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.......