Personal:
Home
Blog
Archives
CD Projects
FAQ
Last.FM
Radio SFT
Creative:
The
Truth
Audio Biography
Contact:
Mail
Roll Call:
Weasel
Trust But Verify
Astral Base
Cartoon Colin
Remmev
Pampered Queer
Fluid Pudding
Daddy, Poppa & Me
Extrasuperfantastic
Geek Press
Boing Boing
Goldenfiddle
Wilco Base
Be My Demon
Podcasts:
The TWIT Network
The Fredcast
The Spokesmen
|
|
Posts for the date of Wednesday, December 19, 2001
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:14 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
Discussion.Boards
Hey! Geeks of the world unite! Come join the discussion at Windowstuff. Problems with software? Need help tweaking Windows? Unsure if you should upgrade? Like gaming? Visit Windowstuff and get everything you need!
At no extra cost to you!
Brought to you by the fine folks at Levelbest, the makers of Intercot, WebDisney and many other fine Web establishments.
|
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:13 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
Power vomit. That’s the central element in my lives these days. A child that power vomits. (The other child likes to lick. Long story. Not the vomit! Eew. No, she licks people's cheeks. She has an odd dog thing going for her.) I don’t own a shirt that has been vomited upon.
Of course, this is normal for any parent of a newborn. It’s not like I’m surprised. However, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Soldiers know they are going to be shot at, but that doesn’t mean they’ll like it.
I’m also not supposed to call it vomit either. It’s “spit up.” Next time I drink a six-pack of beer while eating a cheese ball, I’m going to call it “spit up” when I spend an hour in the bathroom puking my guts up.
But, babies are afforded that cutification (I invented that word) of their bodily necessities. They “dirty their diaper,” or are “wet.” They “spit up” or have “gas.” They are too small and defenseless to have such base acts as puking and defecating associated with them.
Just try it one time. Hold a baby and say to the mother, “Hey, the kid just sh** himself.” See what sort of reaction you get. (See if you can still walk at all.)
Babies are also “fussy.” Which is merely a nicer way of saying “screaming at the tops of their lungs.” Babies are never annoying, either. They may be demanding or clingy, but never annoying. They never irritate you either. You get “frustrated” or “frazzled” but you are never allowed to say, “This baby is pissing me off!” No matter how much you want to. Babies are too small and defenseless to piss you off.
Babies are too small and defenseless to elicit any reaction other than awe and love. They have chubby little cheeks and cute little eyes. They have little arms and legs that kick and do cute little things, like poke themselves in the eyes.
But then they grow up, and parents find them fair game. While babies can get away with anything, including masterminding the domination of the universe, school-age children are totally screwed.
They forget to put their cereal bowl in the sink. They leave their toys on the floor. They put their homework off until the last minute. They don’t flush the toilet. They complain about dinner.
This is the age of “because I said so.” Quite often parents don’t have a tangible reason for asking kids to do certain things. You can’t answer, “Why do I have to pick up my clothes” with “Because I don’t want to!” Nor can you say, “Because I’m trying to teach you take personal responsibility for your life and property so that you don’t grow up to be a selfish little brat like the girl next door.
Babies can eat and sleep on demand. Kids have to wait until you say it’s okay. Are they tired at 7 p.m.? NOOOOO! They can’t fall asleep then! They’ll wake up too early! What will I do then?
All the things we expect of kids. Everything we ask them to do. How often we compare them to ourselves. How often we try to make them ourselves. No wonder kids these days are stressed out.
But what a ride. For every one of those moments I mentioned above, there’s a totally mystifying moment.
A baby’s smile. Proudly displaying a report card. Realization of self. Goofy dances. Made up words. Excitement over mail sent to “resident.”
It doesn’t matter. Children are a wonder. They have powers beyond comprehension. One little coo or “I love you daddy” and the day’s problems don’t just melt away . . . it’s as if they never existed. Those simple words, or the clasped hands on the back of your neck put everything in perspective.
If the events of the last few months have made us feel small and worthless . . . insignificant, I seem to have forgotten.
For in the moment of that coo or “I love you” I feel like the world’s most colossal man.
Yeah, I know. The ending of this one is gooey . . . kind of makes you want to spit up, doesn’t it?
|
|
|
Posts for the date of Tuesday, December 18, 2001
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:44 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
I’m back again! I’m in such a chipper holiday mood! I have many feelings I need to get off my chest.
Here’s a sticky situation, let’s see how you handle it.
I hate my job and love my family. One impedes my ability to commit myself to the other.
I’ll provide you background. Why do I hate my job? Well . . . I don’t feel as though I fit in. That’s one. It’s not a supportive environment. The work is mind numbing. The office is much too far from home. And more.
Why do I love my family? Well . . . that should be obvious.
Here’s where the disconnect comes in. Each day I wake up and trudge into a job that I find so emotionally draining that by the time I get home, I don’t want to do anything.
As it stands now, I get home right when dinner is ready. Gertrude is either asleep or hysterical. Kaitlyn is done with her homework Her friends have all gone home and she’s already sick of telling about her day. After dinner, we have about an hour before bath/bed time.
I feel like I’m missing out on something here. I feel gypped. Perhaps if I were in an industry that mattered to me, I’d feel differently. But, I don’t think I would.
Why? I see my full family for three hours a day. The rest of the time I’m either a work or one or more of us is asleep.
I want to be a dad. That’s all I want to be. I want to be a supportive father who is devoted to raising his children. I don’t want to be a ghost who brings home a paycheck every week. Granted, I want to be able to support my family financially, but at what cost? Missing their growth? Having to be told about their achievements over the phone?
It’s not worth it.
This isn’t a new problem. I’ve struggled with it for years. At one job I made it patently clear that I would not be out of town on Kaitlyn’s birthday. At another, I almost walked out because they, inexplicably, scheduled a meeting (that turned out to be pointless) for a Saturday (which is the only day of the weekend I get to see Kaitlyn. Sunday she’s at her dad’s.).
I’ve always made it clear that, for me, family comes first. If that means being stuck in a position for years then, so be it. I’m not much of a career guy. That’s not where I get my personal satisfaction.
Some people do. I respect them. However, I have yet to find a job that makes me feel good about myself. A job that I’m a proud to have. StreamSearch offered a little of that sensation. Though the company was tanking, I felt I was doing something exciting and useful. I also enjoyed it.
I worked a lot of hours at StreamSearch. But, you know what? I rarely felt that it impeded on my family. There were always balances. My co-workers understood. We balanced things out. They were happy that I wanted to be a committed dad.
Tell me, why is it a crime these days to want to be a committed parent? When did life’s importance shift from family to career? Why? What could possibly be more important than your family?
You can feed me a line of crap about society and the need for wealth or even Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. But it won’t change my mind. From the moment I wake up in the morning, to the moment I go to bed, everything I do is for the benefit of my family. Each keystroke at work, each minute spent in traffic.
But it’s not enough. I want to be there when the kids get off the bus. I don’t want to transfer that excitement to a daycare worker. I want to be there the second my child walks. I want to be there for each heartbreak, each achievement. I want to experience every up and down.
Most of all I never want to say, “Not now honey, daddy has work to do.”
I’ll never be that parent. Never.
All in all, I’m not sure what I’m rambling about. Sorry. I guess, in the end, I feel like I miss out on some of the best moments of the day in order to work on products that no one buys. My time at work is spent merely for money. It provides no emotional benefits.
Go ahead and tell me I’m selfhish, especially with troops overseas, far away from their home and families. Go ahead. It won’t change what I feel.
No, everything that is dear to me . . . everything that makes life matter for me is away from me right now. And you know what? I don’t like it. I’m selfish, perhaps. But, I know where my priorities lay. And those priorities are the three girls I’ve left behind each day in order to be here at my desk.
And I miss them.
|
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:28 AM |
permalink |
(0) comments
Oh yeah . . . minor geek moment here. The first installment of Lord of the Rings opens tomororw. Are you going to see it? May I live vicariously through you? I'm going to try to see it this weekend, but with an infant in the house . . . it's not easy to get away for three hours our so. My wife's a huge fan of the books and is dying to go. So am I.
I suppose it was bad planning to have a baby a month before an eagerly anticipated film opens. Perhaps we shouldn't have done that. Damn. What was I thinking?
But she's so cute. And she doesn't have hairy hobbit feet.
|
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:10 AM |
permalink |
(0) comments
So here we are. It’s Christmas time. The shopping malls are filled to capacity with the rude and inconsiderate. Santa is everywhere, spreading is suspicious benevolent good cheer. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care. Sugarplums are flying off the shelf in an effort to populate children’s dreams, replacing the new terrors they’ve been introduced to. The Salvation Army is out in force, ringing bells and collecting for the less fortunate.
Hold on. I want to talk about that. “The Less Fortunate.” Let us consider this for a moment. To say that one is “less fortunate” is to imply that they simply are missing a few key elements that would make their lives whole again. For example, if you compare someone like Bill Gates to myself, I am less fortunate. If you then compare my family to that of a single mom who works two jobs in some industry, then she is less fortunate than I am.
And yet I think of a man a co-worker of mine met recently. A member of her church encountered a man at the cemetery while she was visiting her mother’s grave. He was at the grave of his wife sobbing uncontrollably. He’s about eighty years old. This summer his house was broken into. The intruders killed his wife of over fifty years. He has no friends or family in St. Louis, no one to spend the holidays with him. This is a man who is truly alone. He doesn’t feel safe at home anymore. He’s terrified to leave his home. He has no one to share his stories with. Even if he were wealthy, as I sit and look at my healthy and large family, I can’t help but think he’s less fortunate. He may be able to put food on his table but he seems to have lost his reason to do so. It tears out my heart.
I can’t imagine a loss of that sort. To lose your entire world. No, not to lose it . . . to have it forcibly removed from you in a violent fashion. To look at your fading years and know that you will be alone. That the one person whom you dedicated your life to has been taken from you. To wake up in the morning and realize there is nothing holding you here anymore. To know that everything you held dear . . . is gone.
So, why am I writing this instead of my usual self-serving goofiness? Because it’s Christmas. And I think we tend to get lost in the excitement over gifts and lights and trees and freakish reindeer with nasal issues. Sometimes we forget that there’s more to being “less fortunate” than not being able to pay a heating bill (not to diminish the severity of the problems that many low-income families have, nor how difficult their lives are).
I guess what I’m saying is that many people suffer in silence, alone. They have no recourse for their needs. They’ve lost their faith in the world. They don’t feel safe.
So, this year, in addition to helping out with your money, or just volunteering your time at a soup kitchen, take a look around your own neighborhood. See who is suffering around you. Bake some brownies for the elderly neighbor across the street. Don’t just drop them off; spend a few hours with her. Find out when she got married. Where is she from? What are her interests?
You’ll be amazed. Many of these poor, lonely souls have better stories to tell than any John Grisham novel or episode of Touched By An Angel. And these stories are just waiting to be told. Don’t let them become a forgotten past on an anonymous face. Just listen. It may just be the best Christmas gift you give all year.
And who knows? Maybe you’ll make a friend.
|
|
|
|
|
