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 his boring 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.