Case,
A little before 1 a.m. last night, your mother and I were shocked from our slumber by the sound of our bedroom door flying open and hitting the wall. As I opened my eyes and tried to focus, I saw a 3-foot shadow in the doorway.
"Case?" I asked?
"Case, what are you doing?" your mother asked, much louder.
You then quickly emerged from the shadows grinning and jumped up on our bed as I left it to go find out how you had escaped your crib. As I left the room, I heard your mother say, "He's not wearing any pants!"
I'm not sure if you climbed over the top or burrowed out from underneath the mess you had made of your mattresses (mattressii?), but I had no time to play detective. I grabbed a diaper out of the bathroom on the way back and re-entered the room to find you sitting happily next to your mother, naked from the waist down.
I put the diaper on you and crawled back into bed. I glanced over at your mother and waited for her to tell me to return you immediately from whence you came. She did not. I was surprised. I tucked you in between us and you were generally quiet after a minute or so. But then you'd randomly blurt out words I couldn't understand and I knew it was really annoying your mother, who is 31 weeks pregnant and had an 8:30 doctor's appointment. She didn't need to deal with this.
After about five minutes, I grabbed you and we returned to your room. I knew you weren't going to go (to sleep) quietly, and I wanted to give your mom a break. So I laid down on the floor beside the crib and curled up into the fetal position (I thought this was a little weird, but I was comfortable and just went with it). You jumped with mediocre fervor for a while, then laid down and patted my head, first with your feet sticking through the crib and then with your hands. I was too tired to tell you to quit it, and you stopped in short order anyway. Two hours later, I woke up in your room. I unfurled, got up, grabbed my pillow and said a quick prayer (Please, God!) as I looked into your crib. You were out (Thank God!).
I relayed this story to your Grandma Richards this morning and in-between hysterical laughter she said, "That's so Case! I can see him doing that."
So there you go, son. Not even 3 and people aren't surprised when they hear you burst into a bedroom naked in the middle of the night.
Have fun in college.
Love,
Dad
Monday, June 30, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
The dirty business of parenting
Case,
To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.
Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.
I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")
But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.
So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.
And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.
In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.
A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.
I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.
So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.
I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.
OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."
I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.
We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.
After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."
The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for a wife. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.
Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).
At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.
A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.
Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.
Love,
Dad
To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.
Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.
I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")
But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.
So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.
And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.
In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.
A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.
I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.
So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.
I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.
OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."
I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.
We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.
After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."
The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for a wife. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.
Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).
At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.
A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.
Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.
Love,
Dad
Monday, May 26, 2014
Swimming pools and sacrifice
Case,
I'm wearing headphones and listening to my iPod right now. I should probably take them off to think more clearly, but where's the fun in that, right? Music makes everything better, right? Well, we shall see.
Anyway, it's Memorial Day, when Americans across the country commemorate members of the military who have sacrificed their lives to sustain our freedoms by gathering at apartment complex swimming pools and partaking in thousands upon thousands of disgusting human stews. Others class it up by going to public beaches, which are just Walmarts at 2 a.m. with sand.
It wouldn't be an American holiday if it wasn't bastardized — by commercialism or shameless strangers showing too much skin.
Sometimes it's better to be stuck in the office flying a desk while the masses "celebrate" a holiday. Part of that celebration is the phrase that too often accompanies the recognition of this day — "Happy Memorial Day." What a terrible, (oxy)moronic characterization. I realize people don't mean anything bad when they say it, but it's really annoying — not so much morally but grammatically.
Having said that, and understanding that Memorial Day as a day of solemn reflection is an idea that has been lost in a haze of sunshine, barbecues and bathing suits, I'm not a Grinch about people trying to have a good time on the final Monday in May — as long as they have perspective. Of course, that's easier said than done. Perspective is what Memorial Day is really about. Unfortunately, perspective is not really an American trait in the 21st century.
Perspective is a stranger to the hurried masses
It seems to make no difference what the station or the class is
A species that's endangered like my mother's Latin masses
We all just want to bitch and moan until the moment passes
On Memorial Day, don't let the moment pass. Have fun spending time with family and friends, gorging yourself on meat products and pretending you have the type of body that people would want to view in public. Just remember that we're allowed to bask in such frivolity not because we deserve it (Nobody cares how hard you've been working; you're alive, aren't you?), but because many brave souls have and continue to pay the ultimate price for it.
Many people will say that Americans don't die in service to their country so the rest of us can "enjoy" Memorial Day. That's true. Americans die in service to their country so we can enjoy EVERY day. That's the American ideal, the American Dream. It shouldn't take a single day in May to be cognizant of the freedom that makes this nation great. But that's just how it works for the hurried masses in the 21st century.
I don't know how much of what I write in these letters will stick with you, but I hope the message in this one does. Make Memorial Day about fun AND solemn remembrance. Celebrate your freedom how you see fit, as long as, at the end of the day, you're aware of and thankful for those who gave (and keep giving it) to you.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I have no idea what songs I was listening to for the past 30 minutes.
I'm wearing headphones and listening to my iPod right now. I should probably take them off to think more clearly, but where's the fun in that, right? Music makes everything better, right? Well, we shall see.
Anyway, it's Memorial Day, when Americans across the country commemorate members of the military who have sacrificed their lives to sustain our freedoms by gathering at apartment complex swimming pools and partaking in thousands upon thousands of disgusting human stews. Others class it up by going to public beaches, which are just Walmarts at 2 a.m. with sand.
It wouldn't be an American holiday if it wasn't bastardized — by commercialism or shameless strangers showing too much skin.
Sometimes it's better to be stuck in the office flying a desk while the masses "celebrate" a holiday. Part of that celebration is the phrase that too often accompanies the recognition of this day — "Happy Memorial Day." What a terrible, (oxy)moronic characterization. I realize people don't mean anything bad when they say it, but it's really annoying — not so much morally but grammatically.
Having said that, and understanding that Memorial Day as a day of solemn reflection is an idea that has been lost in a haze of sunshine, barbecues and bathing suits, I'm not a Grinch about people trying to have a good time on the final Monday in May — as long as they have perspective. Of course, that's easier said than done. Perspective is what Memorial Day is really about. Unfortunately, perspective is not really an American trait in the 21st century.
Perspective is a stranger to the hurried masses
It seems to make no difference what the station or the class is
A species that's endangered like my mother's Latin masses
We all just want to bitch and moan until the moment passes
On Memorial Day, don't let the moment pass. Have fun spending time with family and friends, gorging yourself on meat products and pretending you have the type of body that people would want to view in public. Just remember that we're allowed to bask in such frivolity not because we deserve it (Nobody cares how hard you've been working; you're alive, aren't you?), but because many brave souls have and continue to pay the ultimate price for it.
Many people will say that Americans don't die in service to their country so the rest of us can "enjoy" Memorial Day. That's true. Americans die in service to their country so we can enjoy EVERY day. That's the American ideal, the American Dream. It shouldn't take a single day in May to be cognizant of the freedom that makes this nation great. But that's just how it works for the hurried masses in the 21st century.
I don't know how much of what I write in these letters will stick with you, but I hope the message in this one does. Make Memorial Day about fun AND solemn remembrance. Celebrate your freedom how you see fit, as long as, at the end of the day, you're aware of and thankful for those who gave (and keep giving it) to you.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I have no idea what songs I was listening to for the past 30 minutes.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Do you have change for that?
Case,
I've come to the realization over the years that one should embrace his/her idiosyncrasies. It will never be a problem for me to wear a sleeveless full-body pug shirt in front of 40,000 people. On the other hand, it's been a revelation of late that there's a difference between idiosyncrasies and flaws. It's not healthy to embrace being an asshole. It's not healthy to embrace being selfish. If you spend your whole life resistant to change, at the very least you'll often be miserable, and at worst you'll just push away the people it's worth changing for.
The consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then who's it about?
I'm the one juggling these chainsaws of doubt
If it's not about me, then I don't understand
First … know thyself; is that not the plan?
It's not for the weak, and it's not for the mild
It's not for the boy, an impress'nable child
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then what's it about —
the answers within or the questions without?
If it's not about me, I'll admit I'm confused
This is just how I am; this is not what I choose
It's not for the faint or the calm of this world
It's not fair to you or the beautiful girl
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, if it's not about me
If it's not about me, then I fail to see
If it's not about me, then how can it be?
I will never find peace; I will never be free
Love,
Dad
I've come to the realization over the years that one should embrace his/her idiosyncrasies. It will never be a problem for me to wear a sleeveless full-body pug shirt in front of 40,000 people. On the other hand, it's been a revelation of late that there's a difference between idiosyncrasies and flaws. It's not healthy to embrace being an asshole. It's not healthy to embrace being selfish. If you spend your whole life resistant to change, at the very least you'll often be miserable, and at worst you'll just push away the people it's worth changing for.
The consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then who's it about?
I'm the one juggling these chainsaws of doubt
If it's not about me, then I don't understand
First … know thyself; is that not the plan?
It's not for the weak, and it's not for the mild
It's not for the boy, an impress'nable child
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, then what's it about —
the answers within or the questions without?
If it's not about me, I'll admit I'm confused
This is just how I am; this is not what I choose
It's not for the faint or the calm of this world
It's not fair to you or the beautiful girl
He spent his whole life penning a love song to insanity
Caught between obsession and the sirens of inanity
In the end succumbing to the consequence of vanity
If it's not about me, if it's not about me
If it's not about me, then I fail to see
If it's not about me, then how can it be?
I will never find peace; I will never be free
Love,
Dad
Monday, April 28, 2014
Don't
Case,
A few words to live by:
* Don't be more concerned with looking the part than you are with doing your part. I mean, it would probably behoove you to dress better than your old man (I'm wearing a respectable shirt today, although I wore a Patrick Kane shersey to work Thursday), but it's much better to be mocked for your fashion sense than your work ethic. The workforce is littered with people who look good doing terrible work. Don't be one of them.
* Don't forget where you came from, but don't be afraid to leave.
* Don't put ketchup on a hot dog. Or much of anything for that matter. Ketchup is for hillbillies. (The exception is your Grandma Pallister's meatloaf. It's so awesome that it makes ketchup work.) On a related note, don't eat pizza with mandarin oranges on it. You will regret it.
* Don't drink scotch. It gives you a weird hangover and will make you pretentious. Also, don't drink beer with fruit in it. I shouldn't have to explain that, no matter how young you may be when you read this. On second thought, don't drink. As your Grandpa Pallister said to me many times in his later years, "I never got into any trouble that wasn't the result of drinking." Wise words.
* Don't listen to music at an acceptable volume. There are two kinds of music — bad and loud.
* Don't take every pitch. The best you'll do with that approach is drawing an occasional walk. The worst you'll do is spend years watching strike three go by. You can't hit a home run if you never swing. Sure, you'll still strike out, possibly often, but at least you'll strike out swinging.
* Don't wear white after Labor Day.
* Don't fold clothes haphazardly. If you're going to do laundry, do it correctly.
* Don't forget to turn off the coffee pot. And the stove. And the oven. While you're at it, just unplug everything before you leave the house.
* Don't take pride in being an idiot. We all have our quirks and eccentricities and many of them make us endearing to those closest to us. You should never be ashamed of those. But some aspects of our personality make us a**holes. Don't be an a**hole just to be an a**hole. For instance, stop throwing trains when you're denied a third cupcake. Pick your spots.
* Don't root for any football team that ever employed Michael Vick, the Packers, the Cubs or Gwyneth Paltrow. Seriously, you can become obsessed with soccer for all I care or immerse yourself in fantasy NASCAR, but for God's sake, have some standards! On a somewhat related note, your mom and I attended RavenCon this past weekend. It was a gathering of, um, eclectic folks who like to dress up as characters from the science fiction realm. I saw a large-breasted Klingon, I learned Bobba Fett drives a Dodge and I snapped a great picture of a half-naked man riding a hobby horse. Initially, I just shook my head and wondered how these people could take themselves seriously when they choose to lose themselves in such an endeavor. But then I realized that we all need an escape. Your mother has books. I have sports. Really, anyone who has ever painted their face to support their favorite team can't mock a guy who wears his stormtrooper suit every once in a while. Find the escape that suits you and enjoy the hell out of it. Don't worry about what other people think.
Love,
Dad
A few words to live by:
* Don't be more concerned with looking the part than you are with doing your part. I mean, it would probably behoove you to dress better than your old man (I'm wearing a respectable shirt today, although I wore a Patrick Kane shersey to work Thursday), but it's much better to be mocked for your fashion sense than your work ethic. The workforce is littered with people who look good doing terrible work. Don't be one of them.
* Don't forget where you came from, but don't be afraid to leave.
* Don't put ketchup on a hot dog. Or much of anything for that matter. Ketchup is for hillbillies. (The exception is your Grandma Pallister's meatloaf. It's so awesome that it makes ketchup work.) On a related note, don't eat pizza with mandarin oranges on it. You will regret it.
* Don't drink scotch. It gives you a weird hangover and will make you pretentious. Also, don't drink beer with fruit in it. I shouldn't have to explain that, no matter how young you may be when you read this. On second thought, don't drink. As your Grandpa Pallister said to me many times in his later years, "I never got into any trouble that wasn't the result of drinking." Wise words.
* Don't listen to music at an acceptable volume. There are two kinds of music — bad and loud.
* Don't take every pitch. The best you'll do with that approach is drawing an occasional walk. The worst you'll do is spend years watching strike three go by. You can't hit a home run if you never swing. Sure, you'll still strike out, possibly often, but at least you'll strike out swinging.
* Don't wear white after Labor Day.
* Don't fold clothes haphazardly. If you're going to do laundry, do it correctly.
* Don't forget to turn off the coffee pot. And the stove. And the oven. While you're at it, just unplug everything before you leave the house.
* Don't take pride in being an idiot. We all have our quirks and eccentricities and many of them make us endearing to those closest to us. You should never be ashamed of those. But some aspects of our personality make us a**holes. Don't be an a**hole just to be an a**hole. For instance, stop throwing trains when you're denied a third cupcake. Pick your spots.
* Don't root for any football team that ever employed Michael Vick, the Packers, the Cubs or Gwyneth Paltrow. Seriously, you can become obsessed with soccer for all I care or immerse yourself in fantasy NASCAR, but for God's sake, have some standards! On a somewhat related note, your mom and I attended RavenCon this past weekend. It was a gathering of, um, eclectic folks who like to dress up as characters from the science fiction realm. I saw a large-breasted Klingon, I learned Bobba Fett drives a Dodge and I snapped a great picture of a half-naked man riding a hobby horse. Initially, I just shook my head and wondered how these people could take themselves seriously when they choose to lose themselves in such an endeavor. But then I realized that we all need an escape. Your mother has books. I have sports. Really, anyone who has ever painted their face to support their favorite team can't mock a guy who wears his stormtrooper suit every once in a while. Find the escape that suits you and enjoy the hell out of it. Don't worry about what other people think.
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The game of life
Case,
I just realized I haven't posted on your blog in a month. I've got plenty of stuff in my head, but I'm in one of those stretches where I just feel like keeping it all up there. Needless to say, the attic is crowded. I promise to start clearing it out now that spring seems to finally have arrived.
Anyway, I logged on today and saw that a year ago I wrote the following:
I just realized I haven't posted on your blog in a month. I've got plenty of stuff in my head, but I'm in one of those stretches where I just feel like keeping it all up there. Needless to say, the attic is crowded. I promise to start clearing it out now that spring seems to finally have arrived.
Anyway, I logged on today and saw that a year ago I wrote the following:
Case,
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
Saturday, March 1, 2014
They grow up so ... uh, nevermind
Case,
This morning, you grabbed a loaf of your favorite cinnamon bread off the counter, walked over to me at the kitchen table, handed me the bread, demanded to "Eat!" and crawled up on the chair next to me. As I worked on the laptop, you calmly and cleanly ate your "nack." I thought to myself, "Wow, you're really growing up. I'm proud of you, little guy." Then Edgar walked up to your chair seeking crumbs and you kicked him in the head.
Love,
Dad
This morning, you grabbed a loaf of your favorite cinnamon bread off the counter, walked over to me at the kitchen table, handed me the bread, demanded to "Eat!" and crawled up on the chair next to me. As I worked on the laptop, you calmly and cleanly ate your "nack." I thought to myself, "Wow, you're really growing up. I'm proud of you, little guy." Then Edgar walked up to your chair seeking crumbs and you kicked him in the head.
Love,
Dad
Monday, February 24, 2014
Mall walking revisited
Case,
I am going to accomplish my goal of 365 posts this year, one way or the other. One way is to get creative (or lazy, depending on how you look at it), so here's an anniversary post. I wrote this exactly a year ago today:
Love,
Dad
Case,
I'm about to mix some nature metaphors, so just go with it, OK?
Yesterday, we took you to the urban Serengeti — a place where wild creatures roam together in a state of tenuous existence. We took you to the mall.
By the time your mom and I finished our coffee, which adult animals need to keep up with their young, you had become typically restless. You wanted out of the stroller. So I picked you up and we started moving. But after a few steps I thought you might like a little ambulatory freedom. Your mom agreed it was a good idea to let you walk.
I thought you might be hesitant, maybe look back at one or both of us before moving forward with trepidation. Nope. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you took off like a drunken penguin, and seconds later you had speed-waddled your way to the river. I mean the children's play area.
Wanting to follow through on the whole freedom thing, it was decided that we'd follow you around for a while, despite our fear of the river. I mean the children's play area. (Seriously, if you ever have kids, you'll hate that damn place. There may even come a time you wish that an alligator would leap up, drag you away and put you out of your misery.)
You stumbled around for a few minutes — at one point trying to shove a hesitant child down a slide because he was in your way and you had run out of patience (you are your father's son) — and then, thankfully, you speed-waddled your way back to the relative safety of the open plains.
You spent much of the next 15 minutes reluctantly holding your mom's hand as you ventured through more of the mall. Along the way, I pictured you as a little baby on the floor of our old apartment. You were only a few months old and you'd lie on your stomach, occasionally rolling over but mostly struggling to move. At the time, I wondered aloud many times — to your mom's great annoyance —if you'd ever start crawling. Now, here you were, among a mass of people, carefree and mobile. It had only been a little over a year, but it felt like a lifetime.
You're 18 months old now, and you're growing up so fast. And, yes, it's a little sad, because I can't help but imagine you as an adult, doing adult things — like drinking coffee, perhaps to keep pace with your own child or children as you wonder upon a trip to the mall who the idiot was that decided it was smart to corral large groups of germ-ridden animals into a confined space. Those days will be here before I know it.
In my more selfish moments, I just wish you'd stay my little boy forever. But as I sit here typing with a cold, feeling as if it might be preferable for an alligator to come and drag me away, I am snapped back to reality (see what I did there?) by remembering that as much as I'd like for you to grow up slower (or not at all), the opportunity to watch it happen — at whatever speed — is one of life's greatest gifts.
Love,
Dad
I am going to accomplish my goal of 365 posts this year, one way or the other. One way is to get creative (or lazy, depending on how you look at it), so here's an anniversary post. I wrote this exactly a year ago today:
Love,
Dad
Case,
I'm about to mix some nature metaphors, so just go with it, OK?
Yesterday, we took you to the urban Serengeti — a place where wild creatures roam together in a state of tenuous existence. We took you to the mall.
By the time your mom and I finished our coffee, which adult animals need to keep up with their young, you had become typically restless. You wanted out of the stroller. So I picked you up and we started moving. But after a few steps I thought you might like a little ambulatory freedom. Your mom agreed it was a good idea to let you walk.
I thought you might be hesitant, maybe look back at one or both of us before moving forward with trepidation. Nope. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you took off like a drunken penguin, and seconds later you had speed-waddled your way to the river. I mean the children's play area.
Wanting to follow through on the whole freedom thing, it was decided that we'd follow you around for a while, despite our fear of the river. I mean the children's play area. (Seriously, if you ever have kids, you'll hate that damn place. There may even come a time you wish that an alligator would leap up, drag you away and put you out of your misery.)
You stumbled around for a few minutes — at one point trying to shove a hesitant child down a slide because he was in your way and you had run out of patience (you are your father's son) — and then, thankfully, you speed-waddled your way back to the relative safety of the open plains.
You spent much of the next 15 minutes reluctantly holding your mom's hand as you ventured through more of the mall. Along the way, I pictured you as a little baby on the floor of our old apartment. You were only a few months old and you'd lie on your stomach, occasionally rolling over but mostly struggling to move. At the time, I wondered aloud many times — to your mom's great annoyance —if you'd ever start crawling. Now, here you were, among a mass of people, carefree and mobile. It had only been a little over a year, but it felt like a lifetime.
You're 18 months old now, and you're growing up so fast. And, yes, it's a little sad, because I can't help but imagine you as an adult, doing adult things — like drinking coffee, perhaps to keep pace with your own child or children as you wonder upon a trip to the mall who the idiot was that decided it was smart to corral large groups of germ-ridden animals into a confined space. Those days will be here before I know it.
In my more selfish moments, I just wish you'd stay my little boy forever. But as I sit here typing with a cold, feeling as if it might be preferable for an alligator to come and drag me away, I am snapped back to reality (see what I did there?) by remembering that as much as I'd like for you to grow up slower (or not at all), the opportunity to watch it happen — at whatever speed — is one of life's greatest gifts.
Love,
Dad
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Global Parenting System?
Case,
Driving from Richmond to work in D.C. today, I took the state highway instead of the interstate. All things being equal, the state highway takes about 30 minutes longer. But things are never equal.
Most people take the main road, and "most people" inevitably means more problems. So the road less traveled is often your best bet. But you don't take that path lightly.
The road less traveled is for taking in the scenery, seeing the sights AND getting to your destination without the avoidable hassles presented by following the masses. There has to be a purpose. Otherwise, you're just veering of course for no reason, and you will end up lost in the middle of nowhere, literally and figuratively — the latter a circumstance that cannot be fixed by a GPS.
Taking the road less traveled is seen as a noble pursuit, but there are pitfalls. I envisioned myself as a noble traveler for many years. I had no fear of veering off course, but more often than not, I was afraid of following through with my chosen path. Too many times I didn't trust my instincts, and I would turn around and return to a familiar place. That prevented me from getting lost for too long, but it also prevented me from ever finding what I was looking for.
I didn't follow through until I took the leap of faith to follow through on the path that led me to your mother. It was the best decision I ever made, but it was not without doubt, and there were no guarantees. And that's the thing with taking the road less traveled. It's not always easier. In fact, it's rarely easy. It presents its own challenges, and sometimes it does take an extra 30 minutes. Or, in my case, 20 years.
There's nothing wrong with taking the main road and the degree of certainty that comes with it. God knows I made things hard on myself by my consistent refusal to do so. Sometimes the main road is the only way to get where you're going.
There's a reason the road less traveled is less traveled. It's not for everyone. But if you decide to take a different path in life, the key is to believe in yourself and believe in your sense of direction, knowing that, ultimately, you're on a path that will result in happiness and fulfillment.
Whatever you decide, travel bold and be safe.
Love,
Dad
Driving from Richmond to work in D.C. today, I took the state highway instead of the interstate. All things being equal, the state highway takes about 30 minutes longer. But things are never equal.
Most people take the main road, and "most people" inevitably means more problems. So the road less traveled is often your best bet. But you don't take that path lightly.
The road less traveled is for taking in the scenery, seeing the sights AND getting to your destination without the avoidable hassles presented by following the masses. There has to be a purpose. Otherwise, you're just veering of course for no reason, and you will end up lost in the middle of nowhere, literally and figuratively — the latter a circumstance that cannot be fixed by a GPS.
Taking the road less traveled is seen as a noble pursuit, but there are pitfalls. I envisioned myself as a noble traveler for many years. I had no fear of veering off course, but more often than not, I was afraid of following through with my chosen path. Too many times I didn't trust my instincts, and I would turn around and return to a familiar place. That prevented me from getting lost for too long, but it also prevented me from ever finding what I was looking for.
I didn't follow through until I took the leap of faith to follow through on the path that led me to your mother. It was the best decision I ever made, but it was not without doubt, and there were no guarantees. And that's the thing with taking the road less traveled. It's not always easier. In fact, it's rarely easy. It presents its own challenges, and sometimes it does take an extra 30 minutes. Or, in my case, 20 years.
There's nothing wrong with taking the main road and the degree of certainty that comes with it. God knows I made things hard on myself by my consistent refusal to do so. Sometimes the main road is the only way to get where you're going.
There's a reason the road less traveled is less traveled. It's not for everyone. But if you decide to take a different path in life, the key is to believe in yourself and believe in your sense of direction, knowing that, ultimately, you're on a path that will result in happiness and fulfillment.
Whatever you decide, travel bold and be safe.
Love,
Dad
Saturday, February 15, 2014
You can quote me
Case,
Like no college student ever, I was bored one afternoon in my early 20s and spent hours reading a random book of quotations from cover to cover.
As our family is about to undergo some significant changes, I've been thinking a lot (more than usual). One of those thoughts today centered on this quote: Don't wait for your ship to come in, go out to meet it.
Now I spent years standing on shore when I should have been in the water swimming. Don't make the same mistake, son. Dive into life and see what you can find. Be a shark and don't stop moving.
Love,
Dad
Like no college student ever, I was bored one afternoon in my early 20s and spent hours reading a random book of quotations from cover to cover.
As our family is about to undergo some significant changes, I've been thinking a lot (more than usual). One of those thoughts today centered on this quote: Don't wait for your ship to come in, go out to meet it.
Now I spent years standing on shore when I should have been in the water swimming. Don't make the same mistake, son. Dive into life and see what you can find. Be a shark and don't stop moving.
Love,
Dad
The American Dream
Case,
Soon you will start thinking of the future. Once that happens, you will think about it every day for the rest of your life in some form or fashion -- from what you want for lunch to what you might be and whom you might meet when you grow up.
But no one thinks about waking early on a Saturday to watch Team USA play Russia in Olympic hockey and making breakfast for your growing family. So when that kind of thing happens, cherish it. Those are the moments that make life worth living. Those are the moments that our futures are made of.
Love,
Dad
Soon you will start thinking of the future. Once that happens, you will think about it every day for the rest of your life in some form or fashion -- from what you want for lunch to what you might be and whom you might meet when you grow up.
But no one thinks about waking early on a Saturday to watch Team USA play Russia in Olympic hockey and making breakfast for your growing family. So when that kind of thing happens, cherish it. Those are the moments that make life worth living. Those are the moments that our futures are made of.
Love,
Dad
Saturday, February 8, 2014
No-power hours
Case,
I've mentioned before that a "hurricane" in the opening weeks after your birth led to a power outage that caused our shiny new family to spend a few days living in a hotel. But in digging up some old work today, I was reminded that you were present for a previous power outage. One that did not result in three days of free breakfast, but one that resulted in the following column:
http://www.nvdaily.com/news/2011/03/matt-pallister-a-failure-of-power-frustrates.php
Here is the text version because I don't trust the Internet:
Love,
Dad
I've mentioned before that a "hurricane" in the opening weeks after your birth led to a power outage that caused our shiny new family to spend a few days living in a hotel. But in digging up some old work today, I was reminded that you were present for a previous power outage. One that did not result in three days of free breakfast, but one that resulted in the following column:
http://www.nvdaily.com/news/2011/03/matt-pallister-a-failure-of-power-frustrates.php
Here is the text version because I don't trust the Internet:
Dear SVEC,
Nothing disgruntles a customer more than a shivering, pregnant wife standing in the middle of a darkened living room nine hours after the power went out.
That's the image stuck in my head after the Feb. 25 outage affecting parts of Frederick County. It's an image that, more than a week later, still makes me angry.
The whole episode is especially frustrating given that an increasingly larger portion of my salary has been devoted to paying you the last few months. I think it's fair for any customer to expect that, in exchange for the significant increase in payments during the winter, the power will not go out from the middle of the afternoon to the middle of the night. I'm paying a lot for your service; I should be able to count on it.
I understand interruptions are inevitable, especially in the winter. But this is the 21st century. We live outside of town, but in a fairly large residential area. We're not isolated on a vast prairie. And while it was a very windy day, there was nothing limiting access to the area. It wasn't a snowstorm. Service should have been restored completely long before the temperature in our living room began to plummet.
The power initially went out shortly after 3 p.m., and we were quick to report it. The power returned about 4:30 p.m., but only briefly. Eventually, darkness set in and it wasn't until after 10 that there was light. I got a call from my wife telling me everything was OK. That made me feel much better. Then I got another call five minutes later saying it was dark again. And 51 degrees.
When I finally got back to the neighborhood, some of the houses had lights on. Not ours or any around us. After close to an hour of trying not to think about how cold it was, we decided to make a trip to Wal-Mart. It was 15 miles away, but nothing else was open, and we needed to warm up.
My wife, brilliant even when she's freezing (and has a bad cold) suggested I ask the team of workers down the road if they had any idea what time we could expect the lights to come back on. So I did.
I pulled up close to where your crews were working, just a few blocks from the house, walked over like I belonged and asked a nice, older man with glasses who seemed to be in charge if he knew the ETA on when our power would be restored. I was surprised by the response.
"The power's out up there?"
"Yeah, has been all day, since about 3."
"The power's out here (pointing to the house a few feet away)."
"It's also out at our house and all around it. If you go up a few blocks and take a right, you'll see none of the houses has power. It's completely dark."
"Well, we're not from this district, but we'll check it out."
"OK, thanks. We're running to Wal-Mart to get out of the cold. Hopefully this gets fixed soon."
We got back within an hour, disappointed to find the house still dark. So I hopped back into the car and sought out the crews again. I was told the power was turned back on as I was walking up to them.
Sure enough, when I got back this time, light. I walked through the door with a big smile on my face and started to dig through the refrigerator (which thankfully was still relatively cold). You can guess what happened next.
Back out I went. This time, I noticed the crews were sitting in their trucks. At least somebody was keeping warm. I was told a fuse must have blown and it was being checked out. I stormed off.
About 20 minutes later, about 1:30, as we lay in bed under every blanket in the house, the lights went on. This time, for good. I was finally able to make a sandwich. It was 10 hours after the initial outage. It was 48 degrees.
The kicker to all this, though, is that we went an entire day without power, but still ended up paying for it because the emergency heat immediately kicked in when the power was restored. Wonderful.
Sincerely,
An average customer
Dad
Monday, February 3, 2014
The naked truth
Case,
You have become adept at removing your diaper and even more adept at going about your daily routine without it. Nothing makes you happier these days than flinging off your diaper and running around the house while grinning maniacally. You even spent the day doing this at Grandma Richards' recently, and that is something we may need to talk about.
We allow this practice at times as part of potty training, but I'm starting to think you're taking advantage of us. I go into your room each night to check on you after you fall asleep, and WITHOUT FAIL these days, you're lying there naked. You do allow me (or your mom if she's the unlucky one doing a 1 a.m. bed check) to put on a new diaper (or just put the old one back on, but don't tell your mom I said that) without waking up, although I get the feeling you may actually be awake and just enjoy hearing your dad curse.
But while the nocturnal diaper changings are somewhat annoying for me, I've become much better at avoiding strategically placed choo-choos on my path to your crib, so the process has become pretty efficient and rarely painful. To be honest, as long as you're sleeping peacefully at night, changing a diaper on the fly is a small price to pay. The alternative is you jumping for hours into the early a.m. while your mom and I curse you and your energy — in the most loving way, of course.
I want to tell you to cut this out and stop rolling around in all your glory on all the furniture, but you're 2. There will be plenty of opportunities later in life to be naked, and many of those have the potential to cause you great embarrassment and/or possible incarceration. It's best to get it out of your system now. So, with all apologies to your mom and her bed spreads, partake in what makes you happy. Enjoy life while it remains free of self-concisousness and social constraints.
Love,
Dad
You have become adept at removing your diaper and even more adept at going about your daily routine without it. Nothing makes you happier these days than flinging off your diaper and running around the house while grinning maniacally. You even spent the day doing this at Grandma Richards' recently, and that is something we may need to talk about.
We allow this practice at times as part of potty training, but I'm starting to think you're taking advantage of us. I go into your room each night to check on you after you fall asleep, and WITHOUT FAIL these days, you're lying there naked. You do allow me (or your mom if she's the unlucky one doing a 1 a.m. bed check) to put on a new diaper (or just put the old one back on, but don't tell your mom I said that) without waking up, although I get the feeling you may actually be awake and just enjoy hearing your dad curse.
But while the nocturnal diaper changings are somewhat annoying for me, I've become much better at avoiding strategically placed choo-choos on my path to your crib, so the process has become pretty efficient and rarely painful. To be honest, as long as you're sleeping peacefully at night, changing a diaper on the fly is a small price to pay. The alternative is you jumping for hours into the early a.m. while your mom and I curse you and your energy — in the most loving way, of course.
I want to tell you to cut this out and stop rolling around in all your glory on all the furniture, but you're 2. There will be plenty of opportunities later in life to be naked, and many of those have the potential to cause you great embarrassment and/or possible incarceration. It's best to get it out of your system now. So, with all apologies to your mom and her bed spreads, partake in what makes you happy. Enjoy life while it remains free of self-concisousness and social constraints.
Love,
Dad
A bunch of crop
Case,
If a job or profession you undertake involves dealing with the placement of photographs on paper, the Internet, etc., please learn how to crop them and save your father from more swearing.
Love,
Dad
If a job or profession you undertake involves dealing with the placement of photographs on paper, the Internet, etc., please learn how to crop them and save your father from more swearing.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, January 16, 2014
A brush with toothpaste (and paint)
Case,
This afternoon, before I left for work and after I told you multiple times not to go into the bathroom, I found you in the bathroom painting. As I mentioned previously, I don't want to stunt your creative development, so I ignored the fact you didn't listen to me and let you do your thing. Plus, you were wearing pants, and that's a victory in itself. I didn't want to push it.
As you painted, I started to brush my teeth. You immediately noticed this and wanted in on the action. You love to brush your teeth. Absolutely love it. It's quite shocking how much you love to brush your teeth. You normally end up in front of the mirror in your room brushing your teeth because you get kicked out of the bathroom after 5 minutes or so. You love brushing your teeth. So it was no surprise that you would want to join me in a mutual brushing of teeth. It was however, a bit of a surprise when you looked down at the paint brush you held in your hand, smiled and shoved it into your mouth. Oddly, this didn't seem to bother you. It did bother me, so I quickly removed the paint brush from your mouth, took you out of the shower stall you had been decorating and placed you on the step stool in front of the sink. I then grabbed your toothbrush (By the way, stop using mine; not cool) and put the tiniest amount of regular toothpaste on it. You've expressed your displeasure with the hard stuff previously, but I figured it might be a welcome change since you just shoved a brush full of paint in your mouth.
I was wrong. You flipped out. You screamed, you cried, you flailed for your tongue as if you just ate a dozen habaneros and chased them with turpentine. I calmed you down, washed out your mouth (again), cleaned off your toothbrush and gave it back. You stepped down from the stool and ran right to the mirror in your bathroom to finish your business.
Maybe we'll try putting a little paint on the toothbrush tomorrow. But don't tell your mother.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I got a call from said mother on the way to work and she let me know that she came upon you in the living room, flat on your back, attempting to change your own diaper. She found the one you had been wearing in the garbage. Niiiiiiiice.
This afternoon, before I left for work and after I told you multiple times not to go into the bathroom, I found you in the bathroom painting. As I mentioned previously, I don't want to stunt your creative development, so I ignored the fact you didn't listen to me and let you do your thing. Plus, you were wearing pants, and that's a victory in itself. I didn't want to push it.
As you painted, I started to brush my teeth. You immediately noticed this and wanted in on the action. You love to brush your teeth. Absolutely love it. It's quite shocking how much you love to brush your teeth. You normally end up in front of the mirror in your room brushing your teeth because you get kicked out of the bathroom after 5 minutes or so. You love brushing your teeth. So it was no surprise that you would want to join me in a mutual brushing of teeth. It was however, a bit of a surprise when you looked down at the paint brush you held in your hand, smiled and shoved it into your mouth. Oddly, this didn't seem to bother you. It did bother me, so I quickly removed the paint brush from your mouth, took you out of the shower stall you had been decorating and placed you on the step stool in front of the sink. I then grabbed your toothbrush (By the way, stop using mine; not cool) and put the tiniest amount of regular toothpaste on it. You've expressed your displeasure with the hard stuff previously, but I figured it might be a welcome change since you just shoved a brush full of paint in your mouth.
I was wrong. You flipped out. You screamed, you cried, you flailed for your tongue as if you just ate a dozen habaneros and chased them with turpentine. I calmed you down, washed out your mouth (again), cleaned off your toothbrush and gave it back. You stepped down from the stool and ran right to the mirror in your bathroom to finish your business.
Maybe we'll try putting a little paint on the toothbrush tomorrow. But don't tell your mother.
Love,
Dad
P.S. I got a call from said mother on the way to work and she let me know that she came upon you in the living room, flat on your back, attempting to change your own diaper. She found the one you had been wearing in the garbage. Niiiiiiiice.
Monday, January 13, 2014
In the paint
Case,
I can't keep up with this running blog!
While you remain obsessed with "choo-choos" (ask me someday about the story your mother just told me on the phone, but ask me when no one is around), you recently took on a part-time job as an aspiring painter. Your newest hobby is awesome if for no other reason than it allows me to call you "PiCaseo," a play on words that makes your mother roll her eyes.
This is not only a creative endeavor, but a messy one, too. In addition to painting, you've also taken to rubbing anything that touches your hands into your hair. Luckily your paints are water-based and come out much easier than macaroni and cheese. Otherwise, you'd look like Dennis Rodman circa 1995. Not a good look, although much better than Dennis Rodman circa 2014. Who's Dennis Rodman? He's the greatest rebounding diplomat in American history.
Anyway, your painting jones seems to have started with a bathtub paint set you got for Christmas. You'll also paint in the living room, but you prefer the porcelain confines. So much that you are no longer content to just spend extra time painting during your nightly bath. You've learned how to open any door in the house (which is REALLY annoying), so you've randomly been walking into the bathroom and climbing into the shower stall to create. Day and night in all forms of dress. Pants, no pants, naked. Your mom doesn't like you wearing your shoes in the tub, but other than that, I think it's great that you're an unencumbered artist. No reason to stifle that, right?
Now, to make your mother's eyes roll even more, I've noticed that you gravitate toward a certain color. Given that proclivity, I am now deeming this portion of your young life the "Blue Period," and it's a trend I hope continues because it's infinitely preferable to your previous work, which we all know by now as the "Poo Period."
Keep up the good work, son!
Love,
Dad
I can't keep up with this running blog!
While you remain obsessed with "choo-choos" (ask me someday about the story your mother just told me on the phone, but ask me when no one is around), you recently took on a part-time job as an aspiring painter. Your newest hobby is awesome if for no other reason than it allows me to call you "PiCaseo," a play on words that makes your mother roll her eyes.
This is not only a creative endeavor, but a messy one, too. In addition to painting, you've also taken to rubbing anything that touches your hands into your hair. Luckily your paints are water-based and come out much easier than macaroni and cheese. Otherwise, you'd look like Dennis Rodman circa 1995. Not a good look, although much better than Dennis Rodman circa 2014. Who's Dennis Rodman? He's the greatest rebounding diplomat in American history.
Anyway, your painting jones seems to have started with a bathtub paint set you got for Christmas. You'll also paint in the living room, but you prefer the porcelain confines. So much that you are no longer content to just spend extra time painting during your nightly bath. You've learned how to open any door in the house (which is REALLY annoying), so you've randomly been walking into the bathroom and climbing into the shower stall to create. Day and night in all forms of dress. Pants, no pants, naked. Your mom doesn't like you wearing your shoes in the tub, but other than that, I think it's great that you're an unencumbered artist. No reason to stifle that, right?
Now, to make your mother's eyes roll even more, I've noticed that you gravitate toward a certain color. Given that proclivity, I am now deeming this portion of your young life the "Blue Period," and it's a trend I hope continues because it's infinitely preferable to your previous work, which we all know by now as the "Poo Period."
Keep up the good work, son!
Love,
Dad
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Well, that didn't last long
Case,
Three days into the challenge of writing a blog entry every day and I forgot to write one Friday, Then I forgot to write something before midnight Saturday and all of a sudden I'm two days behind. So new terms: 365 entries in 2014. That's the adjusted goal. Let's hope I don't have to come up with 186 entries at some point in November.
I'm going to blame the first day of the playoffs for tonight's forgetfulness. I got all caught up in a wild 28-point comeback by Andrew Luck and the Colts against the Chiefs. Not too surprising that the Chiefs choked; that's what they do. Then again, when Luck goes down as the next John Elway, the collapse won't look so bad. The second game wasn't as thrilling, but it came down to the last play. The Saints won on a field goal as time expired against the Eagles after Drew Brees led his team down the field in the final minutes. Three things you need to know about Drew Brees: This was his first career road playoff win; no quarterback ever got more out of his abilities; and he saved New Orleans four years after Hurricane Katrina.
When I started typing this, you were still jumping in your crib in the middle of the night. And now I just heard you again. Gotta be honest, son, this staying up past midnight is an annoying trend. You're 2. Go to bed.
The plan is to take you out to breakfast in the morning and let your mom sleep in. But if you don't go to bed soon, you'll be sleeping on my shoulder through the whole meal.
On second thought, that would make a good blog entry, See ya in seven hours!
Love,
Dad
Three days into the challenge of writing a blog entry every day and I forgot to write one Friday, Then I forgot to write something before midnight Saturday and all of a sudden I'm two days behind. So new terms: 365 entries in 2014. That's the adjusted goal. Let's hope I don't have to come up with 186 entries at some point in November.
I'm going to blame the first day of the playoffs for tonight's forgetfulness. I got all caught up in a wild 28-point comeback by Andrew Luck and the Colts against the Chiefs. Not too surprising that the Chiefs choked; that's what they do. Then again, when Luck goes down as the next John Elway, the collapse won't look so bad. The second game wasn't as thrilling, but it came down to the last play. The Saints won on a field goal as time expired against the Eagles after Drew Brees led his team down the field in the final minutes. Three things you need to know about Drew Brees: This was his first career road playoff win; no quarterback ever got more out of his abilities; and he saved New Orleans four years after Hurricane Katrina.
When I started typing this, you were still jumping in your crib in the middle of the night. And now I just heard you again. Gotta be honest, son, this staying up past midnight is an annoying trend. You're 2. Go to bed.
The plan is to take you out to breakfast in the morning and let your mom sleep in. But if you don't go to bed soon, you'll be sleeping on my shoulder through the whole meal.
On second thought, that would make a good blog entry, See ya in seven hours!
Love,
Dad
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Milk
Case,
Judging by your pound-a-day cheese habit, you're not lactose intolerant, which means you can spend your lifetime enjoying the greatest beverage of them all — milk.
Now, just as with any kind of drinking, there are rules when it comes to milk:
1) ALL milk is good. Skim. 1 percent. 2 precent. Whole. (Note: Buttermilk is not milk; I don't know what it is, but it was invented by the Obama administration to soften Americans up, so avoid it.)
2) The colder the milk, the better.
3) Milk is at its best when consumed from the container in which it was bought. This is a fact that will horrify most women in your life, but don't listen to them; they don't understand. It's science. Milk was intended to be chugged in the middle of the kitchen with the refrigerator door wide open. Wearing sweatpants is optional, but encouraged, for this activity. Aside from the taste, the primary benefit to drinking milk this way is that it prevents others from drinking it. Remember, it's YOUR milk. Drink it the way God intended.
Love,
Dad
Judging by your pound-a-day cheese habit, you're not lactose intolerant, which means you can spend your lifetime enjoying the greatest beverage of them all — milk.
Now, just as with any kind of drinking, there are rules when it comes to milk:
1) ALL milk is good. Skim. 1 percent. 2 precent. Whole. (Note: Buttermilk is not milk; I don't know what it is, but it was invented by the Obama administration to soften Americans up, so avoid it.)
2) The colder the milk, the better.
3) Milk is at its best when consumed from the container in which it was bought. This is a fact that will horrify most women in your life, but don't listen to them; they don't understand. It's science. Milk was intended to be chugged in the middle of the kitchen with the refrigerator door wide open. Wearing sweatpants is optional, but encouraged, for this activity. Aside from the taste, the primary benefit to drinking milk this way is that it prevents others from drinking it. Remember, it's YOUR milk. Drink it the way God intended.
Love,
Dad
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
One down, 364 to go
Case,
I came across a suggestion the other day that one's New Year's resolution should be to write every day. It reminded me that I started this blog with that very idea. I was going to write every day about parenthood, life lessons, football, music, etc. Well, the thing about parenthood is that it quickly taught me this lesson: I don't have the time and/or energy to keep up with this blog every day. Hell, there are a not insignificant amount of days each year in which I am so harried and lost in thought that I simply forget to eat during the course of the day.
But …
I need a challenge.
So …
I'm going to resolve right here, right now to write something, anything on this blog every single day of 2014.
Let's see how this goes.
Love,
Dad
I came across a suggestion the other day that one's New Year's resolution should be to write every day. It reminded me that I started this blog with that very idea. I was going to write every day about parenthood, life lessons, football, music, etc. Well, the thing about parenthood is that it quickly taught me this lesson: I don't have the time and/or energy to keep up with this blog every day. Hell, there are a not insignificant amount of days each year in which I am so harried and lost in thought that I simply forget to eat during the course of the day.
But …
I need a challenge.
So …
I'm going to resolve right here, right now to write something, anything on this blog every single day of 2014.
Let's see how this goes.
Love,
Dad
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