like antibiotics. They are vital to maintaining a healthy society, but overuse renders them ineffective. People build up a tolerance to the bullshit of those who talk too much.
Love,
Dad
Case,
That was one of your Grandpa Pallister's favorite sayings when I was a kid. As an adult, I find it becomes truer by the day.
(There might be a person or two who read that and think, "What are YOU talking about, Pallister? You never shut up. Granted, I have been known to dominate the occasional conversation, but only in settings that involve a person or persons who know what kind of fool I am and still dig me.)
Anyway, words are like antibiotics. They are vital to maintaining a healthy society, but overuse renders them ineffective. People build up a tolerance to the bullshit of those who talk too much.
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
AnNAPolis
Case,
You were being a bit cranky this afternoon as we waited for your mom to return home, so we sat down on the bed and I cradled you in my arms to see if a few ounces of formula would settle you down. It worked. So well, in fact, that you fell asleep, with your mouth still gripping the bottle's nipple as tight as before you drifted off.
I initially thought to try and carefully remove my arm from under your head and sneak away to the couch while I awaited your awakening. But you looked so peaceful. I didn't dare disturb you. So, I laid my head back as well and eventually joined you in slumber.
It didn't last long, as your mom returned home shortly thereafter and we both woke up. But it was one of the finer naps I've had, which brings me to a point. There will come a time in your life when you will be willing to trade your thumbs for a couple hours of shut-eye -- and you won't be able to. Until that time, then, my advice is to enjoy every nap. It was a dreary November day as we slept, and while all naps are worth it, few things are more rejuvenating than a long nap on a rainy day. The rhythm of the raindrops is the perfect soundtrack to sleep.
Love,
Dad
You were being a bit cranky this afternoon as we waited for your mom to return home, so we sat down on the bed and I cradled you in my arms to see if a few ounces of formula would settle you down. It worked. So well, in fact, that you fell asleep, with your mouth still gripping the bottle's nipple as tight as before you drifted off.
I initially thought to try and carefully remove my arm from under your head and sneak away to the couch while I awaited your awakening. But you looked so peaceful. I didn't dare disturb you. So, I laid my head back as well and eventually joined you in slumber.
It didn't last long, as your mom returned home shortly thereafter and we both woke up. But it was one of the finer naps I've had, which brings me to a point. There will come a time in your life when you will be willing to trade your thumbs for a couple hours of shut-eye -- and you won't be able to. Until that time, then, my advice is to enjoy every nap. It was a dreary November day as we slept, and while all naps are worth it, few things are more rejuvenating than a long nap on a rainy day. The rhythm of the raindrops is the perfect soundtrack to sleep.
Love,
Dad
Parents and children, part two
Case,
I called your Grandma Pallister today to check in and see how things were going. She didn't sound like her usual positive self; she sounded detached, precoccupied. We talked for a few minutes and I asked her if eveyrhting was OK. She said your Grandpa Pallister wasn't doing well. He's had leg problems for a while, but now, apparently, he can hardly walk. That's tough on both of them. It's very difficult for your Grandpa to struggle so much to do simple things like walking to the kitchen, given the life he lived. In his heyday, your Grandpa was a man's man. He was a Chicago firefighter for almost 30 years, and he worked on a moving truck as a second job for decades. He has always been a very tough man, and even though he doesn't realize it, that toughness shows itself every time he fights through the pain and makes even the smallest trip around the condo. As for your Grandma, she continues a life filled with sacrfice. She raised six children over the span of 40 years, and as your Grandpa's health has deteriorated after he was forced to retire almost 29 years ago, she has stuck by his side, often literally.
I will continue to write about them so you understand just how wonderful they have been and how much their influence has shaped my life. But today, I will leave you with a song I wrote about five years ago:
Take a closer look
Alone in a lobby
a boy wonders why
You become a man on the day
you see the strongest man cry
The distance between us
made it hard to connect
But the passage of time
was a door to respect
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
'cause they don't hit a baseball
or play a guitar
You won't find 'em in the TV
You won't find 'em in a book
You'll find 'em right in front of you
Take a closer look
See that old man
struggling upstairs with a cane
He's always been so much more
to those who proudly wear his name
He spent years fighting fires
He outsmarted bombs
And to five sons and a daughter
his ethic passed on
Witness to an agony
no one could explain
Every man becomes a boy
when his mother's in pain
Through all my fears, in all these years
I found comfort in one place
Though we never made it easy
she keeps a smile on her face
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
'cause they don't run for office
or own fancy cars
You won't find 'em on the big screen
You won't find 'em off the hook
You'll find 'em right in front of you
Take a closer look
See that old woman
who's lost the color in her hair
That's from a life of sacrifice
and a family's burdens to bear
Five-plus decades and counting
winter, spring, summer and fall
Being there for everyone
is the hardest job of all
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
In those old familiar places,
right there they are
I called your Grandma Pallister today to check in and see how things were going. She didn't sound like her usual positive self; she sounded detached, precoccupied. We talked for a few minutes and I asked her if eveyrhting was OK. She said your Grandpa Pallister wasn't doing well. He's had leg problems for a while, but now, apparently, he can hardly walk. That's tough on both of them. It's very difficult for your Grandpa to struggle so much to do simple things like walking to the kitchen, given the life he lived. In his heyday, your Grandpa was a man's man. He was a Chicago firefighter for almost 30 years, and he worked on a moving truck as a second job for decades. He has always been a very tough man, and even though he doesn't realize it, that toughness shows itself every time he fights through the pain and makes even the smallest trip around the condo. As for your Grandma, she continues a life filled with sacrfice. She raised six children over the span of 40 years, and as your Grandpa's health has deteriorated after he was forced to retire almost 29 years ago, she has stuck by his side, often literally.
I will continue to write about them so you understand just how wonderful they have been and how much their influence has shaped my life. But today, I will leave you with a song I wrote about five years ago:
Take a closer look
Alone in a lobby
a boy wonders why
You become a man on the day
you see the strongest man cry
The distance between us
made it hard to connect
But the passage of time
was a door to respect
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
'cause they don't hit a baseball
or play a guitar
You won't find 'em in the TV
You won't find 'em in a book
You'll find 'em right in front of you
Take a closer look
See that old man
struggling upstairs with a cane
He's always been so much more
to those who proudly wear his name
He spent years fighting fires
He outsmarted bombs
And to five sons and a daughter
his ethic passed on
Witness to an agony
no one could explain
Every man becomes a boy
when his mother's in pain
Through all my fears, in all these years
I found comfort in one place
Though we never made it easy
she keeps a smile on her face
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
'cause they don't run for office
or own fancy cars
You won't find 'em on the big screen
You won't find 'em off the hook
You'll find 'em right in front of you
Take a closer look
See that old woman
who's lost the color in her hair
That's from a life of sacrifice
and a family's burdens to bear
Five-plus decades and counting
winter, spring, summer and fall
Being there for everyone
is the hardest job of all
When you're searching for heroes
you don't have to go far
In those old familiar places,
right there they are
Friday, November 25, 2011
Parents and children
Case,
It's the last night of our visit to Chicago. We're sharing the remaining few hours with your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister over way too much Chinese food. You're currently mesmerized by a colorful snowman figurine your Aunt Patti got for you (Thanks, Patti!).
As I mentioned earlier, this visit marked the first time your Grandpa Pallister met you. He's 80 now, and he can't travel. In the year since I last saw him, he's lost about 50 pounds. It's tough to see the strongest man you've ever known look so frail. But seeing you made him happy beyond words, happier than I've ever seen him. Ditto for your Grandma Pallister, who was overjoyed to see you again. She's 78 and doesn't get around like she used to, but you'd never know it from the hectic schedule she keeps. She truly is a wonder.
Anyway, I just wanted to "introduce" you a little more to the two people who are responsible for making me the man who loves you with all my heart and will do whatever it takes to make sure you grow up happy. As they have always done for me, I will put your needs first, and no
sacrifice will be too big. They have lived for me and your aunts and uncles, as I now live for you.
Before I sign off, I will leave you with a letter I wrote to your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister late last night, as I sat in a darkened room alone, smiling at the thought of what they meant to me and crying at the thought of them having limited opportunities to watch you grow into the funny, smart, strong boy I know you will be.
Mom & Dad,
I know I have not always been the best son, but I think I've become a good man. And I'm going to need to be, as the greatest challenge of my life, that of parenthood, lies ahead of me.
I am ready to meet that challenge because of who I am, and who I am I owe entirely to you. You have taught me through example the value of hard work and sacrifice and the meaning of unconditional love. It's those lessons that will guide me in raising Case.
This visit has been wonderful, but all too brief and intensely bittersweet.
Dad, seeing the smile on your face when I placed Case in your arms for the first time is an image I will carry with me forever. And Mom, watching you interact with him is priceless. Yet those moments also are heartbreaking.
I desperately want you to watch Case grow up, and I want him to experience so much of that unconditional love that shaped my life, even to this day. But ultimately, time and circumstance will limit those opportunities.
I know you have always been proud of me for making my own way in life. Even so, it's always been a little tough to return to my latest job and latest home -- no matter how much practice I've gotten over the years. Now, however, with a beautiful grandson and the heavy burden of mortality thrown into the mix, I feel I'm letting you down. I know that you, of all people, understand I'm doing what I need to do for my family. After all, that's what you taught me. But I still feel a sense of guilt because you've always been there for me, and I feel as if I'm abandoning you.
I could never repay you for everything you've done and continue to do for me. But I promise I will do my best to raise Case the way you raised me so that your legacies will live on with him and the man he becomes.
Love,
Matt
It's the last night of our visit to Chicago. We're sharing the remaining few hours with your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister over way too much Chinese food. You're currently mesmerized by a colorful snowman figurine your Aunt Patti got for you (Thanks, Patti!).
As I mentioned earlier, this visit marked the first time your Grandpa Pallister met you. He's 80 now, and he can't travel. In the year since I last saw him, he's lost about 50 pounds. It's tough to see the strongest man you've ever known look so frail. But seeing you made him happy beyond words, happier than I've ever seen him. Ditto for your Grandma Pallister, who was overjoyed to see you again. She's 78 and doesn't get around like she used to, but you'd never know it from the hectic schedule she keeps. She truly is a wonder.
Anyway, I just wanted to "introduce" you a little more to the two people who are responsible for making me the man who loves you with all my heart and will do whatever it takes to make sure you grow up happy. As they have always done for me, I will put your needs first, and no
sacrifice will be too big. They have lived for me and your aunts and uncles, as I now live for you.
Before I sign off, I will leave you with a letter I wrote to your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister late last night, as I sat in a darkened room alone, smiling at the thought of what they meant to me and crying at the thought of them having limited opportunities to watch you grow into the funny, smart, strong boy I know you will be.
Mom & Dad,
I know I have not always been the best son, but I think I've become a good man. And I'm going to need to be, as the greatest challenge of my life, that of parenthood, lies ahead of me.
I am ready to meet that challenge because of who I am, and who I am I owe entirely to you. You have taught me through example the value of hard work and sacrifice and the meaning of unconditional love. It's those lessons that will guide me in raising Case.
This visit has been wonderful, but all too brief and intensely bittersweet.
Dad, seeing the smile on your face when I placed Case in your arms for the first time is an image I will carry with me forever. And Mom, watching you interact with him is priceless. Yet those moments also are heartbreaking.
I desperately want you to watch Case grow up, and I want him to experience so much of that unconditional love that shaped my life, even to this day. But ultimately, time and circumstance will limit those opportunities.
I know you have always been proud of me for making my own way in life. Even so, it's always been a little tough to return to my latest job and latest home -- no matter how much practice I've gotten over the years. Now, however, with a beautiful grandson and the heavy burden of mortality thrown into the mix, I feel I'm letting you down. I know that you, of all people, understand I'm doing what I need to do for my family. After all, that's what you taught me. But I still feel a sense of guilt because you've always been there for me, and I feel as if I'm abandoning you.
I could never repay you for everything you've done and continue to do for me. But I promise I will do my best to raise Case the way you raised me so that your legacies will live on with him and the man he becomes.
Love,
Matt
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Big day, part 2
Case,
We've been home two minutes, and I'm already back in my sweats and sleeveless shirt. You're still in your christening suit, complete with shoes that have fancy crosses embroidered on the soles. It's the first time you've worn shoes without kicking them off in minutes (it's a big day in more than one way!). I'm guessing you'd be kicking these off if you were awake, but it seems you finally hit the wall (Well, typing that last sentence appears to have jinxed you, as you're now starting to stir). And there we go. Mom just took your shoes off.
I hope you grab a nap before tonight's meet-as-many-Pallisters-as-Uncle-Mark-can-fit-in-his-house-pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner. You've had a long few days. We left for Chicago on Sunday night after I got off work, drove a couple hours and stopped for the night in some town in Maryland. I think it was Cumberland, but it doesn't matter. Every town in Maryland except for Annapolis is terrible. Luckily, we live in Annapolis. West Virginia, when it takes the time to ponder its place in the world, thinks, "At least I'm not Maryland." We got up Monday morning and headed to Indianapolis. You were awesome for the eight-plus hours, including a stop for lunch in Wheeling, a mountain town/city in the aforementioned West Virginia. You were the hit of Coleman's Fish Market. After a nice night in Indy with your mom's oldest friend and her wondeful family, we got up even earlier Tuesday to drive the final few hours to Chicago (Real quick: on your first trip through the Windy City, here's what you missed: Sox Park, the Sears Tower, the Hancock Building, O'Hare International Airport, approximately 23,000 cars, the same number of banquet halls and one annoyingly slow train). Anyway, your dad gets quite impatient when he gets that close, and I was especially anxious for you to meet your Grandpa Pallister (more later on that moment, which was probably the most bittersweet of my life).
Three ounces of formula later, you've now gone back to sleep and I'm still typing. Back to your christening after that lengthy verbal tangent. It went swimmingly, despite the awkwardness of having to stand next to your Godfather (Uncle Mark) the whole time just two days after I suffered a crushing fantasy football defeat to him that essentially ended my playoff hopes. All kidding aside, I am very thankful to Mark and your Aunt Patti, who stood in for your Godmother Marnie, who I believe was surfing in Hawaii during the ceremony. As I suspected, you looked great. The shoes, the vest, the bow tie. Even the hat that made you look like you were going to a Czechoslovakian disco (look up the Saturday Night Live reference) was a memorable accessory.
You've now awoken, and damn if you don't look like the coolest baby in the world rocking your tie and pacifier as if you were born with them. I'm so proud of you, Magoo. I can't wait for us to share more big days. Hopefully, though, we can both dress down a bit for the next few. :)
Love,
Dad
We've been home two minutes, and I'm already back in my sweats and sleeveless shirt. You're still in your christening suit, complete with shoes that have fancy crosses embroidered on the soles. It's the first time you've worn shoes without kicking them off in minutes (it's a big day in more than one way!). I'm guessing you'd be kicking these off if you were awake, but it seems you finally hit the wall (Well, typing that last sentence appears to have jinxed you, as you're now starting to stir). And there we go. Mom just took your shoes off.
I hope you grab a nap before tonight's meet-as-many-Pallisters-as-Uncle-Mark-can-fit-in-his-house-pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner. You've had a long few days. We left for Chicago on Sunday night after I got off work, drove a couple hours and stopped for the night in some town in Maryland. I think it was Cumberland, but it doesn't matter. Every town in Maryland except for Annapolis is terrible. Luckily, we live in Annapolis. West Virginia, when it takes the time to ponder its place in the world, thinks, "At least I'm not Maryland." We got up Monday morning and headed to Indianapolis. You were awesome for the eight-plus hours, including a stop for lunch in Wheeling, a mountain town/city in the aforementioned West Virginia. You were the hit of Coleman's Fish Market. After a nice night in Indy with your mom's oldest friend and her wondeful family, we got up even earlier Tuesday to drive the final few hours to Chicago (Real quick: on your first trip through the Windy City, here's what you missed: Sox Park, the Sears Tower, the Hancock Building, O'Hare International Airport, approximately 23,000 cars, the same number of banquet halls and one annoyingly slow train). Anyway, your dad gets quite impatient when he gets that close, and I was especially anxious for you to meet your Grandpa Pallister (more later on that moment, which was probably the most bittersweet of my life).
Three ounces of formula later, you've now gone back to sleep and I'm still typing. Back to your christening after that lengthy verbal tangent. It went swimmingly, despite the awkwardness of having to stand next to your Godfather (Uncle Mark) the whole time just two days after I suffered a crushing fantasy football defeat to him that essentially ended my playoff hopes. All kidding aside, I am very thankful to Mark and your Aunt Patti, who stood in for your Godmother Marnie, who I believe was surfing in Hawaii during the ceremony. As I suspected, you looked great. The shoes, the vest, the bow tie. Even the hat that made you look like you were going to a Czechoslovakian disco (look up the Saturday Night Live reference) was a memorable accessory.
You've now awoken, and damn if you don't look like the coolest baby in the world rocking your tie and pacifier as if you were born with them. I'm so proud of you, Magoo. I can't wait for us to share more big days. Hopefully, though, we can both dress down a bit for the next few. :)
Love,
Dad
Big day
Case,
We're sitting in the living room of your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister, and your baptism is 90 minutes away. Your mom, Grandma and Grandpa are all getting ready, while we lounge around -- you in your diaper and nothing else, me in a pair of sweats and a sleeveless Bears shirt. I feel overdressed. And speaking of that, we're the cup of coffee in front of me away from having to join everyone else in putting on our Wednesday best. I've got to put on pants, a belt and a nice shirt, but it's worth it for your big day, although I could probably wear my current get-up because all eyes will be on you and your white christening suit. I have to admit, you're gonna look good. Quite dapper. You even have custom-made shoes and a hat. Once you put that suit on, it will have taken you exactly 14 weeks of life to get into an outfit nicer than anything your dad has ever owned. OK, with that last sip of coffee, it's time.
Love,
Dad
Edit: Apparently, it was not time. Someone is tired, cranky and doesn't want to get dressed up. And you're not happy, either. Looks like we're gonna try this again when we get to the church.
We're sitting in the living room of your Grandma and Grandpa Pallister, and your baptism is 90 minutes away. Your mom, Grandma and Grandpa are all getting ready, while we lounge around -- you in your diaper and nothing else, me in a pair of sweats and a sleeveless Bears shirt. I feel overdressed. And speaking of that, we're the cup of coffee in front of me away from having to join everyone else in putting on our Wednesday best. I've got to put on pants, a belt and a nice shirt, but it's worth it for your big day, although I could probably wear my current get-up because all eyes will be on you and your white christening suit. I have to admit, you're gonna look good. Quite dapper. You even have custom-made shoes and a hat. Once you put that suit on, it will have taken you exactly 14 weeks of life to get into an outfit nicer than anything your dad has ever owned. OK, with that last sip of coffee, it's time.
Love,
Dad
Edit: Apparently, it was not time. Someone is tired, cranky and doesn't want to get dressed up. And you're not happy, either. Looks like we're gonna try this again when we get to the church.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Food for thought
Case,
I'm very excited for our upcoming trip to Chicago for the week of Thanksgiving. Your Grandpa Pallister is gonna light up when he sees you for the first time. And your Grandma Pallister has been waiting to kiss you again since the moment she left Annapolis after visiting during the first few weeks of your life.
Even though you won't remember, it will be the most memorable holiday of my life to this point. To spend time with you, your mom and your grandparents, not to mention a boatload of aunts, uncles and cousins, will be unforgettable.
I couldn't pick a better day, Magoo, for your first holiday experience. Thanksgiving is all about food and football. Oh, and giving thanks. :) But back to food and football. How cool is that?
I suspect your favorite holiday once you start actively taking part in them will be Christmas. Kids tend to like getting tons of free stuff. Adults, too; we're just not supposed to admit it. I have a feeling, though, that Thanksgiving will grow on you. I hope to teach you the simple pleasures of all-you-can-eat lumpy potatoes (luckily, your mom is a five-star potato chef) and I CANNOT WAIT for the first time you get up in the middle of dinner to check on the score of the game. The looks on the faces of those who don't understand this particular genetic urge will be priceless.
Of course, the downside to your first Thanksgiving is that you can't eat any of the food. That doesn't seem fair. Do they make turkey-flavored formula?
Love,
Dad
I'm very excited for our upcoming trip to Chicago for the week of Thanksgiving. Your Grandpa Pallister is gonna light up when he sees you for the first time. And your Grandma Pallister has been waiting to kiss you again since the moment she left Annapolis after visiting during the first few weeks of your life.
Even though you won't remember, it will be the most memorable holiday of my life to this point. To spend time with you, your mom and your grandparents, not to mention a boatload of aunts, uncles and cousins, will be unforgettable.
I couldn't pick a better day, Magoo, for your first holiday experience. Thanksgiving is all about food and football. Oh, and giving thanks. :) But back to food and football. How cool is that?
I suspect your favorite holiday once you start actively taking part in them will be Christmas. Kids tend to like getting tons of free stuff. Adults, too; we're just not supposed to admit it. I have a feeling, though, that Thanksgiving will grow on you. I hope to teach you the simple pleasures of all-you-can-eat lumpy potatoes (luckily, your mom is a five-star potato chef) and I CANNOT WAIT for the first time you get up in the middle of dinner to check on the score of the game. The looks on the faces of those who don't understand this particular genetic urge will be priceless.
Of course, the downside to your first Thanksgiving is that you can't eat any of the food. That doesn't seem fair. Do they make turkey-flavored formula?
Love,
Dad
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Whirlwind
I could never have imagined
that I would have such luck
Took a diff'rent turn one day,
the future opened up
In front of me a purpose,
behind me heavy thoughts
Energized and hypnotized
by lightning I had caught
I could never have envisioned
how quickly things take shape
One night in Bohemia,
the next another state
I never dreamed in focus,
but I always looked ahead
I never thought it hopeless,
despite what I had said
Fate is never simple,
and destiny's no end;
it's just a new beginning,
a chance to not pretend
It introduces meaning
and the ones we put above
It lets you slip into a life
that fits more like a glove
On a morning to remember,
eighteen past the seven
One more greets the world
No more days unleavened
All our fears they fade away,
but soon they'll be replaced
Late nights in a darkened room,
our future in a face
On a morning in September,
not yet a month had passed
"Cherish all the time you have,
they grow up oh so fast."
In the middle of the whirlwind,
there's calm before the storm
There's silence in that moment
when many thoughts are born
Where will our journey take us?
What will tomorrow bring?
What's next to discover?
And what next will we sing?
In the middle of the kitchen,
the sacrifice we make
Shaking up reality,
just trying to awake
I never dreamed in focus,
but I always looked ahead
I never thought it hopeless,
despite what I had said
Fate is never simple,
and destiny's no end;
it's just a new beginning,
a chance to not pretend
It introduces meaning
and the ones we put above
It lets you slip into a life
that fits more like a glove
I am ready for the challenge,
for which I think I'm made
But only one thing's certain:
of this I'm not afraid
With you to walk beside me,
sometimes a step ahead,
we've found a comfort level;
we've made our queen-sized bed
I am ready for the unknown,
a happy masochist
We're in this thing together --
small joys and laundry lists
that I would have such luck
Took a diff'rent turn one day,
the future opened up
In front of me a purpose,
behind me heavy thoughts
Energized and hypnotized
by lightning I had caught
I could never have envisioned
how quickly things take shape
One night in Bohemia,
the next another state
I never dreamed in focus,
but I always looked ahead
I never thought it hopeless,
despite what I had said
Fate is never simple,
and destiny's no end;
it's just a new beginning,
a chance to not pretend
It introduces meaning
and the ones we put above
It lets you slip into a life
that fits more like a glove
On a morning to remember,
eighteen past the seven
One more greets the world
No more days unleavened
All our fears they fade away,
but soon they'll be replaced
Late nights in a darkened room,
our future in a face
On a morning in September,
not yet a month had passed
"Cherish all the time you have,
they grow up oh so fast."
In the middle of the whirlwind,
there's calm before the storm
There's silence in that moment
when many thoughts are born
Where will our journey take us?
What will tomorrow bring?
What's next to discover?
And what next will we sing?
In the middle of the kitchen,
the sacrifice we make
Shaking up reality,
just trying to awake
I never dreamed in focus,
but I always looked ahead
I never thought it hopeless,
despite what I had said
Fate is never simple,
and destiny's no end;
it's just a new beginning,
a chance to not pretend
It introduces meaning
and the ones we put above
It lets you slip into a life
that fits more like a glove
I am ready for the challenge,
for which I think I'm made
But only one thing's certain:
of this I'm not afraid
With you to walk beside me,
sometimes a step ahead,
we've found a comfort level;
we've made our queen-sized bed
I am ready for the unknown,
a happy masochist
We're in this thing together --
small joys and laundry lists
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A short rebuttal to Mom
Case,
1) Your Grandpa Pallister was quite adept with chopsticks in his heyday, so let's hope that's one of those traits that skips a generation.
2) Wraps are the food of the Gods -- if the Gods were a group of cheap single guys with no patience for cooking.
3) Your Mom has a few quirks of her own, chief among them her mystical understanding of me. If you're ever lucky enough to find someone who "gets you," especially if she's as funny and hot as your Mom (embarrassed yet?), hang on and enjoy.
Love,
Dad
1) Your Grandpa Pallister was quite adept with chopsticks in his heyday, so let's hope that's one of those traits that skips a generation.
2) Wraps are the food of the Gods -- if the Gods were a group of cheap single guys with no patience for cooking.
3) Your Mom has a few quirks of her own, chief among them her mystical understanding of me. If you're ever lucky enough to find someone who "gets you," especially if she's as funny and hot as your Mom (embarrassed yet?), hang on and enjoy.
Love,
Dad
That's What Sushi Said
OK, Magoo, we have a special guest blogger today. Take it away, Mom!
My Dearest Little Case,
When I first met your dad, he had a lot of issues. To be honest, Case, your dad was weird. He would randomly do push-ups in public places. Because he was bored. He didn't have online banking. Seriously, he would drive twenty miles to the closest bank just to check his balance. He wore horrifying Bears shirts that homeless men would burn in their trash cans. He played his music so loud that Helen Keller donned ear plugs in her grave.
Now, I knew your dad was going to be a great father. So I wasn't worried about that when I found out I was pregnant. But it occurred to me he might pass on some of his quirks. Yes, quirks is a better word than "issues." And I wondered how he might adapt once you arrived. Would he blast his music at the playground? Would social services intercept our family if the two of you happened to be walking under a bridge together? These were concerns that plagued me.
Well, my concerns were unfounded. Sort of. As I type this your father is singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" to you. I hope by the time you read this, all members of the Baja men have been eaten by Rottweilers. But, if not, you should Google (is that still around?) the song. And mock your father. He also currently has you dressed in gym teacher gray sweat pants and a shirt with yellow tractors that has no business being matched with your current athletic wear. But I will scurry you away shortly to change your clothes. Your father has no awareness that I do this on a regular basis.
But, beyond these small transgressions, your father has basically become a new man since your arrival. He dresses (a little) bit better. He recently added sleeves to his general wardrobe. He is more cognizant of his swearing. That doesn't mean he's stopped. He's just more aware. This is a substantial change. And instead of relaying hisboring Rain Man Bears statistics and anecdotes, he talks about you. And his pride in you. And your overall infant perfection. Seriously, your parents cannot get over the fact we created something as beautiful as you. Maybe your dad can write a post about that later. I digress. But last night there was a little incident that illustrates your father and his recent transformation to the 19th-century modern male. (Again, 19th century is an improvement)
We went out for sushi. This, by itself, is a shocking area of advancement for your father. This is a person who made spaghetti wraps before you were born. (As a side note, your dad is obsessed with wraps. It's another one of his quirks. Every freaking night I ask him what he wants for dinner. I can roast a chicken, make homemade soup, bake a little ziti, whatever he wants. Without fail he responds "How 'bout some wraps?" It's not even a dinner food!! )
I had to explain sushi to your father once we got there, but I give him credit for going into the situation open-minded. We got some basic sushi rolls -- nothing too weird. I like eel, but your dad has his limits. And he's probably right. So we started off with a little salad and ginger dressing. Your father gingerly (pun!) handled his chopsticks as he attempted to escort a little lettuce into his mouth. One attempt. Two attempts. Three attempts. Four attempts. Five attempts. Six attempts. Seven attempts. Eight attempts. We were basically counting Indians at this point. The entire waitstaff is standing mere feet away, completely transfixed. I attempted to help your father by capturing his failure with my camera phone.
Our server finally stepped in, probably after she had posted a video of this debacle to YouTube. But instead of handing your father a fork, she handed him "chopstick helpers," which is basically a device used to train toddlers on how to use these tricky utensils. Your father looked a little sheepish. I did not make fun of him AT ALL. But your dad gamely went ahead and utilized his new tools. One attempt. Two attempt. Three attempts. Four attempts. SCORE!!! Lettuce made it into his mouth!!! (Lettuce really is not worth THAT much effort, Case). But we laughed, and your father's dexterity with chopsticks improved through the next few courses, and we left dinner with a good story, a good picture, and less than 1,000 calories in our stomachs.
I guess my point in those above paragraphs, and in sharing that silly restaurant story, is that I have some hopes for you, my dear. And they are related to your dad.
I hope you are quirky, because it means you don't depend on what other people think about you. And you think for yourself. Your life will be richer for it.
I hope you are willing to try new things. Keep an open mind, but don't feel bad if something is not for you.
I hope you can laugh at yourself. And be a good sport. There is so much humor in the world, in almost every single thing we do. Sometimes it's hard to see that after a long day. Or after a night of no sleep. But a little laughter can make a casual experience so much more fun. Or make a bad experience tolerable. Just look around you. Humor is there.
Finally, I hope I get to guest write on here a little more often. I have so many stories to share with you -- and almost all of them involve making fun of your dad. We will have a lot of laughs at his expense. :)
But I hope you take away a little something from this, too. Yeah, you guys will have some tough moments as you grow older. I'm sure you and I will, too. But I hope that every once in a while, after you have rolled your eyes at yet another one of your dad's quirks, you will also remember these words. And why I am sharing them with you.
Your dad is a great man. He's just dressed in the wrong clothes.
My Dearest Little Case,
When I first met your dad, he had a lot of issues. To be honest, Case, your dad was weird. He would randomly do push-ups in public places. Because he was bored. He didn't have online banking. Seriously, he would drive twenty miles to the closest bank just to check his balance. He wore horrifying Bears shirts that homeless men would burn in their trash cans. He played his music so loud that Helen Keller donned ear plugs in her grave.
Now, I knew your dad was going to be a great father. So I wasn't worried about that when I found out I was pregnant. But it occurred to me he might pass on some of his quirks. Yes, quirks is a better word than "issues." And I wondered how he might adapt once you arrived. Would he blast his music at the playground? Would social services intercept our family if the two of you happened to be walking under a bridge together? These were concerns that plagued me.
Well, my concerns were unfounded. Sort of. As I type this your father is singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" to you. I hope by the time you read this, all members of the Baja men have been eaten by Rottweilers. But, if not, you should Google (is that still around?) the song. And mock your father. He also currently has you dressed in gym teacher gray sweat pants and a shirt with yellow tractors that has no business being matched with your current athletic wear. But I will scurry you away shortly to change your clothes. Your father has no awareness that I do this on a regular basis.
But, beyond these small transgressions, your father has basically become a new man since your arrival. He dresses (a little) bit better. He recently added sleeves to his general wardrobe. He is more cognizant of his swearing. That doesn't mean he's stopped. He's just more aware. This is a substantial change. And instead of relaying his
We went out for sushi. This, by itself, is a shocking area of advancement for your father. This is a person who made spaghetti wraps before you were born. (As a side note, your dad is obsessed with wraps. It's another one of his quirks. Every freaking night I ask him what he wants for dinner. I can roast a chicken, make homemade soup, bake a little ziti, whatever he wants. Without fail he responds "How 'bout some wraps?" It's not even a dinner food!! )
I had to explain sushi to your father once we got there, but I give him credit for going into the situation open-minded. We got some basic sushi rolls -- nothing too weird. I like eel, but your dad has his limits. And he's probably right. So we started off with a little salad and ginger dressing. Your father gingerly (pun!) handled his chopsticks as he attempted to escort a little lettuce into his mouth. One attempt. Two attempts. Three attempts. Four attempts. Five attempts. Six attempts. Seven attempts. Eight attempts. We were basically counting Indians at this point. The entire waitstaff is standing mere feet away, completely transfixed. I attempted to help your father by capturing his failure with my camera phone.
Our server finally stepped in, probably after she had posted a video of this debacle to YouTube. But instead of handing your father a fork, she handed him "chopstick helpers," which is basically a device used to train toddlers on how to use these tricky utensils. Your father looked a little sheepish. I did not make fun of him AT ALL. But your dad gamely went ahead and utilized his new tools. One attempt. Two attempt. Three attempts. Four attempts. SCORE!!! Lettuce made it into his mouth!!! (Lettuce really is not worth THAT much effort, Case). But we laughed, and your father's dexterity with chopsticks improved through the next few courses, and we left dinner with a good story, a good picture, and less than 1,000 calories in our stomachs.
I guess my point in those above paragraphs, and in sharing that silly restaurant story, is that I have some hopes for you, my dear. And they are related to your dad.
I hope you are quirky, because it means you don't depend on what other people think about you. And you think for yourself. Your life will be richer for it.
I hope you are willing to try new things. Keep an open mind, but don't feel bad if something is not for you.
I hope you can laugh at yourself. And be a good sport. There is so much humor in the world, in almost every single thing we do. Sometimes it's hard to see that after a long day. Or after a night of no sleep. But a little laughter can make a casual experience so much more fun. Or make a bad experience tolerable. Just look around you. Humor is there.
Finally, I hope I get to guest write on here a little more often. I have so many stories to share with you -- and almost all of them involve making fun of your dad. We will have a lot of laughs at his expense. :)
But I hope you take away a little something from this, too. Yeah, you guys will have some tough moments as you grow older. I'm sure you and I will, too. But I hope that every once in a while, after you have rolled your eyes at yet another one of your dad's quirks, you will also remember these words. And why I am sharing them with you.
Your dad is a great man. He's just dressed in the wrong clothes.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The write stuff
Case,
As is typical, I have 47 things swirling around in my head that I want to write about, but I'm still "writing" all of them up there. I originally planned to write here every day. Then you were born and I realized how ridiculous a plan that was. For two reasons: One, raising a child is really tiring and time-consuming (but more than equally gratifying). But even if it wasn't, I've never been the type to do anything in the realm of creativity on a schedule. That's not the way I operate. Maybe you'll be that way, too. I can't say if that's a good or bad thing because I have no experience with a mental regimen. I'm better with fits of inspiration (some would say I'm just better with fits). When the mood strikes, I'll empty some semblance of what I've been shaping onto a page, a screen, a napkin that's handy. I may build on a particular item afterward, but usually, once I decide to make my thoughts real, I move on to the next set of maleable ideas. Doing that helps me keep a sort of mental checklist. However, I'll occasionally provide a preview of what I'm thinking as a way to kick-start the process, to give myself an extra bit of motivation. I figure if anyone else sees those thoughts, I owe it to them to reach a conclusion. Lately, I've had a few specific thoughts about the family taking up my space and time. Once I write this down, I'll be forced to finish it. If there's a lesson here, that's it. Once you start something that means anything to you, even if that something starts as a small thought in your head, finish it. And regardless of the terms you have set for what constitutes finishing, you will, for a moment, hopefully significantly longer, swell with the pride of accomplishment. My writing has a special significance to me, and while only a few people may ever get to see it, it means something. Each time I finish what I began "writing" in my head, it reminds me what a person is capable of when they, as I have stated before, put their mind to a thing.
In the middle of the whirlwind
there's calm before the storm
Silence in that moment
when many thoughts are born
Where will our journey take us?
What will tomorrow bring?
What's next to discover?
What next will we sing?
In the middle of the kitchen,
the sacrifice we make
Shaking up reality,
trying to awake
To be continued,
Dad
As is typical, I have 47 things swirling around in my head that I want to write about, but I'm still "writing" all of them up there. I originally planned to write here every day. Then you were born and I realized how ridiculous a plan that was. For two reasons: One, raising a child is really tiring and time-consuming (but more than equally gratifying). But even if it wasn't, I've never been the type to do anything in the realm of creativity on a schedule. That's not the way I operate. Maybe you'll be that way, too. I can't say if that's a good or bad thing because I have no experience with a mental regimen. I'm better with fits of inspiration (some would say I'm just better with fits). When the mood strikes, I'll empty some semblance of what I've been shaping onto a page, a screen, a napkin that's handy. I may build on a particular item afterward, but usually, once I decide to make my thoughts real, I move on to the next set of maleable ideas. Doing that helps me keep a sort of mental checklist. However, I'll occasionally provide a preview of what I'm thinking as a way to kick-start the process, to give myself an extra bit of motivation. I figure if anyone else sees those thoughts, I owe it to them to reach a conclusion. Lately, I've had a few specific thoughts about the family taking up my space and time. Once I write this down, I'll be forced to finish it. If there's a lesson here, that's it. Once you start something that means anything to you, even if that something starts as a small thought in your head, finish it. And regardless of the terms you have set for what constitutes finishing, you will, for a moment, hopefully significantly longer, swell with the pride of accomplishment. My writing has a special significance to me, and while only a few people may ever get to see it, it means something. Each time I finish what I began "writing" in my head, it reminds me what a person is capable of when they, as I have stated before, put their mind to a thing.
In the middle of the whirlwind
there's calm before the storm
Silence in that moment
when many thoughts are born
Where will our journey take us?
What will tomorrow bring?
What's next to discover?
What next will we sing?
In the middle of the kitchen,
the sacrifice we make
Shaking up reality,
trying to awake
To be continued,
Dad
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Now hear this
Case,
This morning we hung out and listened to some music. Wilco, to be exact. We did the same thing yesterday, and it appears you dig the stylings of Jeff Tweedy and the boys.
As I bounced you on my lap while the music played and you stared out the window, I wondered what music will be like in a decade or so when it catches your ear. Will you be influenced by what I listen to, or will you initially think I'm an old fuddy duddy who doesn't understand good music? I suspect there will be elements of both. Maybe an immensely talented and enigmatic band like Wilco will still be around and we can share this story over their latest release. Maybe you, too, will come to appreciate the criminallly underrated genius that is Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy. Maybe we can enjoy a car ride or three jamming out (and probably speeding just a bit) to the Drive-by Truckers. Or, you and your mom could bond over listening to that One Republic song that also calms you down -- while I good-naturedly mock the two of you. :)
Regardless, music is a wonderful thing. Even if you have no musical talent (the Pallisters have none, so I can't help you there, but maybe some of your Grandpa Richards' guitar chops will rub off on you), there's so much to apppreciate. From the bombast of the aformentioned DBT's early guitar work (if you have never heard of Jason Isbell, look up "Decoration Day" before you read another word) to the sad beauty of Lynot's lyrics in a song like "Wild One" to the smile you inevitably crack when you hear the opening to Wilco's "Jesus, etc.," and on and on.
You may have the term "mood music." Well, all music is mood music. All music, even the worst of it, elicits some emotion -- even if that emotion is to scream, "Turn that shit off!" In all seriousness, though, one of the beauties of music is that it allows us to feel. There's music for feeling excited, there's music for feeling sad, there's music for feeling angry, there's music for feeling content. And it all has merit, because anything that causes us to feel is a good thing.
Music is associated with some of the greatest memories of my life (Thin Lizzy's "Johnny" was stuck in my head while I held your mom's hand for the hours leading up to your birth, and I can't help but sing to you when I've got you in my arms -- if a certain verse from Warren Zevon's "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner" seems to be innate knowledge, there's a reason :)), and it's not a stretch to say music saved my life at a time when I was desperate for any type of connection. Music provided that for me. Music made life worth living again. I am forever grateful to Gram Parsons, Jay Farrar, Tweedy, Patterson Hood, Mike Coooley, Isbell, Lynot, Warren Haynes and a host of people I will never meet, but who made me feel excited, sad, angry and content at just the right times.
Those who know me would say that sports is my primary obsession. But they're wrong. It's music. And I hope that one day, sooner rather than later, we will find a special connection over our shared appreciation for it. Until then, do me a favor, Magoo: Try not to be overly influenced by that infernal "Hey, diddle, diddle" tune. I can't stand that ridiculous song!
Love,
Dad
This morning we hung out and listened to some music. Wilco, to be exact. We did the same thing yesterday, and it appears you dig the stylings of Jeff Tweedy and the boys.
As I bounced you on my lap while the music played and you stared out the window, I wondered what music will be like in a decade or so when it catches your ear. Will you be influenced by what I listen to, or will you initially think I'm an old fuddy duddy who doesn't understand good music? I suspect there will be elements of both. Maybe an immensely talented and enigmatic band like Wilco will still be around and we can share this story over their latest release. Maybe you, too, will come to appreciate the criminallly underrated genius that is Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy. Maybe we can enjoy a car ride or three jamming out (and probably speeding just a bit) to the Drive-by Truckers. Or, you and your mom could bond over listening to that One Republic song that also calms you down -- while I good-naturedly mock the two of you. :)
Regardless, music is a wonderful thing. Even if you have no musical talent (the Pallisters have none, so I can't help you there, but maybe some of your Grandpa Richards' guitar chops will rub off on you), there's so much to apppreciate. From the bombast of the aformentioned DBT's early guitar work (if you have never heard of Jason Isbell, look up "Decoration Day" before you read another word) to the sad beauty of Lynot's lyrics in a song like "Wild One" to the smile you inevitably crack when you hear the opening to Wilco's "Jesus, etc.," and on and on.
You may have the term "mood music." Well, all music is mood music. All music, even the worst of it, elicits some emotion -- even if that emotion is to scream, "Turn that shit off!" In all seriousness, though, one of the beauties of music is that it allows us to feel. There's music for feeling excited, there's music for feeling sad, there's music for feeling angry, there's music for feeling content. And it all has merit, because anything that causes us to feel is a good thing.
Music is associated with some of the greatest memories of my life (Thin Lizzy's "Johnny" was stuck in my head while I held your mom's hand for the hours leading up to your birth, and I can't help but sing to you when I've got you in my arms -- if a certain verse from Warren Zevon's "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner" seems to be innate knowledge, there's a reason :)), and it's not a stretch to say music saved my life at a time when I was desperate for any type of connection. Music provided that for me. Music made life worth living again. I am forever grateful to Gram Parsons, Jay Farrar, Tweedy, Patterson Hood, Mike Coooley, Isbell, Lynot, Warren Haynes and a host of people I will never meet, but who made me feel excited, sad, angry and content at just the right times.
Those who know me would say that sports is my primary obsession. But they're wrong. It's music. And I hope that one day, sooner rather than later, we will find a special connection over our shared appreciation for it. Until then, do me a favor, Magoo: Try not to be overly influenced by that infernal "Hey, diddle, diddle" tune. I can't stand that ridiculous song!
Love,
Dad
Monday, October 17, 2011
Fashion scents
Case,
I hope that you will grow up to appreciate the finer things in life. Things like a brief, heavy rain on a sunny day. Things like the first time a song's lyrics truly grab you. Things like ... wearing pants if you don't have to.
Style, son, is not my strong suit (see what I did there?). For all matters of fashion, consult your mom. Or the homeless guy at the grocery store. Anyone but me. Now, I'm perfectly content with how I dress (your mom is rolling her eyes as she reads this), but I understand that not everyone prefers sleeveless shirts and shorts. In November. Sometimes I wish I had a finer appreciation of fashion. But then I put on the pair of jeans I've worn the previous two days, head to work and forget about it.
The other day I mentioned to your mom that raising a newborn as we are makes it even more difficult to dress appropriately. I already had no qualms about running errands in athletic shorts, a faded Bears t-shirt I picked up off the floor and no socks. Now, if that "outfit" happens to have dried spit-up on it from a 4 a.m. feeding that went sideways, well, I'm still going to the bank in it.
So, it would be nice if you were to become a more dapper man than I (I can't help but type how you're a more diaper man. I know, I know. That was awful.).
You may be doomed, however. When I was young, I can remember watching your Uncle Jack come and go (even in the dead of winter) with nothing but a T-shirt, sometimes without sleeves. As an 8-year-old, that seemed like the coolest thing in the world. As a 39-year-old, that's highly questionable and sometimes offensive, but once the dye is cast ... Anyway, while I hope to influence you in many ways, I'm kind of hoping you won't follow in my fashion footsteps. (Which reminds me, the first time you ask me for a popular pair of shoes, the answer is no; they cost too much.)
But if you decide you'd rather dress for comfort than for speed, I'll back you up, Magoo. Like they say, clothes make the man. :)
Love,
Dad
I hope that you will grow up to appreciate the finer things in life. Things like a brief, heavy rain on a sunny day. Things like the first time a song's lyrics truly grab you. Things like ... wearing pants if you don't have to.
Style, son, is not my strong suit (see what I did there?). For all matters of fashion, consult your mom. Or the homeless guy at the grocery store. Anyone but me. Now, I'm perfectly content with how I dress (your mom is rolling her eyes as she reads this), but I understand that not everyone prefers sleeveless shirts and shorts. In November. Sometimes I wish I had a finer appreciation of fashion. But then I put on the pair of jeans I've worn the previous two days, head to work and forget about it.
The other day I mentioned to your mom that raising a newborn as we are makes it even more difficult to dress appropriately. I already had no qualms about running errands in athletic shorts, a faded Bears t-shirt I picked up off the floor and no socks. Now, if that "outfit" happens to have dried spit-up on it from a 4 a.m. feeding that went sideways, well, I'm still going to the bank in it.
So, it would be nice if you were to become a more dapper man than I (I can't help but type how you're a more diaper man. I know, I know. That was awful.).
You may be doomed, however. When I was young, I can remember watching your Uncle Jack come and go (even in the dead of winter) with nothing but a T-shirt, sometimes without sleeves. As an 8-year-old, that seemed like the coolest thing in the world. As a 39-year-old, that's highly questionable and sometimes offensive, but once the dye is cast ... Anyway, while I hope to influence you in many ways, I'm kind of hoping you won't follow in my fashion footsteps. (Which reminds me, the first time you ask me for a popular pair of shoes, the answer is no; they cost too much.)
But if you decide you'd rather dress for comfort than for speed, I'll back you up, Magoo. Like they say, clothes make the man. :)
Love,
Dad
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Turn it down
Case,
Your mom and I went to a concert last night. It was our first show and first "night out" since you were born (special thanks to Grandma Richards for picking up the child care slack for a few hours).
We've seen our fair share of concerts together, but this one was different.
The first thing I did after we found our seats (in the balcony away from the crowd) was get us drinks. One Diet Coke. One Sprite. Two straws. The bartender looked at me like I had wandered into the venue by mistake.
Once we settled in with our caffeine-free drinks, we had a half-hour to waste. We didn't check out the memorabilia table or try to guess the opening song, rites we had become accustomed to in previous musical outings. Instead, we spent the time comparing pictures of you on our phones, stopping occasionally for your mom to send or answer a text regarding how you were doing.
It was a good show. The Warren Haynes Band was worth the price of admission. But I couldn't keep my mind on the music. I kept thinking about you, thinking about the family.
I did allow myself to drift mentally for a moment near the end of the first set, as my 39-year-old knees ached from walking the path from the balcony and back two times. I though about how it wasn't too long ago that I was swinging a sledgehammer 1,000 times for fun, hitting a heavy bag for 45 minutes with no breaks because I could and running a 5K on the treadmill on my "off days." I turned to your mom and said, jokingly but with the tiniest hint of nostalgia, "I used to be something." She responded without hesitation, smiling: "And now you're a dad."
That's all that needed to be said. My knees stopped hurting, my thoughts drifted back to you, the Sprite tasted better and the music sounded clearer. We stayed for two more songs and I left a concert early for the first time. It was the best concert of my life.
Love,
Dad
Your mom and I went to a concert last night. It was our first show and first "night out" since you were born (special thanks to Grandma Richards for picking up the child care slack for a few hours).
We've seen our fair share of concerts together, but this one was different.
The first thing I did after we found our seats (in the balcony away from the crowd) was get us drinks. One Diet Coke. One Sprite. Two straws. The bartender looked at me like I had wandered into the venue by mistake.
Once we settled in with our caffeine-free drinks, we had a half-hour to waste. We didn't check out the memorabilia table or try to guess the opening song, rites we had become accustomed to in previous musical outings. Instead, we spent the time comparing pictures of you on our phones, stopping occasionally for your mom to send or answer a text regarding how you were doing.
It was a good show. The Warren Haynes Band was worth the price of admission. But I couldn't keep my mind on the music. I kept thinking about you, thinking about the family.
I did allow myself to drift mentally for a moment near the end of the first set, as my 39-year-old knees ached from walking the path from the balcony and back two times. I though about how it wasn't too long ago that I was swinging a sledgehammer 1,000 times for fun, hitting a heavy bag for 45 minutes with no breaks because I could and running a 5K on the treadmill on my "off days." I turned to your mom and said, jokingly but with the tiniest hint of nostalgia, "I used to be something." She responded without hesitation, smiling: "And now you're a dad."
That's all that needed to be said. My knees stopped hurting, my thoughts drifted back to you, the Sprite tasted better and the music sounded clearer. We stayed for two more songs and I left a concert early for the first time. It was the best concert of my life.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, October 6, 2011
The keys to life
Case,
OK, time for the latest installment of Obvious Lessons From An Oblivious Dad.
Last time, we talked about making sure you keep gas in the car. You don't want to be the guy trudging toward the nearest gas station, red can in tow, on the side of the road. People smart enough not to run out of gas laugh at that guy. Don't be that guy.
Today's lesson is just as important: Don't lock yourself out of the house. Again, it sounds simple enough. But nothing's simple when you're always in a hurry (How do you think I kept running out of gas? I had places to be!). Well, last week, it was such a nice day that I talked your mom into taking you and Edgar for a walk. Simple enough, right? Not quite. I was thinking of multiple somethings (the specifics escape me now) not related to the walk when I hustled everyone out of the house and into the sunshine. Your mom was already halfway down the driveway with the stroller, E following dutifullly behind, when I ran to catch up (Oh, now I remember. I wanted to run my head under the shower for a moment so as not to cruise the neighborhood looking like Sideshow Bob (Google him). Don't judge me! I like to look good. OK, that's a lie, but hair makes the man. Isn't that the saying?)
Annnnyway, as I closed the door, my stomach dropped. My hand was still on the doorknob and I just knew. I knew.
Me: "Oh, no!"
Your mom: "What?"
Me: "I just locked us out of the house. (Expletive). (Expletive). (Expletive)."
(I run down to meet you guys)
Me: "(Expletive). I'm such an idiot."
Your mom: "Stop it. Listening to you is worse than being locked out of the house."
Me: (Expletive)."
Again, the specifics escape me, but there was general conversation about what we should do, talk of a locksmith, mentions of ladders and windows and some worry that you'd be stuck out in the sun for too long.
I called the landlord, who suggested he might have keys at his house and he'd call his girlfriend to see. He called back, said he had a set of keys and could I drive over and get them.
Me: "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention last time that the keys I locked in the house include the car keys."
Him (I could sense his eyes rolling through the phone): "Oh, so you can't drive?"
Me: "Yeah. Don't worry. I'll call a locksmith if I have to."
I returned to the curb where you, your mom and E were staying, in the front seat of my car in the relative shade. I offered up a few more expletives, got a nasty look I completely deserved and decided I did not want to call the locksmith if I could help it. You think being the guy holding the red gas can makes you look ridiculous, try having this conversation:
"Yeah, I, uh, locked my keys in the apartment, and I'm wondering how long it would take for someone to come out and open the door. I've been sitting outside for half an hour trying to figure out what to do while my wife, pug and month-old baby try to stay out of the sun."
"You're the kind of guy who runs out of gas all the time, right?"
"Uh, yeah, but, uh ... Can you just tell me how long it would take to come out here and get this taken care of?"
"What? How much? (Expletive)."
Luckily, I was spared such an exchange.
Eventually, I found our nice neighbor John (great guy except for that damn bluetooth). He followed me into the backyard with a ladder, I fiddled around for a few minutes trying to figure out how to open it fully and placed it on some very shaky ground up against the house.
The plan was to crawl in through the kitchen window, which I was praying was open. The initial mention of the plan drew this response from your mom: "Is the window even open? How are you going to climb over the oven?" (I think that was a crack about my weight, but I didn't have time to dwell on it)
I climbed the ladder, needing to step on the top rung (very safe) to reach the window. I ripped the screen out and threw it in the yard (felt awesome). The window was open, and so was the inner window. Then I hoisted myself up a couple feet and wiggled my torso a few feet in. Thankfully there was no one around to record the bottom half of my 230-pound frame wiggling frantically as I used my upper body to push myself in the apartment and, surprise!, over the damn oven (and dishwasher) while both windows and the blinds fell down on top of me. Actually, the process of wiggling through that window very much resembled your attempts to scale my chest during your first weeks. I was not quite as cute, however.
Finally back in the apartment, I opened the door and let the family in. I had about 10 minutes before I had to leave for work. I used the time to thank John, make sure you were OK, check to see that my hair looked good after the ordeal and mention at least five times that we HAD to get copies of our keys made the next morning. Five days later, we finally did. And that brings me to the next lesson: Don't procrastinate! I'll have more on that later when I find the time.
Love,
Dad
OK, time for the latest installment of Obvious Lessons From An Oblivious Dad.
Last time, we talked about making sure you keep gas in the car. You don't want to be the guy trudging toward the nearest gas station, red can in tow, on the side of the road. People smart enough not to run out of gas laugh at that guy. Don't be that guy.
Today's lesson is just as important: Don't lock yourself out of the house. Again, it sounds simple enough. But nothing's simple when you're always in a hurry (How do you think I kept running out of gas? I had places to be!). Well, last week, it was such a nice day that I talked your mom into taking you and Edgar for a walk. Simple enough, right? Not quite. I was thinking of multiple somethings (the specifics escape me now) not related to the walk when I hustled everyone out of the house and into the sunshine. Your mom was already halfway down the driveway with the stroller, E following dutifullly behind, when I ran to catch up (Oh, now I remember. I wanted to run my head under the shower for a moment so as not to cruise the neighborhood looking like Sideshow Bob (Google him). Don't judge me! I like to look good. OK, that's a lie, but hair makes the man. Isn't that the saying?)
Annnnyway, as I closed the door, my stomach dropped. My hand was still on the doorknob and I just knew. I knew.
Me: "Oh, no!"
Your mom: "What?"
Me: "I just locked us out of the house. (Expletive). (Expletive). (Expletive)."
(I run down to meet you guys)
Me: "(Expletive). I'm such an idiot."
Your mom: "Stop it. Listening to you is worse than being locked out of the house."
Me: (Expletive)."
Again, the specifics escape me, but there was general conversation about what we should do, talk of a locksmith, mentions of ladders and windows and some worry that you'd be stuck out in the sun for too long.
I called the landlord, who suggested he might have keys at his house and he'd call his girlfriend to see. He called back, said he had a set of keys and could I drive over and get them.
Me: "Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention last time that the keys I locked in the house include the car keys."
Him (I could sense his eyes rolling through the phone): "Oh, so you can't drive?"
Me: "Yeah. Don't worry. I'll call a locksmith if I have to."
I returned to the curb where you, your mom and E were staying, in the front seat of my car in the relative shade. I offered up a few more expletives, got a nasty look I completely deserved and decided I did not want to call the locksmith if I could help it. You think being the guy holding the red gas can makes you look ridiculous, try having this conversation:
"Yeah, I, uh, locked my keys in the apartment, and I'm wondering how long it would take for someone to come out and open the door. I've been sitting outside for half an hour trying to figure out what to do while my wife, pug and month-old baby try to stay out of the sun."
"You're the kind of guy who runs out of gas all the time, right?"
"Uh, yeah, but, uh ... Can you just tell me how long it would take to come out here and get this taken care of?"
"What? How much? (Expletive)."
Luckily, I was spared such an exchange.
Eventually, I found our nice neighbor John (great guy except for that damn bluetooth). He followed me into the backyard with a ladder, I fiddled around for a few minutes trying to figure out how to open it fully and placed it on some very shaky ground up against the house.
The plan was to crawl in through the kitchen window, which I was praying was open. The initial mention of the plan drew this response from your mom: "Is the window even open? How are you going to climb over the oven?" (I think that was a crack about my weight, but I didn't have time to dwell on it)
I climbed the ladder, needing to step on the top rung (very safe) to reach the window. I ripped the screen out and threw it in the yard (felt awesome). The window was open, and so was the inner window. Then I hoisted myself up a couple feet and wiggled my torso a few feet in. Thankfully there was no one around to record the bottom half of my 230-pound frame wiggling frantically as I used my upper body to push myself in the apartment and, surprise!, over the damn oven (and dishwasher) while both windows and the blinds fell down on top of me. Actually, the process of wiggling through that window very much resembled your attempts to scale my chest during your first weeks. I was not quite as cute, however.
Finally back in the apartment, I opened the door and let the family in. I had about 10 minutes before I had to leave for work. I used the time to thank John, make sure you were OK, check to see that my hair looked good after the ordeal and mention at least five times that we HAD to get copies of our keys made the next morning. Five days later, we finally did. And that brings me to the next lesson: Don't procrastinate! I'll have more on that later when I find the time.
Love,
Dad
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Simple. Beautiful.
October broke the way it was meant to, as a cool, clear day that makes you feel a little more alive than usual.
Case slept in for a (welcome) change, so Mom and Dad didn't get up and around until after noon. Eventually, we ambled down the stairs and milled around the driveway while Edgar sniffed his way through a couple neighboring yards.
While we stood there -- both of us still happily wearing the clothes we had slept in -- I held Case in my arms and we talked, about nothing in particular.
There wasn't anything special about the moment, except for one thing: It reminded me how wonderful this life is.
The experience of being a father and raising a family, despite the lack of sleep, my genetic penchant for worry and the specter of never-ending challenges both small and large, is greater than anything I've ever done and ever will do.I really wouldn't trade it for anything.
I hope that there is much more to my life, that I may succeed in many of the ways I've envisioned over the years. But if none of those dreams come true, I will still be happy. Happy I was given the opportunity to be a good man to a good wife, a baby boy (at least) and a one-of-a-kind best friend. Happy that no matter what else I may do, being a family man will always top the list.
Case slept in for a (welcome) change, so Mom and Dad didn't get up and around until after noon. Eventually, we ambled down the stairs and milled around the driveway while Edgar sniffed his way through a couple neighboring yards.
While we stood there -- both of us still happily wearing the clothes we had slept in -- I held Case in my arms and we talked, about nothing in particular.
There wasn't anything special about the moment, except for one thing: It reminded me how wonderful this life is.
The experience of being a father and raising a family, despite the lack of sleep, my genetic penchant for worry and the specter of never-ending challenges both small and large, is greater than anything I've ever done and ever will do.I really wouldn't trade it for anything.
I hope that there is much more to my life, that I may succeed in many of the ways I've envisioned over the years. But if none of those dreams come true, I will still be happy. Happy I was given the opportunity to be a good man to a good wife, a baby boy (at least) and a one-of-a-kind best friend. Happy that no matter what else I may do, being a family man will always top the list.
Monday, September 19, 2011
My brain's on empty
No, Case, this is not about the lack of sleep I am presently experiencing. This is a short lesson in taking care of an automobile. Short because it's simple, and simple because your dad knows next to nothing about cars. Although I am stunningly adept at finding myself in car-related fiascos of various kinds.
And that is the perfect segue.
OK, here it is: Don't forget to regularly put gas in whatever you drive (I assume hover cars will need gas). Short. Simple. But more complex than it sounds for some of us. Your dad has a sordid history of running out of gas (if the dry fuel line of my old S-10 pickup could talk). Really, no one of legal driving age should ever run out of gas more than, say, twice in a lifetime. I've run out of gas twice in one day. I want you to follow my example on certain things. On this, I'd prefer you didn't.
Today on the way to work, I was thinking about how beautiful it was outside, how happy I am with our family (despite the whole sleep thing) and how unfair it was that I wasn't going to win the weekly NFL picks pool despite getting 13 of the 14 day games right. Then I noticed the bright orange "LOW FUEL" light on the dashboard. I was 6 miles from the nearest gas station and it didn't look good. Luckily, I made it to the Exxon station on fumes and spared myself the embarrassment of having to leave my car on the side of the road and, worse, making a phone call to your mom to come and pick me up (you think some of the looks she gives you are intimidating).
Thirty-nine-year-olds with jobs should never find themselves trudging along a random stretch of road carrying $1.78 in gas as other (smarter) drivers fly by and laugh (rightfully) at the idiot with the red can.
OK, this wasn't as short as I thought it would be (it never is). But to recap, make sure your car has enough gas to get from Point A to Point B. Short. Simple.
That's pretty much all the automotive advice I can offer. Well, that and NEVER swing a sledgehammer on a hot, sweaty day when your car hood is within 10 feet.
And that is the perfect segue.
OK, here it is: Don't forget to regularly put gas in whatever you drive (I assume hover cars will need gas). Short. Simple. But more complex than it sounds for some of us. Your dad has a sordid history of running out of gas (if the dry fuel line of my old S-10 pickup could talk). Really, no one of legal driving age should ever run out of gas more than, say, twice in a lifetime. I've run out of gas twice in one day. I want you to follow my example on certain things. On this, I'd prefer you didn't.
Today on the way to work, I was thinking about how beautiful it was outside, how happy I am with our family (despite the whole sleep thing) and how unfair it was that I wasn't going to win the weekly NFL picks pool despite getting 13 of the 14 day games right. Then I noticed the bright orange "LOW FUEL" light on the dashboard. I was 6 miles from the nearest gas station and it didn't look good. Luckily, I made it to the Exxon station on fumes and spared myself the embarrassment of having to leave my car on the side of the road and, worse, making a phone call to your mom to come and pick me up (you think some of the looks she gives you are intimidating).
Thirty-nine-year-olds with jobs should never find themselves trudging along a random stretch of road carrying $1.78 in gas as other (smarter) drivers fly by and laugh (rightfully) at the idiot with the red can.
OK, this wasn't as short as I thought it would be (it never is). But to recap, make sure your car has enough gas to get from Point A to Point B. Short. Simple.
That's pretty much all the automotive advice I can offer. Well, that and NEVER swing a sledgehammer on a hot, sweaty day when your car hood is within 10 feet.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Sleeveless shirt. Tattoos. Baby?
So, Magoo, after weeks of talking about it, I finally dragged myself out of bed early enough to take you out to breakfast. The idea was to give your mom a break so she could get some rest. But I think she spent the whole time worried that our first public outing would result in lots of screaming and crying (and that you might get upset, too).
It didn't get off to the best start, as five minutes after we left the house, I found myself in the back of the nearby library parking lot fumbling around in the back seat trying to prepare a couple ounces of formula to quiet you down. It turned out the bottle I cleaned in anticipation of our trip didn't get as clean as I thought. So I drove us back home, ran upstairs and quickly cleaned the bottle again, returning to your side and making a second attempt to put together your bottle. This time, I dropped alll the various pieces on the flloor. So I had to run back up the stairs and finallly got the cleaning right as your mom told me to "calm down."
Off we went to breakfast.
The trip went smoothly, and I was feeling pretty confident. Until I noticed all the cars in the parking lot. The place was packed. I admit it was fairly intimidating. I was hoping this would be my regular spot, but if I screwed this up, it might be my last visit.
Of course, I walked in the wrong door, which meant I had to haul you through the entire dining room to the front door where the hostess would seat us. I could feel the glare of all those eyes -- and sense their thoughts. But it wasn't the usual, "Who dresses that man?" Instead, I sensed a "Why is that man dressed like a hobo carrying a newborn baby? Look how cute that baby is. You think that guy stole him?" vibe.
To clarify, son, I was wearing a typical outfit (sorry Jason Isbell's dad): sleeveless shirt and worn-out jeans (they're light green, but your mom insists they're gray; your mom can''t see well). It probably didn't help that I hadn't shaved in about six weeks. But when you have a child, you will understand my even-more-laissez-faire-than-usual attitude toward fashion on this particular day.
Ultimately, you mostly slept through the coffee and the ensuing oatmeal I ordered. There was a short outburst a few spoonfuls in, but the pacifier solved that. I was actually becoming very comfortable with us hanging out and figured I'd ask for a refill. But before I had the chance, the waiter dropped off the check and, unprompted, asked me if I wanted a coffee to go. "Uh, yeah," I stammered. I initially thought the guy sensed I may have been in over my head and was looking for a quick exit. More than likely, though, the manager told him to get $10 from the hobo and shoo him away. :)
All in all, Magoo, I enjoyed our time together. At this point, I don't get to see you as much as I'd like, between me working and you sleeping. The trepidation I felt when we first left the house had subsided completely by the time we got back. It was a good time, a good start to a lifetime of small, but meaningful meal moments (sort of a Pallister tradition). As I type, I'm already looking forward to the next one, thinking maybe I'll shave and wear sleeves so all the stares will be directed toward the cute little guy in the car seat.
It didn't get off to the best start, as five minutes after we left the house, I found myself in the back of the nearby library parking lot fumbling around in the back seat trying to prepare a couple ounces of formula to quiet you down. It turned out the bottle I cleaned in anticipation of our trip didn't get as clean as I thought. So I drove us back home, ran upstairs and quickly cleaned the bottle again, returning to your side and making a second attempt to put together your bottle. This time, I dropped alll the various pieces on the flloor. So I had to run back up the stairs and finallly got the cleaning right as your mom told me to "calm down."
Off we went to breakfast.
The trip went smoothly, and I was feeling pretty confident. Until I noticed all the cars in the parking lot. The place was packed. I admit it was fairly intimidating. I was hoping this would be my regular spot, but if I screwed this up, it might be my last visit.
Of course, I walked in the wrong door, which meant I had to haul you through the entire dining room to the front door where the hostess would seat us. I could feel the glare of all those eyes -- and sense their thoughts. But it wasn't the usual, "Who dresses that man?" Instead, I sensed a "Why is that man dressed like a hobo carrying a newborn baby? Look how cute that baby is. You think that guy stole him?" vibe.
To clarify, son, I was wearing a typical outfit (sorry Jason Isbell's dad): sleeveless shirt and worn-out jeans (they're light green, but your mom insists they're gray; your mom can''t see well). It probably didn't help that I hadn't shaved in about six weeks. But when you have a child, you will understand my even-more-laissez-faire-than-usual attitude toward fashion on this particular day.
Ultimately, you mostly slept through the coffee and the ensuing oatmeal I ordered. There was a short outburst a few spoonfuls in, but the pacifier solved that. I was actually becoming very comfortable with us hanging out and figured I'd ask for a refill. But before I had the chance, the waiter dropped off the check and, unprompted, asked me if I wanted a coffee to go. "Uh, yeah," I stammered. I initially thought the guy sensed I may have been in over my head and was looking for a quick exit. More than likely, though, the manager told him to get $10 from the hobo and shoo him away. :)
All in all, Magoo, I enjoyed our time together. At this point, I don't get to see you as much as I'd like, between me working and you sleeping. The trepidation I felt when we first left the house had subsided completely by the time we got back. It was a good time, a good start to a lifetime of small, but meaningful meal moments (sort of a Pallister tradition). As I type, I'm already looking forward to the next one, thinking maybe I'll shave and wear sleeves so all the stares will be directed toward the cute little guy in the car seat.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
One of those days
Case,
I'm sitting at work right now, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking of you and your mom. We had to take her to the doctor this morning with a migraine (thanks for being cool while I rocked you in the parking lot for an hour). You and I got to spend some extra time together this afternoon while your mom got some much-needed rest, but eventually I had to go to work. I wish I could be there for you guys right now; sometimes responsibility is as frustrating as it is necessary. I take solace in knowing that I'm trying to do what's right, trying to do my best, for you, your mom, our family. Just some days I wish I could do more.
Love,
Dad
I'm sitting at work right now, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking of you and your mom. We had to take her to the doctor this morning with a migraine (thanks for being cool while I rocked you in the parking lot for an hour). You and I got to spend some extra time together this afternoon while your mom got some much-needed rest, but eventually I had to go to work. I wish I could be there for you guys right now; sometimes responsibility is as frustrating as it is necessary. I take solace in knowing that I'm trying to do what's right, trying to do my best, for you, your mom, our family. Just some days I wish I could do more.
Love,
Dad
Monday, September 12, 2011
I wanna rock
OK, so I finally got around to putting together your rocking chair, Case. It only took me three hours, and not once did I swear. Not twice, either. Let's just say it was a number I'm not exactly proud of. But, hey, now the rocker is gracing your nursery, and I felt a swell of pride upon completing the task -- knowing it was well worth the time to provide you and your mom a place to relax. Of course, the screws for the foot rest didn't fit the pre-drilled holes in the thingies (I'm no Bob Vila, or even Tim Taylor; look them up) that hold the two sides together, so there are still a few pieces and parts scattered on the floor. Stupid ottomans. I never liked their empire anyway.
"Holy Mother of God!"
OK, Case, quiz time. The above titled exclamation by your mother happened when she:
a) saw you riding Edgar like a horse
b) read that Josh McDaniels was returning as Broncos coach
c) peeled back your diaper this afternoon to reveal its latest contents
Hint: It's not a) or b).
:)
a) saw you riding Edgar like a horse
b) read that Josh McDaniels was returning as Broncos coach
c) peeled back your diaper this afternoon to reveal its latest contents
Hint: It's not a) or b).
:)
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A dinner story
There wasn't much I feared going into this fatherhood thing. One exception, though, was taking Case out to restaurants.
I envisioned horrifying scenes of screaming, crying and people staring at me for reasons other than the usual.
But a week into his existence, we went to lunch. Aside from getting out of the car and making it halfway to the front door before remembering there was a child in the back seat, the outing went fine. Perfect actually. And in the ensuing weeks, Case contiinued to sleep through public meals. Most of the time, it was like he wasn't there.
Until Friday.
Now there was no screaming, crying or questionable behavior (at least on Case's part), but there was an incident. And, surprisingly, I wasn't horrified at all. In fact, I enjoyed being the guy everyone was staring at (at least one person I'm sure did not share this bit of twisted pride).
Anyway, our meal at Carrabba's was going swimmingly. Good food, good conversation, TV was within sight. Case was sleeping late into the meal when he began to stir. I told Ashly and my mom I'd take Magoo for a stroll to try and calm him down and I'd meet them outside; it's the type of sacrifice a parent makes when someone else is paying the bill.
So Magoo and I are out cruising around the parking lot (on foot), and he's enjoying the new view -- wide-eyed and quiet. Then, the silence breaks. Aggressively. The boy's expression did not change, but it was the type of noise even the newest of the new parents recognizes. After a couple more minutes of walking and a couple more aggressive rumblings out of Case, I decided it was time to go back inside and see if the rest of the party was wrapping things up.
They were were still leisurely chatting away waiting for the check, so I mentioned to Ashly that Case needed to be changed. She wondered if the restaurant had a changing station, but I suggested it might be easier to change him in the back seat of the car (Calm down, we have a changing pad). She agreed. I then offered to do the changing (Really, I did), but Ashly said she would take care of it and I could wait for the bill with my mom (the least I could do since she was paying).
A few minutes later, I figured I'd be alll supportive and check on the fesitivities in the parking lot. Approaching the back of the car, I turned and the back seat was in clear view. The first thing I noticed was a puddle on the changing pad.
"Uh, what's that?"
"Oh my God, it was horrible!"
"What happened?"
"All over the back seat!"
(Grimace, slight smile)
"I figured it wasn't good when I noticed the puddle."
"When I took his diaper off, he started shitting again, and when he was done, he started peeing!"
(Smile no longer slight)
"Oh, no, I'm sorry, baby."
(Laughing, both of us)
"OK, let me get in there and clean that up while you put Magoo back in the car seat."
I wiped the changing pad down, free of feces, and cleaned a moderate amount of pee off the back seat, still smiling. It could have been much worse. Thank God for changing pads. Of course, now we were standing in the Carrabba's parking lot with plenty of people staring us, and I was holding a diaper I swear weighed roughly the same as Case. It was 5 pounds if it was an ounce. I then made what turned out to be the type of suggestion that could only be made by a new parent lacking sleep.
"What are we going to do with this diaper?"
"Ooh, I don't know."
"How about I take it into the bathroom in the restaurant and throw it away; I'll hide it so no one sees."
"WHAT? YOU CAN'T TAKE A DIRTY DIAPER INTO A RESTAURANT!"
"Oh, yeah, good point."
Ultimately, I got an extra to-go bag and stashed the evidence in the trunk. We then fled the scene of the crime and returned home, where dirty diapers are handled more efficiently, but rarely with as much entertaining drama.
I envisioned horrifying scenes of screaming, crying and people staring at me for reasons other than the usual.
But a week into his existence, we went to lunch. Aside from getting out of the car and making it halfway to the front door before remembering there was a child in the back seat, the outing went fine. Perfect actually. And in the ensuing weeks, Case contiinued to sleep through public meals. Most of the time, it was like he wasn't there.
Until Friday.
Now there was no screaming, crying or questionable behavior (at least on Case's part), but there was an incident. And, surprisingly, I wasn't horrified at all. In fact, I enjoyed being the guy everyone was staring at (at least one person I'm sure did not share this bit of twisted pride).
Anyway, our meal at Carrabba's was going swimmingly. Good food, good conversation, TV was within sight. Case was sleeping late into the meal when he began to stir. I told Ashly and my mom I'd take Magoo for a stroll to try and calm him down and I'd meet them outside; it's the type of sacrifice a parent makes when someone else is paying the bill.
So Magoo and I are out cruising around the parking lot (on foot), and he's enjoying the new view -- wide-eyed and quiet. Then, the silence breaks. Aggressively. The boy's expression did not change, but it was the type of noise even the newest of the new parents recognizes. After a couple more minutes of walking and a couple more aggressive rumblings out of Case, I decided it was time to go back inside and see if the rest of the party was wrapping things up.
They were were still leisurely chatting away waiting for the check, so I mentioned to Ashly that Case needed to be changed. She wondered if the restaurant had a changing station, but I suggested it might be easier to change him in the back seat of the car (Calm down, we have a changing pad). She agreed. I then offered to do the changing (Really, I did), but Ashly said she would take care of it and I could wait for the bill with my mom (the least I could do since she was paying).
A few minutes later, I figured I'd be alll supportive and check on the fesitivities in the parking lot. Approaching the back of the car, I turned and the back seat was in clear view. The first thing I noticed was a puddle on the changing pad.
"Uh, what's that?"
"Oh my God, it was horrible!"
"What happened?"
"All over the back seat!"
(Grimace, slight smile)
"I figured it wasn't good when I noticed the puddle."
"When I took his diaper off, he started shitting again, and when he was done, he started peeing!"
(Smile no longer slight)
"Oh, no, I'm sorry, baby."
(Laughing, both of us)
"OK, let me get in there and clean that up while you put Magoo back in the car seat."
I wiped the changing pad down, free of feces, and cleaned a moderate amount of pee off the back seat, still smiling. It could have been much worse. Thank God for changing pads. Of course, now we were standing in the Carrabba's parking lot with plenty of people staring us, and I was holding a diaper I swear weighed roughly the same as Case. It was 5 pounds if it was an ounce. I then made what turned out to be the type of suggestion that could only be made by a new parent lacking sleep.
"What are we going to do with this diaper?"
"Ooh, I don't know."
"How about I take it into the bathroom in the restaurant and throw it away; I'll hide it so no one sees."
"WHAT? YOU CAN'T TAKE A DIRTY DIAPER INTO A RESTAURANT!"
"Oh, yeah, good point."
Ultimately, I got an extra to-go bag and stashed the evidence in the trunk. We then fled the scene of the crime and returned home, where dirty diapers are handled more efficiently, but rarely with as much entertaining drama.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Mama's arms
Finally catching up, Magoo, after a hectic week filled with getting ready for the football season. By the way, you looked cool this morning in your Bears hat. Eventually your head will grow into it.
I have a few significant thoughts rummaging around in my head that I'll get to this weekend. In the meantime, I just wanted to leave you a little reminder of your mom, who loves you more than anything. Your Grandma Pallister and I took you out for breakfast today to give your mom a break (someone's been keeping her up at night). But she didn't get much rest; she was busy thinking of you. She spent a good five minutes staring at you and smiling when you got back home.
In the dark of night
as the thunder rolls,
in mama's arms you'll be
In the morning light
as the day unfolds.
it's mama's eyes you'll see
In mama's arms
you're safe from harm
In mama's arms you'll be
In mama's arms
there's no alarm
It's safe as safe can be
I have a few significant thoughts rummaging around in my head that I'll get to this weekend. In the meantime, I just wanted to leave you a little reminder of your mom, who loves you more than anything. Your Grandma Pallister and I took you out for breakfast today to give your mom a break (someone's been keeping her up at night). But she didn't get much rest; she was busy thinking of you. She spent a good five minutes staring at you and smiling when you got back home.
In the dark of night
as the thunder rolls,
in mama's arms you'll be
In the morning light
as the day unfolds.
it's mama's eyes you'll see
In mama's arms
you're safe from harm
In mama's arms you'll be
In mama's arms
there's no alarm
It's safe as safe can be
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Real quick
A few thoughts, son:
*Believe in yourself, but don't assume a sense of superiority.
*Be confident, but not to the point of arrogance.
*Take pride in all that you accomplish, but be humble enough to keep learning.
*Believe in yourself, but don't assume a sense of superiority.
*Be confident, but not to the point of arrogance.
*Take pride in all that you accomplish, but be humble enough to keep learning.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Perchance to dream (not scream)
Case,
Consider this a cyber I.O.U. I will give you $20 (or $1 million depending on the rate of inflation) at a date to be determined if you sleep through the night and allow your mom to do the same.
Love,
Dad
Consider this a cyber I.O.U. I will give you $20 (or $1 million depending on the rate of inflation) at a date to be determined if you sleep through the night and allow your mom to do the same.
Love,
Dad
Monday, August 29, 2011
I don't want to
Case, if you grow up to be intimidated by instruction manuals and break into a sweat at the sight of a toolbox, I'm sorry.
As I type, there's a box full of rocking chair parts sitting in your nursery with my name on it. But I don't want to attempt construction because I know what awaits.
Your Uncle Billy and Uncle Kenny got the "putting things together" genes. I did not. Instead, I got the "good with words" genes, which allow me the luxury of expressing myself in constructive ways like this blog, but also cause me to express myself in what could be considered socially unacceptable ways whenever I'm faced with any diagram consisting of more than a hammer and a nail.
I've been given a four-day reprieve by a power outage that won't go away, but your Grandma Pallister will be here in three days, and that rocking chair won't put itself together. Really, it won't. I've been checking every day and the parts just sit there.
Ultimately, fatherhoood means sacrifice, so with you and your peaceful slumber in mind, I'll do my best to put things together this weekend without coming apart. Just do Dad a favor, Magoo: Cover those oversized ears. :)
As I type, there's a box full of rocking chair parts sitting in your nursery with my name on it. But I don't want to attempt construction because I know what awaits.
Your Uncle Billy and Uncle Kenny got the "putting things together" genes. I did not. Instead, I got the "good with words" genes, which allow me the luxury of expressing myself in constructive ways like this blog, but also cause me to express myself in what could be considered socially unacceptable ways whenever I'm faced with any diagram consisting of more than a hammer and a nail.
I've been given a four-day reprieve by a power outage that won't go away, but your Grandma Pallister will be here in three days, and that rocking chair won't put itself together. Really, it won't. I've been checking every day and the parts just sit there.
Ultimately, fatherhoood means sacrifice, so with you and your peaceful slumber in mind, I'll do my best to put things together this weekend without coming apart. Just do Dad a favor, Magoo: Cover those oversized ears. :)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Passion
OK, Case, your first 10 days have not been dull.
We've felt the aftershock of a nearby earthquake, dealt with the effects of a passing hurricane, and, as I type this, your first day alone with Mom is being spent amid a power outage. Add in two losses by the Bears, including an embarrassing one on national television, and that's a whole lot of disaster packed into a life that has yet to encompass a fortnight.
Granted, those are preseason losses, but unlike earthquakes and hurricanes, Bears defeats are regularly occuring disasters you will have to learn to deal with. Unless you follow your mom's lead and become a Broncos fan, a disaster in its own right. (Potentially true trivia note: As you grow older, you may hear the name Tim Tebow. Just so you know, Mr. Tebow was a legendary college football player who was unfairly placed in an impossible situation after being drafted in the first round by the evil dark lord Josh McDaniels. He kicked around the NFL for a number of years, enjoying a cup of coffee with several teams, before he found work as the guy in charge of upkeep for Kyle Orton's beard-trimming kit. But, disillusioned with the lack of work that entails, he eventually faded from public view, until resurfacing as media adviser to Ryan Leaf during his unsuccessful bid for governor of California; he lost to former Raiders owner Al Davis, who won despite being dead since 2017.)
It may be, Case, that you find sports is not your thing. If so, that's cool. All joking aside, it's important you discover various passions and find the time to indulge them. If you're very lucky, like your Grandpa Pallister, your work and your passion (for him it was fighting fires) will be the same. But for most of us, work is work and play is play. And keeping them separate is healthy, for mind and body.
Whether it's sports, music, reading, cooking, health and fitness or jumping out of airplanes, find what you like and do it a lot. That sounds simple, but as you grow into adulthood and the life of responsibility -- for yourself and others who make up your universe -- takes precedent, it becomes increasingly difficult to stop and smell the roses. As I mentioned previously, enjoy the moment, of which you will be presented with many. If spending Sundays watching NFL games fills you with joy (and other assorted emotions we'll not get into right now), as it has for me since childhood, then dive in. Whatever it is, be passionate. I guess that's my point here. Be passionate about life. Humans are prone to regret, but the best way to avoid the what-ifs is to find joy in the everyday, the little things that make up the majority of our lives.
I will dream a thousand dreams regarding what might be in store for you, Case. But all I really want is for you to be happy. Find what makes that so.
We've felt the aftershock of a nearby earthquake, dealt with the effects of a passing hurricane, and, as I type this, your first day alone with Mom is being spent amid a power outage. Add in two losses by the Bears, including an embarrassing one on national television, and that's a whole lot of disaster packed into a life that has yet to encompass a fortnight.
Granted, those are preseason losses, but unlike earthquakes and hurricanes, Bears defeats are regularly occuring disasters you will have to learn to deal with. Unless you follow your mom's lead and become a Broncos fan, a disaster in its own right. (Potentially true trivia note: As you grow older, you may hear the name Tim Tebow. Just so you know, Mr. Tebow was a legendary college football player who was unfairly placed in an impossible situation after being drafted in the first round by the evil dark lord Josh McDaniels. He kicked around the NFL for a number of years, enjoying a cup of coffee with several teams, before he found work as the guy in charge of upkeep for Kyle Orton's beard-trimming kit. But, disillusioned with the lack of work that entails, he eventually faded from public view, until resurfacing as media adviser to Ryan Leaf during his unsuccessful bid for governor of California; he lost to former Raiders owner Al Davis, who won despite being dead since 2017.)
It may be, Case, that you find sports is not your thing. If so, that's cool. All joking aside, it's important you discover various passions and find the time to indulge them. If you're very lucky, like your Grandpa Pallister, your work and your passion (for him it was fighting fires) will be the same. But for most of us, work is work and play is play. And keeping them separate is healthy, for mind and body.
Whether it's sports, music, reading, cooking, health and fitness or jumping out of airplanes, find what you like and do it a lot. That sounds simple, but as you grow into adulthood and the life of responsibility -- for yourself and others who make up your universe -- takes precedent, it becomes increasingly difficult to stop and smell the roses. As I mentioned previously, enjoy the moment, of which you will be presented with many. If spending Sundays watching NFL games fills you with joy (and other assorted emotions we'll not get into right now), as it has for me since childhood, then dive in. Whatever it is, be passionate. I guess that's my point here. Be passionate about life. Humans are prone to regret, but the best way to avoid the what-ifs is to find joy in the everyday, the little things that make up the majority of our lives.
I will dream a thousand dreams regarding what might be in store for you, Case. But all I really want is for you to be happy. Find what makes that so.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Be there
Case, your Grandpa Pallister summed up parenting's big picture in five words: "You're there for your kids." Through all the ins and outs and ups and downs of rasiing you, that advice will be the foundation. When it comes to making a point, your grandpa is more Hemingway, I'm more Poe (or perhaps Dr, Suess). Here's my take on being there for you:
Hello, Case, it's nice to meet ya
On my face, a smile to greet ya
Welcome, son, I promise you
I'll be the dad you need me to
I'll be there for those tiny hands
that grow with you into a man
I'll be there for those tiny feet,
provide the ground you soon will meet
I'll be there for those bright blue eyes
that widen with each life's surprise
I'll be there in a moment's time,
through late-night tears and nurs'ry rhymes
I'll be there, never fear,
I'll be there for you
I'll be there, no matter where,
'cause that's what dads are born to do
I'll be there for those scrapes and falls;
the love I have, you'll have it all
I'll be there for that first big game,
to cheer you on and shout your name
I'll be there for those little scars
that dot the maps of who we are
I'll be there for the bigger hurts,
to give advice but listen first
I'll be there, never fear,
I'll be there for you
I'll be there, no matter where,
'cause that's what dads are born to do
I'll be there for those little things,
and take you underneath my wings
I'll be there with each passing day,
to watch you soar, then fly away
I'll be there when you're on your own
And know, my son, you're not alone
I'll be there for my little boy;
you'll always be my pride and joy
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