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.