Numbers Game

On Dec. 16th of '11, I recall logging about 4 hours of sleep. That's because we just had our baby late that night. For the rest of that year and all of 2012 so far, I've been in this endless pursuit to catch up on sleep. It's as though the full nights sleep is 10 feet in front of me, but I'm sprinting toward it on a treadmill. 

Experienced parents say you never catch up (And they're always so happy to tell you. Almost like they're welcoming you to their side). I have found that by not anticipating catching up on sleep, it helps getting up in the morning easier. Progress.

That's where the numbers game starts, 0. 0 is the amount of sleep I've caught up on.

2 - The amount of times our child has fallen off a couch.

3 - The number of colds he has caught.

11 - Baby Einstein DVD's from the Library that are next to our TV.

5 - The amount of time - in minutes - Kicker can devote to a DVD now before he's distracted by something and walks away.

4 - The number of words I need to be an effective "Couch Parent". Here's how it works: sometimes I sit down with a good book or magazine. As Kicker wanders the home, instead of getting up, I just scream these four words in any order - Hey! No! Get! Good. 

Say he's screwing with the outlet in the wall. Rather than get up, I throw out, "Hey! Hey! No! Hey! Get! No! Hey! No! No!...............Good." Works about 5% of the time. Not a clever tactic.

1 million - close guess to the amount of diapers I've changed. Most of them full of yesterday's meal.

7 - How many days it takes us to watch a movie since we can't carve out 2 hours together.

300 - seconds it takes to get him into a car seat. 

And finally...

0 - again. But this time its the number of ways we would have done his first year different. It's been a trip. Can't wait for more.

27

Me: "I'm going to write a quick blog about my birthday tonight."

Her: "What are you going to write about? You didn't even do anything for your birthday."

If you would have asked 8-year old Matt what life would be like at 27, he would have said the following:

• in his 7th year playing for the Cleveland Indians
• have 7 World Series rings and 7 walk-off home runs to win them all
• have 100 acres of forest to romp around in
• own a boat
• drink a milk shake every day. 
• have an awesome wife 

Unfortunately, I'd tell young Matt that only one thing from the list is true today - and I'm not sure a two-person inflatable raft counts as a boat. 

Just playin'! My wife is my best friend and teaches me what selfless love looks like every day. She even approves of me using lame jokes on a public website at her expense. So we've got two things from that list. Not bad.

In 27 years so far, there haven't been any World Series appearances for me. And the closest brush with 100 acres of woods has been in a Winnie the Pooh book with the Kicker before bed. Maybe 8-year old me would be let down with himself 19 years ahead. 

But I would say a couple other things to him. Reading that book before bed will be one of the best parts of your day. And it may not be the World Series, but you'll be buying your son his first glove this winter. 

27 didn't meet all of the 8-year old expectations; it likely exceeded them. Looking forward to not meeting my 27-year old expectations of older versions of myself as well. 

It's a Nokona BC-1200C designed for infielders and pitchers. At a cool $260 it can be the Kickers first glove. Any contributions toward this mortgage glove payment can be forwarded to me. 

Sandy Came to Town

It's 6:20 on a Tuesday evening. Let me paint you a picture of what I'm looking at...

My wife is pressed against our patio door with her cell phone raised in the air searching for a trace of a signal to send a text. She keeps bringing it down to look at the screen, and then lifts it again to the sky in hopes of sending her message.

My 10 month old son is cradling an iPod touch as it plays the song Notorious B.I.G. He gives an occasional bounce up and down during the hook. 

We've arrived at this place because of one reason:  SANDY.

The name Sandy should have always remained associated with the great Cleveland Indians catcher of the '90's. But as a Hurricane that managed to affect Cleveland, Ohio, Sandy will be remembered as a super storm for a while.

On Monday afternoon I drove up to Lake Erie to see the storm. Crazy stuff. 

I also took a weak video. You'll have to excuse the quality. I was trying to not get blown off a cliff into a waterfall.

We lost 1/2 of our electricity. Our light bulbs work at about half-wattage, and none of our appliances work. But obviously the computer works. 

Here's the deal: between my wife being plastered to the window in search of cell signal, and my son clinging to one of the few battery operated devices we own, our family as a whole looks like a panicked mess without electricity. Meanwhile I've been setting up candle stations, carrying around my flashlight, and making sure I have my watch on at all times for accurate time readings. 

This is not typical for a Tuesday night. But it is kind of fun.

Fall Family Photo

We took a family portrait today. It doesn't look a lot like us, but it works.

You have dad on the left, mom on the right. Kicker is in the middle there.  And  baby boy due in February is next to him. 

We're a good looking family. What may surprise you is that the third-largest pumpkin is a lot of work to keep up with. When the second-largest pumpkin is working nights, the biggest pumpkin devotes 100% attention (99% if the Browns are on) to the third-largest one. 

All the attention makes it difficult to keep up with the site here. Fans of this blog hang anxiously in the balance to hear about our new adventures. When I do sit down at the computer, the third-largest pumpkin crawls with a vengeance across the living room floor and climbs up the chair I sit on. With his clammy hands, he then he smashes the corner of the keyboard where the Ctrl, Shift, Fn, and Caps Lock buttons are. 

Makes it tough to get any work done. Besides, what kid wants to see the back of his dad's head all evening? 

Here's to short posts and the autumn season.

Happy Fall. Be sure to enjoy.

Bash Brothers

The above image is of our newest baby. Taken today. 

For years I've seen ultrasound pictures of babies and pretended to know what I was looking at. "Oh that's cool," I'd say; when all I really saw was a Rorschach image of indefinable black and white shapes. 

Now I know what to look for. In today's case, we were looking for the gender.

To help those who still view rolls of ultrasound images as some kind of parents-only inside joke, I've added a creative border. In this case, the border is to aid in the announcement of our baby's gender. 

I thought about posting the picture of him with his legs spread and the ultrasound tech's caption that said "It's a Boy!" accented by a little tiny hand pointing at the definable quality. But I didn't want to start this kid's life off by posting a photo of his member online. 

We're very excited. Kicker has a little brother who has yet to earn a name. The evidence on the ultrasound picture was unmistakable, but we asked the doctor just to be sure.

"You're positive it's a boy?" We asked.
To which he answered, "If it ends up being a girl, it'll be a big surprise."

We've been surprised enough in the past year-and-a-half; don't push us.

The Night the Keys Got Locked in the Car

An Ode to Spare Keys

The plan was simple: take the baby to the mall, and walk for a while. The weather was cold and rainy, and he had just been given a shot at the doctor's office earlier. To alleviate a cranky baby  and dodge miserable weather, the mall would be a fine distraction.

But instead of just going up to the mall, we ended up picking a fight with higher forces of irony for the better part of 2 hours. 

We went down to the car. When I unlocked the door, I placed the keys in the ignition and went to get the baby in the car seat. Problem #1 - there was no car seat. No car seat = no safe transportation. Although I admit to debating using multiple bungees and a makeshift cushion; I quickly dismissed the notion.

(This must be the most horrendously boring story to someone without a kid. But these are the dilemmas. I used to think car seats were baskets for transporting children. Now I realize there are 9 stages of them, each required by law, and at times make you feel like you're strapping John Glenn into his space ship to orbit the earth.) 

I made quick Plan B for the evening since we couldn't go to the mall. Problem was, my mind was so enamored with devising the back up plan that my physical body went into auto-pilot. Next thing I knew, all my car doors were shut, locked, and I didn't have keys to get into the car, or the apartment building. 

Things escalated quickly.

"No problem," I said out loud. I can get the spare car key out of the apartment. Problem is, my apartment keys were attached to the car keys, attached to the ignition, attached to the locked car.

I did what any self-confident and in control 26 year old would do. I called my mom. Months previous to this she worked vigilantly trying to get an extra set of apartment keys from the leasing office. She was over babysitting from time to time and needed a set to get in and out of the building when she took the baby out. 

Brrrrrrriiiiinnnnnnggggg....

"Mom," I said. "You don't happen to have that spare set of keys to the apartment..." And then I realized the forces of irony were working their magical spells. 

You see, when my mom was able to get the spare set of keys months ago, I convinced her that the smart thing to do would leave that set in the apartment for any baby-sitter to use. It wouldn't make sense for her to have them solely in her possession - until 7:03pm on a cold, rainy Tuesday night. 

There we sat, Dad and Son. Locked out of our transportation, and locked out of our shelter. We felt like two great warriors sent off to test the limits of our patience and will. We soon managed to get into our apartment building, but still were unable to get into our actual suite. Together we sat in the lobby. That's when the Kicker thought it would be a good time to play the "Ohh-look-my-high-pitched-scream-echoes-really-well-in-here" game. 

All I had left to do was call our building's after-hours line to get someone to come unlock our suite door. Should have been an easy task. But I had to call from my 4-year old, 99 cent with the contract phone that I brag to all smart phone users still works like the day I bought it. But this day, it must have used up it's last cent in value. I attempted 9 calls (literally) to the after-hours manager and the call dropped mid-conversation each time. 

By the tenth call, I spoke so fast to cram in a distress signal about being locked out without trying to be cut off again. After a colorful two hours, we were back in the apartment, and in our suite. As of tonight, my keys sit idly by positioned in the ignition of a car that is locked. 

But Father Irony wasn't done. I checked to make sure we still had our spare set of apartment keys. The key chain on the spare set of keys stood as a final punch in the nose of my pride. "Worlds Greatest Mom" it read. It was like she knew.

The Afternoon I Kicked Johnny

It rained all day today. 

The rain makes it difficult to leave our 750 sq. ft. apartment for a more open place to play. That small square footage can get boring after a while. When we can't go outside, the Kicker gets cranky, and I have to be creative when finding things to do. 

To combat the effects of boredom, I set up the Johnny Jump Up. This contraption clamps to the top of a door frame and has a baby seat at the bottom. Above the baby seat is a spring. This allows the baby to jump up and down in the seat. 

What Johnny doesn't tell you is that it's next to impossible to get a baby in the seat without the help of four other people. I stood next to Johnny Jump Up holding my baby under his armpits trying to position his feet into the two leg holes. When I swung the Kicker left, Johnny went right, when I swung him right, Johnny went left. 

This showdown went on for a while. With every second that passed, my patience grew thinner. When Johnny wouldn't cooperate, I sat the baby down away from the scene. I turned back to Johnny, stepped and planted my left foot in the carpet, and with a long swooping motion that would have booted a Super Bowl winner, I kicked Johnny square in the seat. 

It wasn't a malicious move. There wasn't hate involved. It was more to prove a point that I wouldn't be bested by a child's toy. 

As it turns out, I regretted that kick the second I made contact with the Jumper. I'm not sure when Evenflo started making their products out of titanium carbide, but my right foot screamed for mercy immediately. 

I tried standing up and acting like everything was cool, but I dropped to the floor with my head grimacing in pain right next to my seated child. He can't talk yet, but his face seemed to say, "Hey Dad, look at us! We're both on the floor together now." 

We left his bedroom and went into the living room. I started immediate medical treatment. 

Witness this: the only time broccoli gets used in this household.

As I continue to nurse my wounds - more pride than foot - the lesson seems painfully obvious: You can't be aggressive toward inanimate objects in front of your child. The kid has to see a dad who's more in control I think. Not my brightest moment, but hopefully the last like that. 

13 Down, 27 Left

As is custom on select Monday evenings, some form of a Bachelor spin-off illuminates the living room and I seek the written word to escape. Even though I'd prefer to spend the next two hours distracted by writing instead of watching the glamorization of one-night stands, hook-ups, and shallow love, I have only a single picture to bring that summarizes the day:

That is our 8 month old looking at - and crinkling - the picture of his 13 week old sibling. It wasn't long ago when that 8 month old was only visible as a black & white image on photo paper too. It only took 14 months for things to come full circle. I think they're already making a connection. 

Breaking News

This will have to be a hasty post. I've got a 7 month old tearing into an 8-pack of paper towels like it's Christmas morning, and my wife is inviting me to the 2 hour season premier of Bachelor Pad after making me sit through a 3 hour season finale of the Bachelorette last night. Bliss.

Ever build a sandcastle at the beach? Invest enough time into the sand creation and you'll guard it from any potential threat that may knock it down. One thing you can't defend against is the incoming tide. The waves WILL have their way with the sandy fortress. It's frustrating. All the time put into building the castle now feels like a waste. 

But the next time you build a sand castle, it's always better than the last. That's because you learn from the last castle. The new castle will have stronger walls, better shaped windows, and sturdier bridges. 

That's what I've learned in the last year. 

We had our plan set about how things were going to be - when to buy a house, where to work, weekly routine, etc. - but then we got a shocking surprise with a baby on the way. Plans changed.

Then the baby arrived and we went into a prevent defense. Had to think on our toes and not give up any big plays. We gave up our pre-baby routine for a new one. Plans changed.

We're finally getting comfortable with the baby and how to raise a child. It's a trip. We have our routine set, made financial strategies, and are finally (yes it takes a while, esp. for me) coming to terms with the new baby lifestyle. But then...Plans changed again.

We visited the doctor today to confirm the positive result on that pregnancy test. And we've got a new baby on the way. The Kicker will show his kicking ways to a younger sibling!

The tide came in. The waves wrecked our old sandcastle. All that hard work just to have to build a new one. 

Our plans are like sandcastles. Both get broken down and have to be rebuilt. But that's the best part. They get rebuilt stronger every time they get made over. Here's to new sandcastles and new plans!

"Time To Sit Back And Unwind..."

It took 21 years, but I finally downloaded DJ Jazzy Jeff and Will Smith's 'Summertime' off Amazon to set the tone for the coming months. 


There have always been difficult decisions to make during the summer: Which trail would be the best to run? What day of the week looks best to kayak? How often should sunscreen be applied? And more. 


My favorite summer to-do: sitting on the balcony watching the sky change.

Just give me a call before you stop by. 

This summer, things look different. It's not a decision of which trail to run, but if I'll have time to run at all. Believe it or not, I can't find a life jacket for a 6 month old; let alone anyone to give me permission to take him out on the lake. And my sunscreen is an afterthought compared to making sure the baby has enough on all the time.


I spent a few months  - and still do sometimes - sulking about how I can't run, workout, swim, bike, and watch my TV shows the same anymore. In between my tantrums, I sought out some advice that could help me cope. A few good friends shared their thoughts. 


Sacrifice is what we do out of love. Sacrifice is not saying farewell to the things I enjoy because I was forced to; it's giving up what I used to do and exchanging them for the new experiences because love makes it worth it. And it absolutely does make it worth it. 

We're off to a good start.

The Night It Was Gonna Go Down

Falling asleep is sometimes difficult. After reading and turning off the light, I usually lay awake thinking about my job, workouts, running, projects, things to do, family/friends, etc. Since the baby though, my mind has often been enamored with "what to do" situations. I like to run situations through my head and think about how I would respond. Usually they involve how I would react if something threatening affected my family. I use those thoughts as practice.

On a night a few weeks ago, we didn't need to the baby monitor to know that something was wrong with the baby. As my body and mind both synced into a good rest, I was rattled awake by the most awful and loud cry from the baby room.

I had never heard this cry from him before. It was shrill. It was sudden. There was no build to it, only an immediate high pitched and loud cry. It instantly woke me and my wife. 

We are both constantly on edge when he's sleeping in his crib. We've heard stories of SIDS and of babies being hurt in the middle of their sleep. Sleeping 7 hours with a baby one room over and sleeping 7 hours with no baby are two different 7 hour sleeps. Our bodies physically learned that we have to be connected to the kid.

This alarming scream in the middle of the night put me into protector mode. Let me describe how my body reacted to it.

When the scream happened, my mind woke up before my eyes opened. My mind thought quick: my baby is in trouble and I got to fix this. I immediately envisioned someone lifting the kid out of his crib and either wanting to take off with him, or hurt him. Still before my eyes were open, I decided that someone will be hurt as a result. Either I'm going to be a bloody mess trying to save my child, or some stranger was going to spend the duration it took police to get here as my personal speed bag. Either result, I was OK with. 

Adrenaline surged. My eyes shot open, and I ripped the covers off my body at exactly the same time. I took only two steps from the bed to our door. I peered into the hallway expecting to see a stranger with my baby, but I kept my torso out of visibility and used my off hand to hold my now-track-star wife from sprinting into a potentially threatening situation. 

I used my left hand to feel along the dark hallway walls and approached the door to the baby room. With the same posture, I looked into the baby's room again holding back my frantic wife. I didn't see anyone. But I still wasn't satisfied. Wife tended to the crying child while I busted open closet doors looking for the crazy person who broke into my apartment. 

The whole first cry to being crib-side only took about 3 seconds. We've never moved so fast and smart. We looked like a two person SWAT team moving to take down a target. 

Turns out the Kicker does this in his sleep every so often. He simply breaks out into a horrifying cry and just needs a second to gather himself before he falls back asleep. 

I don't remember past events well. My memory is mostly foggy. The events I remember best in my past are the events when most of my senses were engaged. That cry lit up my 5 senses and then some I didn't know I had. 

This story has more worth than just exchanging at a family party. The moment I heard that cry and decided that I was both fine with being fatefully harmed or reigning down my 156 lbs. of fury on someone for the sake of protecting my family, I felt proud. Not look-at-me proud. But self-reflectively proud that all those times I sat awake thinking about what I should do for my family, I am willing to do for them. 

First Tribe Game

This was a big day for our family. The Kicker made it to his first Cleveland Indians game ever. He was even awarded this certificate in honor of the occasion. 

The Tribe went on to win this game in a fun way. This will be the first of many games I hope. Maybe the next thing Shapiro signs for him will be a contract. 

Dynamic Duo

I've wanted to post this one for a while. There's always an encyclopedia of excuses, so I'll spare those and just move on.


A few weeks ago, me and Wife took our baby Kicker to his first NBA game. We got free tickets for some good seats. The baby is no extra cost as long as he can sit on our lap (he better get used to it too, he'll be sitting on my lap as a 17 year old as long as he's free to games). This outing was going to prove more difficult than other public ventures we've tried. This time, we couldn't take a stroller or car seat. He could only be carried.


We parked far from the stadium where the rates were lower (can you tell I'm cheap yet?). It's a long haul to the arena. I volunteered to carry the kid the whole time while my wife was in charge of the diaper bag. Not that she's insufficient, but I felt more secure navigating him through the downtown crowds.


As we entered the Q (Cavs arena), things got tricky. I had to get my card swiped for our tickets to print out, then grab an information guide, and weave through a crowded team shop. It's difficult enough to do that with keys in your hand let alone a baby. 


There's a strategy to maneuvering through the crowded corridors of arenas. You can either go with the flow, or you can make the flow. We dictate the flow of the crowd in this family. But it requires one person in front blazing a trail, while the others follow close behind in a single file line. Since it was only the three of us - and one was being carried - this wasn't too difficult a task. 


I stepped in front to blaze the trail while Wife secured the back of the line. She remained about 3 paces behind me as we spanned half of the oval hall of the arena. As we were hustling to our seats, I couldn't help but notice all the looks our awake, and very alert baby boy was getting. Many of the Cleveland ladies found him to be worth slowing down for and admiring as he passed. He even evoked a lot of "awwwww" noises as well. 


What can I say, this 4 month old is a stud. 


The game was fun. And the baby managed to stay awake for most of it. The Cavs lost, but there's always next year right?


On the walk out of the arena, much of the same female attention took place. A lot of lingering looks and smiles to the little guy. My concern remained on navigating my family through the flow.


The quite ride home got interrupted by a comment from my wife:
Her -"Did you notice all those girls looking at him tonight?"
Me -"Yeah, he's quite the attention grabber."
Her -"Anything else you notice?"
Let me translate that question for you: I'm thinking of something you're supposed to say, so you better come forth and say it. I respond with the only thing I can think of.
Me -"Looks like the Cavs are in position to get another high draft pick this year."
Of course that's not it, but I'm not into these games.
Her -"Did you see how those girls were looking at you too?"
I'll be honest, I've forgotten what it was to be checked out by the ladies. That sense of  awareness died years ago when we were dating. But I couldn't waste this opportunity...
Me -"Ohh now that you mention it, yes I do."
Her - "Every single time...they look at him, then they looked at you like 'Oh look at this guy with the cute baby.' I tried catching up to you guys but you were going too fast. I was way behind you guys so they didn't see me with you, so they were like, checkin you out."


Maybe that was part of the plan.


In all realness here, is anyone surprised? I mean, you got the most handsome 4 month old on the planet working his stuff. He's being carried by his dad who has what Men's Health calls the "slight scruff" facial hair which is the style most desired by women (http://blogs.menshealth.com/style-news/fashion-for-your-face/2012/04/05/). Deadly combination. A true unstoppable force.


Looks like I've found my new partner in crime. We'll let momma stay at home and relax; catch up on some sleep while we go out and run errands. Maybe me and the kid will hit up the local restaurant scene or explore the parks. 

That's Not Us

Of course you've thought it. I have. We all have. No, I'm not talking about wondering if it's possible to jump from the roof with a garbage bag and float down. I'm talking about when you're in a public place and a noisy baby ruins your whatever-you-were-doing experience. You immediately thought, 'Come on. This is no place for a baby. Please get out.'


My wife read the Hunger Games books and was excited when we got a movie gift certificate for Easter. In less than 24 hours, we were on our way to the movie theater to see the $300 million sensation. I thought this was a bit unfair. The last 4 movies we've seen at the theater were all her choices. Most recently topped off with The Vow. I don't think I've had the privilege of picking a movie since we checked out 'Notorious' from the library. 


Wife decided to take the baby with us. I didn't like this idea at all. Mostly for the reason mentioned in the first paragraph. I didn't want people thinking 'Why would you bring a baby into a movie?' Like most cases, she wasn't changing her mind.  


What's one thing everyone does before going to the movies? You stock your pockets with snacks. (Don't act like you haven't. The only movie theaters this is detrimental to is drive in theaters. They show that scary video about them shutting down if you don't buy snack there.) I packed 3 organic carrots and a Malley's Pretzel Chocolate bar. They didn't fit in my pockets - so I put them in the baby carrier. After hauling that thing around for months it's finally starting to pay dividends. 


As usual, I finished all my snacks before the end of the third preview. I was very nervous of the Kicker having an outburst. He doesn't know you have to be quiet in a theater. He knows only one thing: "I need something, make noise." I was on edge the whole time. This was the only time I've ever been to a theater hoping there would be someone obnoxious there. Anyone to take away the attention away from our inevitable baby outburst.


No sooner did Katniss volunteer in her sisters place did Kicker fall asleep. He made it through the whole movie without waking up. Not one sound. All this worrying about if he would be fussy and distract viewers for naught. 


Matt, Wife, and Kicker: coming to a theater near you. 

Pushed In

What is your choice method of getting into water? Pool. Ocean. Lake. River. Doesn't matter. When you stand at the cusp of a body of water, how do you prefer to get in? I think there are three methods. 


1. Inch-by-Inch. There are those who prefer to take things slow. This is the person at the beach who puts their feet in the sand where the waves crawl up. They spend the next 10 minutes surveying the scene like a lifeguard. After a while they'll go ankle deep. Then they go waist deep but still keep their arms hoovering above the water. They do that perfectly timed half-jump over the wave so not to get the water higher than their arm pit line. Takes about 45 minutes, but the inch-by-inchers soon find themselves submerged.


2. All At Once. These people are funny to watch. Before jumping in, they take off their sunglasses and watches so fast you'd think they're on fire. Almost like it's a race to jump in. Hot water. Cold water. It makes no difference. These people will negotiate the shock of the water temperature when they're in it. 


3. Pushed In. These people don't have much of a choice of how they're going to get in the water. They stand at the edge reaching in to grab the pool thermometer, or a stray noodle; then find themselves (and cell phones) trying to negotiate which way is up from the bottom of a pool. When someone is pushed in, they have to figure out how to handle the situation whether they like it or not.


Wife went back to work because her 12 weeks of maternity is up. She's got overnights and that means I've got the Kicker to myself for 36 hours a week. I spend all day at work and have to hustle home so she can catch some sleep before her shift starts. She leaves. Then she's back home in time so I can go to work. I confidently reassured her that everything would be fine while she was gone. But I sat up a while those first nights trying to negotiate in my head if I could handle a kid by myself for three nights a week.


We were pushed in the pool. We didn't really have a chance to step in a little at a time, or slowly get used to a new routine. And we certainly didn't jump willfully in to the new routine either. The dictating conditions pushed us in to the pool of our new routine. Now it's up to us to figure out which way is up and adjust accordingly. 


Thankfully, we manage. While adjusting was difficult at first, we've settled in to something that works. Me and the Kicker waste evenings away learning Free Falling on the guitar - he sings backup. Then we catch episodes of Lock Up on Netflix every morning. Wife wants to make up all the time she missed during her days off, and that gives her a chance to be with him. 


Despite the shock of being pushed in, we've surfaced. And the water's fine. Perfect time for a swim. 

Photo Day

Getting pictures done at studio. Don't know what's worse, this or death. 

That was the text I sent to a friend as me, Wife, and the Kicker sat waiting to be called for our time slot at the picture studio. The comparison to death was simply an exaggeration. It may border on being tasteless, but in an emotionally charged comment to a friend, it conveyed the point. After I sent that text, I stuffed my phone away, not to look at it again until after we left the photo studio.

(This pic will make sense later.)

I didn't even have a choice of what to wear. It was a small knock to my 26yr old pride being told how to dress. Admittedly, it was nice not having to stare at my closet for 15 minutes expecting the correct clothes to jump out at me like I do every morning. 

The problem I have of getting pictures by a professional in a studio dates back to my senior year of high school. The rules of high school dictates that all seniors have to get these pictures done their last year. That's fine. Except my pictures were all awkward and unnatural poses. I look back at those pics now and don't remember the final year of high school, just my distaste for someone who tells me how to position my limbs so that it's uncomfortable and painful. From that moment I knew I was the opposite of photogenic, and the goofy poses just make it worse. 

It's been 9 years since that day. But some things never change. The photographer began, "Ok dad, lets start with you." Don't mind if I do. He had me stand in the middle of the background, and began his description of my pose...

"I'm gonna have you sit here on the ground with your right leg bent and your left leg over top...no...other leg...just switch it around. There you go. Now pull your leg back a little bit...too far...perfect...and now your left leg will bend and the foot will rest right next to your right knee. No. No. Yes. Good. Don't move that. Now put your right arm back for support. Point your hand the other way. Nice. And move your other arm up. It doesn't look good....Perfect."

I'm sure that description was impossible to follow. It was for me too. To put it simply, I resembled Adam from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Here's a depiction...

I don't often hold conversations, or casually recline, or sit around the house in that pose. It felt weird and uncomfortable. And now my future grandchildren are going to think of their great-grandpa as a man who sat uncomfortably. 

If moving me into awkward poses wasn't enough, the photographer had the nerve to do that to my child. I dealt with the cream white beanbag chair he propped the Kicker on. I could even manage to get over the shirtless pose he did on silk covers and clouded background that made him look like a cherub. But I drew the line at the pose on his side with his legs out that made him looked like a beached merman. Too far. 


They sat us down to look at all the pictures. We all weeded through which ones were good, no good, and maybes. The photo man soon stopped after we looked through and said, "OK, 15 poses for $269...ready to checkout?"  Not so fast. I can get four seats behind home plate for cheaper than that and believe me, that's where I'd rather spend 269 bucks. Lets keep talking. 


We settled on our packages, then waited around for all the pics to be printed. They look great though - at least 2/3 of them look great. My wife and baby look excellent, but I tend to be the picture sabotage. Not on purpose. Just not photogenic. 


On the way out, I got a text back from my buddy from before. He said, You lose. Between not picking my clothes, posing like a nude painting, and spending triple digits on pictures, it does seem that way. But this is a pretty good looking combination.

Win.

Growth Spurt

I had to get a physical before basketball tryouts in 7th grade. It was a mandatory rule by the school that you had to pass a physical in order to play sports. The doc didn't find anything unusual, although it was my first turn-and-cough experience. He took my bp, looked in my ears, listened to something in my back with his stethoscope, tapped my knees for reflex, and looked in my mouth with a popsicle stick. It was as normal and routine as any visit.


This visit stands out though. Here's why. After everything was done, we had some Q&A. I don't remember how we got on this topic, but he said, "Yeah, it looks like you're going to grow slower than the rest of your friends. You may be smaller than most of them for a while." While I thought about all my buddies being taller than me playing basketball and being disappointed, I responded with a short, "Ok." And then a shy smile. 


There is no worse news for a 13 year old than to be told he will be the subject of short jokes for the next few years. As if middle school hadn't started hard enough for a shy guy, now I gotta deal with a delayed growth spurt. That'll be perfect for our trip to Six Flags at the end of the year and I'll be the only one not tall enough to ride all the rides. Nothing says confidence like being shorter than all the guys and girls in your grade. 
"Can you fit a person in these lockers?" 
"I don't know, let's see if Matt can fit in there." 
"Oh wow that does work!"
"Bell rang. Let's get to class."


"Umm....guys?"


Don't feel sorry though. I've become a fine, well-adjusted (claustrophobic) young man. 
_____________________________________


Every day I get home from work, it seems like our baby has grown so much. Almost like he's a bigger version of the him I left a few hours prior. I leave him as a baby, and I return to a...bigger baby. He's put on a few inches in the 2 months he's been here. His mom gets sad when she notices how fast he grows. She sees it too. He's never going to be a newborn again. When is he going to be too big to stop falling asleep on her chest. When will he grow out of grabbing my fingers while feeding him? You never get that stuff back. I think that thought is the hardest to deal with.



There is good news through all this sadness. At this rate, he should be about 8'3'' by 7th grade. No chance of him fitting in a locker then. He'll be a starter on the hoops team too. 

What's His Name?

Prior to 12:30 this afternoon, our son didn't officially have a name. The government would only recognize him as a number. After he was born, we were given simple instructions at the hospital: "When you are discharged, you'll have two weeks to send this form in and request a birth certificate. Any time after that, you'll have to pick one up at city hall."


3 months later we're navigating our way through one way streets, lunch time rushes, pedestrians, and medical mart construction to find a parking spot near city hall. We only had two singles and a quarter to pay for parking. After circling city hall like a buzzard on a wounded chipmunk, we found a willing garage: Parking - $2.25 for the first hour. Miraculous. 


We drove into the bowels of the underground garage. Our ticket was punched for 12:12pm. The clock was ticking. The sign may have promoted that there were spots available, but I was calling it's bluff. There were two types of spots to choose from: Ones marked "Reserved" and ones between two F-350 trucks. We sped around the two levels of the garage for a while and all I could see was that hour whittling away. Just as I contemplated taking a spot marked "Clerk of Courts",  we found a space.


As we strolled through the hallways to find the right office, I began conjuring up stories in my head to explain to the parking attendant why we were late. But we found our office. And that's when I was faced with a dilemma. 


While Wife attended the stroller, I was tasked with filling out the paperwork. The one line said: Child's...First_________ Middle __________ Last __________
In that moment, I felt powerful. I could have named him anything I wanted to. And the city people would have to accept. Of course we both agreed on a name months ago. And that's the same name everyone calls him. But it was up to me to transfer that name to legal paper. I was tempted to go another direction. How cool would it be to have a son with a name like...

• Tyrannosaurus Rex (who would mess with a kid named after the king dinosaur? A nickname would be obvious. "Hi, this is my son T-Rex.")
• Elvis Presley (picture the teacher going down the roll call on the first day of school in 7th grade and coming across that.)
• Thor (he would have to carry a hammer.)
• Simba (the problem would be finding a friend named Rafiki that would assist in presenting him to the people...and a huge rock to do that from.)
• George Washington (because I think it would be cool to say, "George Washington, stop hitting your sister!" Or, "Clean your room George Washington!")

I couldn't think long. Time was ticking if we were going to make it back within the hour. I reluctantly settled on the name we agreed upon months ago. We got the certificate, got back to the garage, and met the parking attendant. "Two-twenty five please," she said. 

Making it out with in the hour, having the exact amount of change, that's luck. Maybe we should have gone with the name "Rabbit Foot."

Any suggestions on what would have been other good names? 

Mardi Gras

-"You know what would be fun..."
-"What"
-"We should go down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras."
-"What brought that up?"
-"I don't know, it would be an experience...one of those things you have to try in your life."
(silence)
-"Can we afford it?"
-"I think."
-"Let's go then."




It took the length of that conversation to determine it was a worthwhile use of our time to drive 18 hours with some good friends to spend 3 days in the most densely visited destination from January - February. 


Here are some things we learned about the city of New Orleans based on experience:

• Fan boat tour guides from the Louisiana bayou keep alligators in the same kind of coolers that suburbanites from Ohio keep pop.
• The --- ------ --- --- ---- motel sees it fit not to clean behind the beds where previous guests leave small bags of illegal drugs. 
• New Orleans has some of the best live music performances ever.
• A burning car on the side of the road raises zero concern from the locals.
• Beneighs are not a suitable breakfast item...or nutritious item for any meal for that matter.
• Littering on the street is not a fine-able offense. 
• NOLA is a beautiful city.

We made those inferences this week three years ago on our trip to New Orleans.  And while our 1/2 week in the biggest party in the world at the time was devoid of debauchery, we still enjoyed the city. 

This week not only reminds me of how much fun it was to travel to the bayou, but how different travel is for us now. 

Here's what the above conversation would look like now...

-"You know what would be fun..."

-"What?"

-"We should go to Coco Beach."

-"That would be nice...but..."

-"But what?"

-"Do you think he'd be ok in the car for 14 hours?"

-"Ummmm...."

-"Is he even allowed to be in the sun for too long?"

-"I don't think, not sure..."

-"We'd have to pack a stroller, pack n' play, and his boppy pillow. Is there room in the car?"

-(silence)

-"How 'bout we just wait 'till the lake warms up."

So much for picking up and going. 

The 11-and-a-half pound addition to our family will make our travel strategies change. We can't just go on a whim. Or pack into a crowded city. Or stay at motels with drugs. Or fly through the bayou at 60mph on a boat. But, the Kicker is hardly a deterrent to good travel.

We get to start a new style of adventure. Bring on the fanny pack.  Let that camera hang off my neck. Let me use my last available pocket space for pacifiers. Show me the indoor attractions that allow strollers. 

We welcome the newest traveler and all the places we can go with him. Can't wait to see the world together. We'll teach him how to grow up with an appreciation of travel and culture. So here's to family vacations...and never allowing your child to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras...ever. 

Only for the confident, self-sure, sunglasses-attached-to-a-strap type. 

Vow This

Sucked in to go see The Vow.  I use that specific phrasing because there are some movies we have to go see whether I like it or not.  I knew this wasn't going to be a great movie watching experience the second I walked in. 


With half of the theater filled, I was the only guy, and we were the oldest people. Median age was about 13. What I couldn't figure out was what interest any 13 year olds would have in a movie about wedding vows. I was also bummed b/c there was no wi-fi connection there and I couldn't check on the Cavs game.


Finally, another guy walked in with his girlfriend. I wasn't alone. But he was 16 at best. I was still the senior of the room. I was afraid of being bombarded afterward to be the guy to buy everyone alcohol at the gas station across the street.


The previews started...then they never stopped. It was one preview after another. At one point I became very concerned. I leaned over to Wife and asked, "Did I pay $21 to come watch a bunch of previews or an actual movie?" It didn't stop there. The $21 previews couldn't even be enjoyed because of all the talking going on. It was a steady sound of murmuring in the background. That's fine, who doesn't enjoy a movie with the white noise of childhood chatter? 


When the movie started, Channing Tatum spent spent a decent amount of time with his shirt off. And now I see what interest 13 year old girls would have in this movie. My interest? None at all. As the movie progressed, there was plenty of opportunity for crying. The audience provided a swell surround sound experience of sniffles. Nothing says 'good time' like hearing 250 people simultaneously sniff their running noses. 


Throughout this whole movie I kept leaning over to tell Wife my newest observational complaints. She'd laugh and agree. We had a great time. By the end of the movie - and after my complaining was over - Wife shot in a slick comment: "You sounded like Dennis the Mennace's next door neighbor Mr. Wilson. Always grumping"


She was right. I immediately saw myself years ahead yelling at the neighbor kids to get off my lawn. That's not what I want. They should be able to use my yard to extend their Whiffle ball field.  Or use it for more space to toss the Frisbee. Or use it to play catch. 


But so help me, if they let their dog poop on my lawn.......

We Used To Throw Rocks

Far back as I remember, my pop would take us kids to the creek to throw rocks. Here's how it worked: Dad would drive us to a different area on the creek. He'd walk us to a bank on the river where there were thousands of rocks ripe for the throwing. Then he'd set a challenge. He'd say, "See that hole in the log across the river? First one to put a rock in it wins."


That's it. That's all that was needed to melt three hours off of a Saturday afternoon. The challenge would often change - hit the hanging branch, throw a rock into the pipe, hit the floating bottle, hit the sign, and so on. Then the throwing challenges would morph into rock-skipping contests. Most skips, highest skips, longest skip, and so on. 


We did this for years. My dad often cites those rock-throwing weekends for my proficiency of throwing a baseball. 


Then my mom did this other thing when we were young. She would lay on her back on the floor, put her feet on our stomach, grab our hands, and propel us into the air on her feet. Lying stomach down on her feet only a short distance off the floor was the biggest rush for a young tot. With her feet in our chest/stomach region, she'd bounce us up and down and pretend we were going to fall. Good times. 


We did this as long as I was small enough to balance up on my moms feet. My mom often cites those stomach bouncing times for my rock hard mid-section. Just playin'. Not hardly. 


Throwin' rocks at the creek, and bouncing my kid on my feet. 


Because those are two of my favorite youngster past times, I look forward to doing both with my own Kicker.


Curious: What have you passed down/will you pass down to your offsprings?