Published writer, compulsive reader, Old School Whovian, Match Game enthusiast, NKOTB fan, data hoarder, and - surprisingly, given that list - married with four kids. Welcome to my take on life, fatherhood, entertainment, and whatever strikes my fancy. Enjoy!
Not to radically change gears here, but check out this site. The operators of the blog gave out over 3000 postcards inviting people to submit a secret of theirs (anonymously). The results are posted on the site.
It's an interesting mix of regrets, triumphs, humor
and some very disturbing secrets:
Check it out and give me your opinion.
A Happy Easter to everyone!
For your blogging pleasure I present a holiday-inspired photo scheme, a sampling of this Holy Thursday's
Ninth Annual Bring Your Kids Over to Dan and Lisa's to Dye Massive Amounts of Easter Eggs Because Back In their Youth They Foolishly Thought They Couldn't Have Kids And Created An Annual Tradition to Bring the Joy of Children Into Their Lives, If Only for A Day, and Now Are Forced to Stand By the Fruits of This Foolish Belief
Virtually every kid we've known in the past decade has taken part in at least one year of the festivities, with my nephew Jonah racking up a Cal Ripken-like streak of nine consecutive starts.
This year went quicker than most, despite dyeing eight dozen eggs. Chalk that up to having two kids at the table nearing or at the decade mark.
As I explained to Jonah, it takes a little longer when the average age at the table is four, and half the eggs land on the floor . . .
I'm sure I'll burn in hell for this, but I present my easter tribute to Kurt Cobain:
and just some of the finished product, which is then distributed to family far and wide
and only mildly related, but worth a look anyway: this morning after church, we had a visitor at the breakfast table:
Again, Happy Easter!
This started off as a story to keep the kids occupied in the car, but it's grown quite a bit since then. Along with The Coffin Tale, The Pumpkin Story, and The Fuzzy tale, this one's in continuous circulation on our road trips.
and sometimes they get so cold they can't even move at all!
You know cars hate snow.
But do you know why snow hates cars?
It wasn't always that way.
Once upon a time, when the Great Snow King
ruled winter, cars and snow got along just fine.
The Great Snow King was called 'great' for a reason.
Oh, sometimes he sent cold, cold winds down from the North Pole
and he always made sure your parents had plenty of snow to shovel
But he also made sure kids had snow for sledding, and snow angels,
and snowball fights.
He always made sure there was snow for Christmas,
and if he was feeling super nice,
he'd send just enough snow to cancel school.
Now the Great Snow King had a son that was a snowman, and he wished more than anything that his boy would
someday be King.
His son The Snow Prince had other ideas.
He wanted to be an actor.
Of course, that was a silly wish, because snowmen do not become movie stars.
Except for one time.
This time.
Now, while the Snow Prince was dreaming about movies, a car was dreaming about something else.
His name was Jazz, and he was as brand-new as a car could be.
He was shiny and smooth, with big comfy seats and a powerful engine that went
"Vroom Vroom" as he went down the street.
Jazz wanted to be a race-car when he grew up, and he liked to drive fast. Too fast for the city, so he would go out to the country and go "zoom zoom" down the lonely roads.
That was how he met the Snow Prince.
It's not often you see a snowman in summer. Especially one who’s sled was stuck in the mud.
"Howdy partner. Need some help?" Jazz asked.
“Oh yes, sir, if you please,” The Snow Prince said, for he was nothing if not polite.
Quick as a jiffy, Jazz tied a rope to the sled and with a ‘vroom vroom’ of his engine pulled it free.
“Oh thank you sir!” The Snow Prince said.
“Aw, lay off that ‘sir‘, stuff, mister. The names Jazz, and racings my game!” he said.
“I’m the Snow Prince,” the snowman said. “And soon I’ll be a movie star. I’m going to be famous!”
Jazz was a little confused.
“Don’t see many movie stars around here. Especially one’s that melt,” he said.
That was when the Snow Prince noticed a drop of water on the end of his carrot nose
The weather was a bit warmer than he was used to at the North Pole.
“I guess I didn’t plan very well. I thought it would still be winter and I could ride my sled. But it’s not, and if I don’t hurry up I’ll never get to Hollywood,” The Snow Prince said.
“What’s out there?” Jazz asked.
“Only the best movie ever! It’s all about a snowman that comes to life one winter and sings lots of songs to make kids happy. They start filming soon, and I’m going to be the star of the show! I was born to play that part!” he said.
“Hmm. Well, that sled won’t get you very far,” Jazz said. Just then another big drop of water fell off The Snow Prince. Splash!
Suddenly Jazz had an idea.
“Tell you what. I’ve never been to California, and I hear they drive really fast there. If you like I can give you a ride,” Jazz said.
“Oh no, I couldn’t impose,” The Snow Prince said as another drop of water fell to the ground.
Splat!
“I have air conditioning,” Jazz said, and that was that.
So Jazz and The Snow Prince set out across America.
They drove through the Midwest and saw lots of farms.
They drove through prairies and raced buffaloes.
They drove through the Rocky Mountains, where The Snow Prince enjoyed the cool mountain air.
And along the way the two became the best of friends.
But not once did the Snow Prince tell Jazz that he had run away from home, and that his father was looking for him. And he never, not once, told him how mad his father would be if he found them.
Finally they got to California, and The Snow Prince was so happy to see the big Hollywood sign! He was this close to being the worlds first and most famous snowman actor!
“I’m hungry Snow Prince,” Jazz said. “Mind if I stop for some gas before we drive to the studio?”
“Go ahead, I’m hungry too,” he said.
Jazz pulled into a gas station. In it’s window was a red sign that said “Ice Cream”.
“You better be careful . It’s mighty hot out here in California,” Jazz said.
“I’ll only be a minute. And you’ll be right outside,” The Snow Prince said. With that, he went in search of some butter pecan.
As Jazz was filling up his tank with the best tasting gas he’d ever had, he was very happy he’d taken the trip.
Not only had he met a great friend, but he’d seen the whole country, and California was very pretty.
That’s when he heard it.
At first it was very quiet, like a mouse, and Jazz thought he was imagining things. Then he heard it again.
“Vroom, vroom vroom”
The noise seemed to be coming from down the block. Jazz was itching to go see what it was, but he knew he shouldn’t leave The Snow Prince.
“I’ll just be gone for a minute,” he thought to himself. “I’ll be back before he even notices.”
With his mind made up he drove down the block. The noise seemed to be coming from behind a tall pine fence.
Halfway up one of the planks was a knothole. Jazz popped a wheelie and put his headlight to the hole.
There, on the other side of the fence were dozens of cars going round and round a track as fast as they could!
“A race!,” said Jazz. “Hot dog!”
He was very excited and wished he could get a better view. Then a man in a bright blue usher’s suit tapped him on the fender.
“’Bout time you got here! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, the race already started. You better get in there before the boss gets any madder,” the usher said.
“But I’m not who you think . . . “ Jazz said, confused.
“Enough chit-chat. Are you gonna race or not?” the man asked.
Jazz should have remembered The Snow Prince and said “no thank you”, but he was much too excited to think of anything but driving in the race. His dream was coming true!
Back at the gas station The Snow Prince stepped outside with his ice cream. He looked left
and right,
and left again,
but didn’t see Jazz.
His ice cream started to melt in the hot California sun.
At the racetrack Jazz was doing well, moving closer and closer to the lead.
Outside the gas station The Snow Prince was worried. His ice cream was a gooey mess and he could feel melted snow drip,
drip,
dripping
down his face.
The Snow Prince tried to go back inside by the air conditioning, but the clerk pointed to the puddle he was making and said “Stay out!”
Now he was very worried indeed.
Down the street a man took out a checkered flag.
The race was almost over.
And the winner was . . .
Jazz!!!
Everyone was cheering! A man handed Jazz a microphone.
“Say a few words to the crowd son,” he said.
“Gosh, I’m so happy. I just wish my friend . . ,” Jazz began. Then he realized what he’d done.
“Snow Prince!” he yelled, roaring down the street faster than he ever had on the race track.
He pulled into the gas station and looked around.
He looked left,
and right,
and left again,
but there was no sign of The Snow Prince.
Unless, that is, you noticed a carrot nose floating in a large puddle of water.
Jazz was so sad he never raced again. To this day the only time he leaves the garage
Is to drive a little old lady to church on Sunday’s.
Very
Very
Slowly
Since The Snow Prince was made up of - what else? - snow, he didn’t go away forever.
The sun dried up the puddle
and he floated in the clouds
until he reached the North Pole, where he fell,
one by one,
as snowflakes until he was back to his old self.
When the Great Snow King saw him he was too happy to be angry at his son.
But The Snow Prince was very, very mad.
While he was up in the clouds as drop after drop of water, another snowman
got the part in the movie
and went on to fame and fortune.
Every kid knows his name.
You know it too -
His name was Frosty.
When The Snow Prince heard this he told his father all about how Jazz had left him behind to melt, and the Great Snow King became very angry too.
So he passed an order:
From this day forward,
When it snows cars shall slip
and slide
And spin their wheels
Cars will get stuck
and sometimes they will get so cold they won’t even move at all!
Which is why cars hate snow, just like snow hates cars.
The End
copyright 2005 Dan Slapczynski
Two serious posts about the Terri Schiavo case appear below, and I encourage you to read them . . .
. . . but to break up the gloomy karma, I present this little ditty:
While researching my son's circumcision several links popped up on the search engine, among them the sponsored link below:
Circumcision Sale - New & used Circumcision. Check out the deals now!
www.eBay.com
Personally, if I was in the market for a circumcision I'd avoid the used model, but to each his own.
Please note that I was unable to post this email as a comment because of it's length; my post on the subject is found below.
For the record, although it wasn't mentioned in the piece, I was deeply annoyed by the political interference on this matter - both by the GOP who I do believe acted out of moral duty, and the Dems, who ran interference on strictly political grounds.
This should never have been a matter for Congress or the White House.
Any email comments will be posted on this site, provided the language is suitable for everyone. Please limit them to 2000 characters or less so I can post them in the comments section.
Danny-please post to your site...
First, let me begin by saying that anyone who does not have a Last Will and Testament, should see very clear that each person needs one. If you have not seen what happens to those who do not have a will, as in this case, then they are either blind or stupid. It is my humble opinion that we are far more humane to our animals that to our family members. If a horse has a broken leg that is in a section that will not heal very well, we put the horse to sleep. If a dog gets Parvo, we are told that it could be almost $3,000 and we will only get a 50% chance of survival. It is considered by most to be humane to put the animal to sleep. Why can't we euthanize our family members? To have a person starved to death is not humane at all. It is a horrible, painful death. It is not even something that occurs to POW's. To stay on subject, the Schiavo case has really shown all of us that we have a lot of opinions on the subject of death.
Here are my opinions on her case. 1st, There was no will and the husband is trying to act on the wishes that she had told him. I think the family is blind to the fact that she will not ever recover and she most likely does have brain damage that will not return. All of these medical cases that have been brought by her family are irrelevant because NONE have ever been comatose for over 15 years. I have seen recoveries, but all within a 2-5 year period leave the hospital and then go into rehab. She has been like this for well over 15 years. It is not going to happen, and we should be humane about this. The President has no authority on this matter (sorry Danny), and this should be handled by the state not the President. Another reason I feel that this should have been left alone by the President, and other Federal Judges, is because the medical interpretation is vital to this case. In fact it is Paramount. On CNN, Dr. Gupta stated "You can not interpret this from a video; you need to see the patient in person. Aside from the Judges, and Dr's in the state of Fla. who reviewed her file and saw her, no other judge or President has seen her in person. The tapes are impossible to review and interpret in this case. Because of those things, I feel that all of this political interference is not good for the person at all. If they do not see her in person, and know what the legal interpretation is in this case, for them to say that "she is not in a comatose state" is a premature statement and thus makes the person look like an idiot. I realize our President and the courts are trying to act on good faith, but in regard to the President, his interference on this issue does interfere with states rights. I am sorry but the legal system is working, the family may not like the outcome, but it is working. They are right it is not humane to starve a person, but in this case the family needs to let her go. Whenever emotion interferes with the law, there are problems. Too many Judges have seen her, neurologists have seen her, this is a grey area, but they need to let her go. If they think starvation is not humane, then let us have legislation that allows us to find a much quicker way to put them to death. Once again, weneed to learn from this and have a will for our family members. We all need to make sure that if we think starvation is not humane, then have the congress begin legislation for euthanasia. Once again, the family needs to let her go, and let her die. I would haunt my wife if she allowed me to stay comatose this long.
I am sure I will here from this one. Danny for the record: I think Bush (both of them) acted in good faith. I just think that since they have only seen videos, that they are opening themselves up to scrutiny, and opening themselves up to the states rights issue.
Let me hear what you think...
Michael
Moments ago, the Supreme Court refused to hear a last minute appeal to save the life of Terri
Schiavo.It surprises me how saddened I am that she is about to die .
I would not want to share Terri’s fate - I dread the possibility - but the way her life is about to end is wrong.
It’s not strictly an anger fueled by religion or personal belief, for while I’m pro-life, I’m also pragmatic.
Had she put a living will in place, had she clearly and openly discussed her opinion to loved ones, had she even jotted her thoughts down on a napkin at some long ago dinner, I would honor the decision to let her go.
But in the absence of a living will or concrete proof of her wishes, I believe we have the duty to error on the side of life.
The quality of that life may be debatable, but it’s also irrelevant.
If I had to choose, I would not select the life of Christopher Reeves, Larry Flynt, Stephen Hawking, or a thousand others who have persevered in the face of reduced capacity.
I doubt Terri would have wanted their lives anymore than I do.
And part of me feels that if Terri had a voice, she wouldn’t choose her current life either. It’s hard to see a twenty year old photo of a beautiful young woman and think this is what she wanted.
If she could wake up fully coherent for five minutes, maybe she’d tell her parents to let her go.
Or perhaps she would wake up and say that some part of her still resided in that body, that some unrecognized core of her existence still lived on in a hospital bed in Florida.
Perhaps she’d tell her husband to let her time on Earth run its course.
I don’t know, and more to the point neither does anyone else. No group has a stranglehold on what’s right and wrong in the Schiavo
case.For that reason, if nothing else, I think society should error on the side of caution.
The arguments to the contrary are loud and compelling. Her existence, by our measure, is pitiful. She is not some innocent victim of fate, having succumbed to her the effects of her own failings. Her spouse, by all measures of law and ethics, should trump the wishes of her parents. She is reliant on artificial means to live beyond a week.
It’s still wrong. It was a year ago, it is today, and no matter what society says in a hundred years, it will be wrong then too.
But there’s a purpose to everything, and if nothing else Terri has issued us all a clear warning to make our wishes known while we have the chance.
So, if I fail to fill out this form or that, or just never get around to it, pay attention:
If I’m in a similar situation, my wife - no one else - has the right to determine my care. Though she disagrees with me on this issue, as is often the case, she’ll do what’s right.
And to her I say:
When you reach the point where you think enough is enough, push forward a bit.
If I’m wrong and there is no God, I gain nothing by moving on. If there is a God - and there is - then I win no brownie points for cashing in my chips sooner than I need to.
In clear conscience move on with your life.
And then, when you know it’s time, let me go.
Yes, I know: I should have posted by now.
Not some measely pics or a glorified diary entry, but an honest-to-goodness 600 word "please someone, offer me even a low paying writing job" column.
But in fairness, not only has my work schedule changed for the first time in years (throwing my whole sense of time and place off) but two of my kids are very sick with the flu.
One went to the hospital for dehydration/vomiting Tuesday night, the other woke up imitating her sister just a few hours back.
Add a newborn to the mix and you could almost say it's not an excuse, it's a reason . .
I hope to get a proper post up today (Holy Thursday)
Dan
Our bedroom features a leaded glass panel above one of the windows, which my wife chose to keep uncovered when we moved in.
In addition to making it impossible for a third shifter to sleep in total darkness, it casts wonderful rainbows and other assorted goodies on the wall throughout the day.
Here's a pic of the treats it creates in the evening:
and my girls' serving as Vanna White wannabees:
Congrats to the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee Panthers (my old school) on advancing to the Sweet Sixteen!
Next up, a wupping on Illinois!
One of the great things about a digital camera is that I can now take pics like the one above without fretting about wasting film...this is a pic of a late winter storm that hit March 18th.
Today is my thirty-first birthday.
If you're expecting me to whine about the onset of old age, forgetaboutit.
Oh, I know my life story is nearing (or past) the midpoint of the tale, with nary a plot line to be seen. And sure, I haven't fulfilled my dreams of finding the Ark of the Covenant and defeating Belloq, or moving to the South Pacific and operating a sea-plane taxi, and yeah, I've yet to publish a book.
But let's look at the positives: I've sired three fine children, and . . .
Well, I've sired three children.
But never fear, I'm genetically immune to being depressed on my birthday.
My family is oddly enamored by them, insisting that each and every one be celebrated with cake, gifts, balloons, and irrational glee. My Mom still calls me promptly at midnight, both as the day begins and ends, to wish me a happy birthday.
Coming from a family where birthdays are subdued and well, normal, my wife can't understand this fascination.
She plays along (throwing me an opulent surprise party on my 30th, for example) but for the most part chalks it up to another one of those things she should have thought long and hard about before the wedding.
Let me tell you, that list is growing mighty long . . .
Anyway, in honor of my own Special Day, and at least in part to refute my own growing sense of loserdom, I'm going to rip off a concept I saw online, "The Done List".
[Sadly, as my Mother reads this I have to leave some good things off the list - wink wink nudge nudge - but even so, there's some stuff to make her blush. So Ma, close your eyes.]
In my thirty-one years I've:
Not exactly Churchilian in scope, but it'll do for now.
By the way - Happy Birthday to me!
As of yesterday the little guy clocks in at 8 pounds 2 ounces. Pretty impressive considering he weighed in at 7 pounds 4 oz when he left the hospital last Wednesday.
Ps. his umbilical cord finally! fell off yesterday
The last few posts have multiple pics attached, and within a week I hope to be adding pictures to the posts about DC and other golden oldies.
As always, if you can't comment on the site, feel free to email me and I'll post your relevant - and flattering - email here.
Ever notice home redecorating shows work on rooms bigger than most houses?
What’s so hard about that? Give me a thousand square feet for a bedroom and it’d look pretty spiffy whether I had a professional do the job or handed it off to a vagrant with a paintbrush.
Let’s see those shows tackle an 8x8 room and see how it turns out.
That’s all we had to work with once the girls abandoned their room for their soon-to-be arriving brother.
Three weeks before the birth, my firstborns son’s room was decorated in a spiffy lavender and pink scheme. In our quest to make our summer move easier on the girls, their old room had been recreated - in miniature - right down to the technique used to apply the paint.
That was a whole lot of effort for naught - not only did we have to paint over it a year later, the girls showed as much interest in it as they do the Nasdaq composite.
Financially ignorant little buggers.
As for the new room: I wanted a New York Yankees nursery, complete with a huge ‘top hat’ logo on the wall.
Strangely, my wife didn’t volunteer to paint it, and I let the concept fall to the wayside.
Sort of.
My wife came up with a plan to paint red, white, and blue stripes on the wall. This made for more of an Americana theme, but as she was quick to point out, it could easily be accented with Yankees memorabilia.
After all, there is nothing so American as the New York Yankees.
(Refresher: I stand for America, the Catholic Church, the New York Yankees, the GOP, and US Steel. Staying true to this theme, I am also the only Caucasian male to root for Apollo Creed - both times)
The horizontal stripes made the room look wider, but I can think of more pleasant ways to paint a room.
To start with, the ‘one coat’ white paint was anything but, and when I returned to the store for more I was told they were out of white paint. They would however, gladly mix some for me.
Right.
We used a laser level to tape off the different stripes, but found the ‘professional grade’ tape bled through.
Bit of a problem with label accuracy on this project.
Thinking on her feet, my wife left it largely as is, referencing some obscure rustic Americana painter.
In other words, we were sick of it and not about to start over. Still, the end result was striking, even when we added some wallpaper baseballs to a stripe.
To quote my father “I feel like I should salute when I walk in”.
We kept the girls antique dresser in the room and put my oldest’s crib back together (the middle child had used hers as a $500 teether, reducing parts to firewood).
My mother-in-law stepped in to create a wonderful, Yankees themed crib bumper. From the leftover fabric she graced us with a dresser scarf and a throw pillow, while my Mom presented Parker with a Yankees blanket and receiving blanket.
Above the crib we spelled out Parker’s name, and on a side wall hung a picture that had been mine as a small boy.
On the wall opposite the crib, the Wall of Heroes - three framed 11x14 sepia pictures of Babe Ruth - and a bookcase snatched from oblivion that currently holds knick-knacks, among them another childhood picture and a NASCAR racer Grace made for Parker at Home Depot.
Will he appreciate the room? Probably not until he sees pictures years down the road. But it’s not about winning my son’s approval.
It’s about me having a Yankees room in my house.
Thanks to the Mrs for her planning and execution of the room, Jeanne Scorsone for some stellar sewing creations, Kathy Slapczynksi for her rpresents, and Tre Wagner for the use of his laser level.
And then it came time to introduce the girls to Parker.
Although they would spend the next few days at Grandma’s, we’d taken care to see that school, dance class, and playgroup would proceed as usual.
The idea was for them to see Parker as an addition to their lives, not an obstruction.
As 3 o’clock approached I picked up Olivia, my youngest - oops, my middle child - from my Mom’s and went to pick up her sister at school.
Grace was a bit more subdued than I expected - a hangover from a late night at Grandma’s I imagine - but she was eager to hand out the blue bubble gum cigars I bought for her classmates.
Read that bit again: bubble gum cigars. I had a whole box of chocolate cigars, and yet I chose to give the bubble gum version to a room full of three-year olds that have yet to master zipping their jackets.
Bet the other parent’s loved me.
At the hospital they both seemed relieved and happy to see Mommy up and about, but while their initial attention was on her, it didn’t take long for them to notice their little brother.
This was the stuff video cameras were made for: my girls beaming as they were introduced to Parker, doting on him and saying things that were so cute they'd make Art Linkletter smile:
"Your tummy looks a lot smaller mommy"
"Why his belly-button all icky?"
Unfortunately I didn’t have a video camera; just after the birth the night before, one of the nurses had dropped the camera bag and broken my camcorder.
I would curse her name forever. . .if I'd thought to get her name in my post-birth glee.
And then it was time for the gifts from Parker. When Olivia was born she ‘bought’ Grace a doll. Grace is many things, but a doting caregiver is not one of them. It lay unused until Olivia was old enough to appreciate it.
This time around we tried to be a little more precise. Livvie - the nurturer - got a dolly, while Grace -the diva - opened a gift bag with sunglasses, lip gloss, glittery belts, etc.
All dollar store stuff, but they loved it enough to fight over it.
I was a little nervous when they held and fed Parker, but they did just fine. By then visitors were rolling in - including my mother-in-law, who'd come to take Grace to dance class.
Before they left I wanted to take them down to the cafeteria for dinner - an ode to an old McDonald's commercial about a father and a new big brother who bond over french fries.
Yes, I fashion my sentimental moments from the refuse of fast food ads.
It was in the cafeteria that I had a good scare.
I was busy picking out a motley collection of fruit, Cheetos, yogurt, and milk for the girls (hey, it was a special occasion) when I did the standard head count.
And came up one shy.
Olivia was nowhere to be found. Not just temporarily out of sight, but gone. I put down the tray and with panic rising, hurried around the salad bar.
In a small room that was nearly empty, I couldn't find her.
And then I felt a tug on my pants leg.
Olivia had been behind me the whole time, her little legs keeping her just far enough ahead/behind to remain hidden from my sight.
Meanwhile Grace was calming standing to one side.
"Why didn't you tell me Olivia was behind me?" I demanded.
You see where this is going, as did I even as I asked the question. But what shocked me was how slow and deliberate her answer was, like she was explaining it to someone with head trauma.
"You didn't ask Daddy"
Maybe she has reason to think that way - after all I volunteered to bring another one of these monsters into the world.
What else but head trauma would explain that?
I'm aware that there hasn't been a non-Parker related post since March 4th, and while I know this may bore/irk some people, I'm afraid you'll have to live with the fact that the next three or four posts may be more of the same.
Also, a brief flare of disgust for BE - in its continuing efforts to please everyone (and therefore no one) I've found my readership halved, as folks now are limited to surfing the sites in specific categories. So what about me?
Aside from posts about my kids, I write on politics, TV, current events, and esoteric rants. Kinda makes it hard on Slapinions, you know?
And don't get me started on the insanely detailed new rating system. Who has fifteen minutes to evaluate a site? In order to be accurate you'd have to read half the dang blog.
Ugh.
One thing nice about having an inducement date: with the nursery out of the way and a concrete end to the pregnancy in sight, we could sit back and relax for a few days.
But if it happened that way, we wouldn’t have much of a story, would we?
So I wasn’t all that surprised when I came home from work Sunday morning to the news that my wife was in labor.
I wasn’t surprised, but I still didn’t believe her.
Through three pregnancies I’ve developed an irrational belief that Lisa is incapable of knowing when she’s in labor. At least I’m consistent; I don’t believe her when she says she’s pregnant either.
So we sat there and timed her contractions, and sure enough: every fifteen minutes Parker came one step closer to entering the world.
Lisa then did the only sensible thing: she sent me to bed, and she went out and got a manicure and pedicure.
At four o’clock I met up with her at my parent’s house, where my niece Stacey was celebrating her 4th birthday.
Although March 6th is a historically significant date - it’s the date the Alamo fell, and yes, I’m a big enough dork for that to matter - no one wanted Parker to share his birthday. My wife and father share a birthday, as do my sister and my wife’s brother, and her childhood friend and mine.
Enough was enough.
But it wasn’t looking good. At 5:30 one of my nieces ran in with big news: Lisa’s water had broke.
At a child’s birthday party.
Lisa moments after her water broke; yet another pic my wife will hold against me. :)
Of course, this wasn’t a movie. Nobody started boiling water and shredding sheets. Instead, after consulting her doctor Lisa again did the sensible thing: after cutting my hair, we went shopping.
With some gifts in hand to give our girls after the birth, we returned to the party to say our goodbyes and hit the road.
At 8:15, on a gorgeous 48 degree evening that resembled a brisk May night more than early March, we arrived at the hospital.
Almost exactly ninety minutes later, with Lisa stuck at 3 cm dilated (despite being almost completely effaced) the doc started pictocin, a contraction-inducing IV drug that Lisa dubbed “the devil’s serum” two births back.
Whatever its faults, it works. Lisa’s contractions began coming a minutes apart, with only enough time between each to catch her breath.
At 11 o’clock Lisa caved and asked for an epidural. Why this should even be an issue to women escapes me, but trust me on this: for a woman, being able to say they had a medication-free birth is the equivalent to a guy saying he used to do porn.
It is, at its core, a female dick-measuring contest.
By the time the epidural was in place and they were starting the medication it was almost midnight. With Lisa still at only 6cm, I took the opportunity to jot outside and have a cigarette.
While I was out there I called both our mother’s and told them to start heading out the door - both were supposed to be there for the delivery, just as my mother-in-law had been in the room twice before.
In all, maybe ten minutes passed.
When I got back to the labor and delivery floor the nurse flagged me down: the baby was coming.
It’s like the old adage while waiting at a restaurant; the minute you light a cigarette, dinner will arrive.
What followed is horribly embarrassing to my wife, again for reasons I can’t fathom. Should I ever find a child pushing out my genitalia, I would do far worse.
Still, with the epidural still - and never to be - working, my wife was rather vocal, and with a Hollywood flavor: in a nod to every pregnancy scene ever written, she stated she hated me. She also tried to quote The Exorcist, but failed: “It burns” came out “It’s burning, it’s burning!”
I could see Parker crowning but everything was on hold until the doc arrived. In the meantime a nurse tried some tough love with my wife, telling her the epidural wouldn’t have taken away all the pain - she lasted all of ten more seconds in the room before Lisa drove her off.
And then the doctor arrived, a petite athletic Filipino woman caught off guard by the speed of Lisa’s progress and about to deliver my son wearing a “Real Chili” T-shirt.
Two pushes later, my son was born.
He’s the smallest of all my kids, coming in at 7 pounds, 10 oz and 20.5 inches with a beautiful, perfectly round head and almost none of the typical ‘leftovers’ from the womb.
Even though he was early he came out with wickedly chapped hands and feet, the latter being big floppy appendages that can bend all the way back to his knees, to the amusement of visitors of all ages.
In my opinion, his, ahem, male parts are also capable of reaching his knees, but that may just be a father’s hope for his son (and the fact that like his father he is all torso and no legs).
I was the first person to ever place a diaper on him, and to my sorrow it was not the last.
He has my youngest sisters ears (they curve inwards in the middle, resembling a letter “E”), a cleft in his chin like me, a nose that’s wide on the bottom like mine but seems inclined to grow into my wife’s perfect button nose.
He came out alert and has remained so, with a pretty docile disposition that changes to that of a tiger when he’s wet or in need of human contact (which is pretty often).
Although I regret that they didn't have the opportunity to see the birth, I appreciate the fact that my wife and I were able to experience our son's birth with only each other for support.
Parker soaked my wife, a curtain, and my jacket with urine before he was 48 hours old, first christening his Mom sixteen hours after his birth.
He has yet to urinate on his Daddy.
In short, he is perfect.
This pic, courtesy once again of Oftencold, was taken mere minutes after the birth.
I'll post more later (as if you were afraid I wouldn't :) But I gotta tell you, I don't think this page has ever looked better . . . .
Parker Daniel was born at 12:13 am this fine March 7th. He weighed in at 7 lbs 10 oz and 20.5 inches long.
Mom and son are doing fine.
Much more to follow, including pics, but I just wanted to quickly let everyone know.
:)
After four months, and through the intervention of Mr.Oftencold (as featured on the links to the left), I have some working pictures on the site.
Check out the bunk bed entry for new and updated displays of the room in question.
Oh, by the way - the 'boy' in the castle pic is my youngest daughter. My youngin's don't have much hair when they're little, and she was just shy of one at the time. And ignore the date stamping - that's wayyyy off.
Today, shortly after midnight, a co-worker offered to buy me dinner -albeit from McDonald's. As his offer is as rare as extra cash the day before payday, I was tempted - but declined.
It is Lent, it's Friday, and I'm Catholic.
And no, I don't like Fillet O'Fish.
I'm under no illusions that my afterlife will be determined by what I eat, but to those who snicker and see no point to it all, I respectfully disagree.
It's not about avoiding some dire consequence; it's about committing to something.
The Church asks that I not eat meat on Fridays for a few weeks. Since I'm Catholic, I choose to abide by that rule as a sign of respect. With a few tweaks, it's the same rationale behind turning down a bribe to look the other way at work, because for better or worse I agreed to the job and I'm damn well going to do it.
Likewise, as a married man, it's why I say no to the supermodel's that are always asking me out.
Commitment's important, you know?
And it's not so bad skipping red meat now and again. In fact, it's only gotten easier since I met my wife.
Back in the day I didn't like fish, had no interest in Italian food that didn't come out of a can, and wouldn't touch tuna or egg salad if my life depended on it. I was a bit of a poor man's version of a snooty food critic.
A few years of raging poverty cured me of my tuna-phobia real quick, while my wife's fetish for the Olive Garden introduced me to several vegetarian dishes. Somewhere along the line my tastes changed and I even acquired a liking for seafood.
Which works out great, because Fish Fry's are to Milwaukee what Mardi Gras is to New Orleans.
Forget the stereotypes that say tourists should hit a German restaurant and a custard stand. Bratwursts are about as much German culture as you'll see on a daily basis.
You want to taste what Milwaukee really eats? Visit on a Friday.
There's not a restaurant in town that doesn't feature a Friday fish fry year-round. Family restaurants do it. So do local fast food places, greasy spoons, and four star restaurants.
Boy Scout troops hold fish fry fundraisers, as do churches. Serb Hall crams hundreds of folks into their fish fry at once, and their drive-thru line stretches out to the street.
I've even gone to an authentic Mexican restaurant and been served a fish fry complete with fries, rye bread, and coleslaw.
Ole.
Trust me, Milwaukeean's consume enough mercury in a given year to take their own temperature when they're sick.
I don't mean to pass this off as a religious mandate. While Milwaukee has its share of Catholics, it's morphed into more of a cultural phenomenon than a religious requirement.
After all, it was my wife's family - Lutherans by and large, with the oddball Catholic thrown in (damn Democrats and their quotas) - that introduced me to the gluttony of the all-you-can eat fish fry.
The fact that this feast falls on Friday seems to be just a bit of good luck for me.
Sadly, the best fish fry in Milwaukee, a title held by a small bar here on the south side, is no more. Once I could complement heavenly baked cod with the best shaved onion rings on earth; now I simply mourn the memory. The bar closed its doors for good a few years back.
Which leaves only 10,000 other places to vie for the title.
We had another doctor's appointment Wednesday, and the news is as follows: if Parker doesn't pop out on his own before then, Lisa will be induced on March 10th.
The due date was/is floating between March 5th (ultarsound results) and March 14th (traditional, last-date of period dating) so he shoud be fully cooked either way.
Knock on wood.
I'll keep you updated.
If you ask me - and since you didn't, I'll just pretend someone did - Ebay is heading for disaster faster than a Rob Lowe TV series heads for hiatus.
I speak from experience here, with the love and insight only a true devotee can bring to the table. I've been an Ebay member for seven years, long enough that I can boast of saying 'I bought it on Ebay' and then having to explain what that meant.
I've bought hundreds of items, and I've sold hundreds too. Clothes, books, electronics, you name it, I've bought or sold it, and with nary a problem to report.
Heck, there was a time not so long ago when if I saw a listing for a time machine made out of tin foil and Jell-O, I'd bet my life that I'd be having dinner with Abe Lincoln the day the auction ended.
Sigh. Memories.
Six of my last eight transactions have ended, if not in disaster, then with disillusionment.
There was the video camera that was dead on arrival.
On the selling end, there was the one buyer that just never paid, and another who dragged the process out with endless (contradictory) claims that her mother had fallen ill.
There was seller who charged $3.00 for shipping, then sent the item in a standard envelope for $.83. A handling charge you say? That'd be the stock answer, but how hard was it to drop that in the mail? What, they don't have mailboxes in Baltimore?
There was another seller who sent only half of the decorations we purchased.
And last, but certainly most infamous, there was the $40 lamp that took a month to arrive. When it showed up at our door it wasn't the item pictured in the auction, but gosh golly in the fine print the seller reserved the right to substitute at whim.
More than a month later we're still waiting for a refund.
Ebay used to resemble a universal rummage sale, with a casual, one-on-one atmosphere. Now sellers feel compelled to toss caveats and vague threats on every listing, and buyers have the art of bidding so down pat that a beginner has almost no chance to win unless they're willing to mortgage their house.
As near as I can tell, the villain seems to be the 'power sellers', the mass quantity sellers who dominate the new marketplace. The vast fees they pay may help Ebay's bottom line now, but they'll be the downfall of the company in the long run.
Don't believe me? The guy that sold us the lamp had a feedback rating of around 99%, enough to give us unwarranted confidence. After the fiasco, a closer look showed he averaged fifty dissatisfied customers a month.
True, a thousand people were happy with the service in the same thirty days.
But over the course of a year, there are now 600 people who'll hesitate to use Ebay because of that lone seller.
Even an old hand like me gets a case of the willies. I just bought a camera at Best Buy for $50 more than I saw it listed for on Ebay. A year ago I'd have stuck with the ebay model, but forgetaboutit: I didn't have the time or the energy to deal with the hassles.
Tell me that's the kind of thing a company wants to hear from its customers.
Oh, I'll still use the darn thing. Where else can I buy an 11x14 sepia print of Babe Ruth or sell a battered old textbook?
Only now I'll do it with my fingers crossed.
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