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

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.

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