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Posts for the date of Friday, January 18, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:50 PM |
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I have nothing to write about today. No stories to tell. Nothing to say. So I’ll sit here and listen to you for a while, okay? Tell me, what’s going on? Are you feeling okay? How’s that (insert minor medical problem here)? Has it cleared up?
We discovered this morning that Gertrude has a preferred parent based on time of day. Mom is morning, I am evening. She will not budge on this issue, despite bribery.
Usually in the morning I’m alone with Gertrude for about 20 minutes while Mom showers. We cuddle and talk about digestive problems, thin hair . . . you know, baby stuff. After Mom is dressed, she takes over the kid and I shower and then get Kaitlyn ready for school.
Gertrude likes this, I guess. Because today, we did it differently. I showered first while Mom got Kaitlyn ready.
Mistake. When Gertrude was turned over to me she had a fit. I’m not talking about the usual “Gee I’m unhappy, placate me” crying. This was the type of cry you’d expect to hear an innocent man make if he were convicted to death for a crime he didn’t commit. She wailed, as if being in my arms was akin to being dipped in acid. She wasn’t going to have it.
Great way to raise your confidence in the morning, eh?
Nights are my time. I come home and take her downstairs with her big sister and the three of us watch Sponge Bob Square Pants or some other silly drek. We enjoy ourselves, decompress and relax.
Maybe I should be encouraging my kids to watch something a little more complex. Something that will stimulate their minds. What am I saying? A talking sponge that lives under the sea is friggin’ genius! (Though I’d rather be watching Playhouse Disney. Rolie Polie Olie, PB&J Otter, Bear in the Big Blue House. That’s some brilliant kids programming there. What? So, I like kids shows? Sue me? Who do you think is the one who turns on cartoons on Saturday? Kaitlyn? Get real.)
Sorry. Got a little sidetracked. After we all eat, Gertrude and I usually dance. Badly, I might add.
Her music of choice used to be Irish Folk Punk (Pogues). Now, she seems to enjoy French Pop and Lounge. Esquivel, Jean-Pierre Perrey and Air are her favorite artists for dancing. Go figure. Maybe tonight I’ll try the Magnetic Fields. I’m thinking songs like “Hall of Mirrors” might be properly attuned to baby slumber.
I certainly understand her hatred of me in the morning. I’m a grump.
I give up. Told you I didn’t have anything to say today. I’m going to see if I can discover antimatter in my office.
Snooooore. Gary isn't being mentally stimulated. Maybe I should stop listening to Electronica at work. I'll need to go get some Classical. Let that stimulate my brain. Snooooore.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, January 17, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:21 PM |
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Don’t skip my other post, from earlier today!
A few days ago, Kaitlyn and I were eating dinner. Mom was feeding the baby so it was just the two of us chatting about whatever came to mind. Markers, school, our favorite stickers, French colonialism. Then Kaitlyn turns to me and says, “Are you going to die?”
I almost did, right there. Whatever we were eating quickly became lodged in my throat.
As I regained my ability to breathe, and my composure, I quickly began to think of a response while I stalled.
I said, “Yes honey. We’re all going to die some day. Even you. And your baby sister. And then we’ll find out that the existentialists were all right, and there’s no heaven. We’ll wallow in a dark afterlife that’s filled with despair, boredom and Donny Osmond.”
Then she cried.
Actually, I wondered if she knew something and wasn’t sharing. You know how dogs can sense earthquakes? Maybe kids can feel their parents’ imminent doom. Or maybe she was planning to bump me off for the insurance money. Perhaps she was still upset because I told her that she wasn’t allowed to marry Ben. Not now, not ever, not with any boy!
We had a nice conversation, actually. We talked about what it meant to die. That I would be around until she was very, very old and I would always take care of her. I explained that I would do anything to be around for as long as possible. I swore that I would never be away from her. That I would never forsake her. I wrote a freakin’ epic poem about how I’ll always be by her side.
“So, you’re not going to die,” she asked.
“No, sweetie. Not for a long time.”
“Oh, okay.” Then she went back to eating.
When she was done, she licked my arm and barked like a dog.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:44 PM |
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Nothing all that amusing has happened over the last few days. I’ve had a headache since Monday, if that counts for anything. Seems like I’ve just been this heavy weight that drags everyone down lately. But that will change! I’ll start being more chipper. I’ll skip and run and sing little songs!
Right. Gertrude’s learning how to smile and laugh. The process is amazing to watch. She’s learning that this “thing” that’s attached to the things that make her see is controllable. She eats her hands as though they are hamburgers and she’s the remaining contestant on Survivor. What’s funny is she has no couth (how many two month olds do?) so she makes horrible, sloppy slurping sounds. It’s like a giant leech has landed.
But the smiles and laughs are the best. They just seem to come out of her, as if she’s suddenly overcome by joy. When she smiles, it’s with her whole head. When she laughs, it’s not a giggle, but a full belly laugh.
It’s hard to say what triggers her humor. Sometimes it’s silly voices, or rubbing her cheeks. Other times, she’ll spit up an ungodly amount of milk and then laugh, as though she’s part of a medieval king’s court and vomiting is just part of mealtime. It’s gross . . . but funny.
No one can really explain how you feel when your little baby smiles. As an uncle I just thought it was cool. As a father, it’s a different matter entirely. I want to call everyone I know. Take pictures and share them with complete strangers.
“See that? She smiles! I mean, really smiles! How many kids do you know who can do that? One? Maybe two total. See? We’re good parents! She’s a happy baby. No pouting little babies for us. Nosirree! We only have the happy, laughing babies!”
Of course, it’s totally normal. And it’s probably all gas, as the old wife’s tale claims. Why is that? Were babies not allowed to be happy once upon a time?
”That’s not a smile. It’s gas. Doesn’t this baby know there’s a war/depression/global catastrophe/evolutionary change/tidal shift on?”
Luckily, we aren’t living in the times of baby denial. Gertrude is allowed to be as happy as she wants to be. As long as my credit card and boys aren’t involved.
Well. I feel better now. Almost happy! But, it’s probably gas.
More later . . .
(Please note in the paragraph above I referred to an “old wife’s tale.” This was not a reference to my wife in any way, shape or form. My wife is quite young and beautiful. She is not, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be an old wife. She will always be young and jubilant. She will always be beautiful. And her butt will never look fat in those jeans. On this I swear, so help me God.)
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, January 16, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:14 PM |
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“And so I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Actually, make that ‘I run through the valley of the shadow of death’ -- in order to get OUT of the valley of the shadow of death more quickly, you see.” --Woody Allen
I’ve discovered that I’m the different one. I’ve always suspected it. In fact, I guess I’ve always known it, but I’m finally beginning to accept it.
I’ve always thought differently than the people around me. Perhaps I’m a little more liberal than most, however you want to describe it. I grew up differently than the rest as well. I lost dad at five, meaning the majority of my childhood was spent with only my mom as a parent. My siblings had a chance to develop a relationship with him. Be it as a human being, hero, role model or antagonist.
At five, he was still larger than life. More a legend than man. It was he who hung the moon. It was he who was a cowboy solider, raced Tarzan in swimming, and played professional ice hockey (despite his inability to ice skate . . . . luckily, they allowed him to use roller skates).
I’m the only one in my family who has a chronic disease, and had to face all the accompanying difficulties. I hated growing up diabetic. It labeled me as different from the rest of the kids. It meant I couldn’t chow down at Denny’s at 2 a.m. with everyone else. It means if I wasn’t careful I could pass out on the floor . . . or much worse. It's hard for someone without that sort of cross to bear to understand how difficult it was.
I guess I just have a different view of the world than most people I know. A world that was ruled by a woman, rather than a man. A woman who sacrificed everything for me, for my health, safety and happiness. What did that mean? It meant that my widowed mother worked from her home in order to provide for my siblings and me. Sacrifices were made, but she rarely made us feel that way. We never lacked in anything. Sure, instead of an Izod, I had a shirt with a dragon on it but, hell, it was close enough.
My mother was someone who was able to provide for her family through working at home (Social Security helped as well). She was a woman who was also available to be a room mother, soccer mom, attend every play, assembly, concert, game, practice or any other event in which I participated. She was always there for me. When I was sick, she was minutes away. When I was injured, she was minutes away. When I made a stupid choice, she was minutes away.
Mom sacrificed everything for what she felt was the best life for her family. After I was in junior high or high school, she could have scrapped the stay at home thing and gone on to work elsewhere. She didn’t have to take care of her grandchildren and neighborhood kids. But she did. For me. For my brothers and sisters who needed daycare and neighborhood kids who needed a loving place to go after school.
Everyday I’m glad she was there. I was able to know my mom in ways that most people could never imagine. She knew my friends. Approved of some, disapproved of others. She was there when I needed help and she held back when she knew I had to learn the lesson for myself. But, when I came back hurt and upset, she was there to comfort me.
She was my role model growing up. And I doubt anyone would ever say she put her family in jeopardy because she didn’t become a secretary. I doubt anyone would ever call her a failure. The life she provided for me was the life I desired for my children. It is the life I still desire and the one I am seeking.
I’m at a crossroads. I have the chance to work for myself, at home. I have the chance to provide an environment for my children that is similar to the one my mother provided.
I’ve stated before that I’m not a career person. This is true, but I think that it may be misunderstood. It made me sound as though I am lazy or uninterested in work. This is untrue, as my previous employers would be more than willing to attest to. Sure, I write my journal entries at lunch, but that’s in lieu to sitting in a cafeteria having conversation. My lunch is my time to reflect.
So what do I mean that I am not a career person? Well, my career development provides me with no sense of pride. No sense of accomplishment. It is empty to me. The fact that by the age of 28, thanks to some very keen decisions, I’ve made it to a point that would propel me ever upwards in the corporate ladder offers me no happiness. I’ve increased my salary by 50% in nearly three years. That also means little to me.
Yet, there is a perception in the world that, because I am a man, I must be the breadwinner. I must be the one who makes the household run on greenbacks. The perception is that the only way I can provide for my children is to work 8-5 in an office, with a copy machine, meetings and supervisors. The world tells me that I must deeply desire to be a manager (been there), supervisor (which I’ve been), a Vice President or some other business related title that looks good on a business card, but provides me with little solace.
Most people I know don’t even understand what it is I’ve been doing since college. They have no idea what sort of experiences I’ve built, nor do they understand my industry. They don’t understand the reason why I’ve left one company for another and where those past decisions place me today. (The answer is very well. In my seeking to go back to my former employer a friend of mine said he’d be happy to have me on his team, though he fears I’d make him look bad.) Do not undermine the accomplishments I’ve made in the past few years because you don’t understand them.
Don’t use my age, or the perception of how I was at 19 or 22 as the litmus test for how I make decisions or how I set goals for myself. Just because the way I approach life is different than Ward Cleaver approached life doesn’t mean I’m making a mistake. It only means that it is something that someone without the desires and goals I have would be unable to achieve.
I come home every day unhappy. I feel like I’m wasting my life, doing things that are expected of me to feed my kids. My wife reminds me that she’s doing a fine job providing money to feed the kids. Whatever I make past a certain point is used to pay debts and save for a house.
So, there is my dilemma. I either have to be the traditional dad who sacrifices what’s in his heart, what was his dream in order to satisfy some sort of societal, cookie-cutter idea on what life is supposed to be, or risk the judgement of those who subscribe to that theory.
So that brings me to my decision to leave my job and become a full-time freelancer. A decision that my wife is behind 100% (probably even more excited about the possibilities than I am). I already have job offers at good rates. In fact, I have the chance to build quite a good list of contacts. Why? Because I’ve always been honest and never burned bridges.
My dream in life is to be the writer who sits in his home office and makes the kids milk and cookies when they get home. I start dinner and my wife comes home from work. That’s my dream. My dream is not to be selling myself short by trying to obtain some sort of career that is expected of me.
I cannot obtain my dream by sitting in an office doing unrelated work. I need to get out of the office and make sacrifices in life in order to seek the work I want to do. I have to be aggressive and irritating in order to get magazine editors to notice me.
And they will. Don’t count me out. I will realize my dream. It’s why I went to college and it’s what I feel I should be. It will take ten times the work and dedication than any job I ever held and any company will require.
If that doesn’t fit with your plan in life then . . . well . . . don’t quit your job to become a freelancer. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea.
But me, I’ll be providing the life for my family that my own mother provided for me. I’ll be following my dreams; something few can say they’ve ever had the guts to do. And you know what? It’ll make me feel good.
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Posts for the date of Monday, January 14, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:59 PM |
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Not to be depressing, but today would have been my dad’s 73rd birthday. I say this because it suddenly hit me as I was sitting at my desk, trying to figure out what to do next. The date just came flying out of the air and hit me like a ton of bricks.
My dad died when I was five-years-old. That’s hardly enough time to get to know someone, especially when the majority of your time is spent soiling yourself and eating dirt (referring to myself, not my dad). Most of the time I’m not sure if I remember my father, or I’m remembering other people’s memories? I can’t say for sure how my dad smelled, but I’m sure he had a smell all his own (most dads do). I imagine it was pretty Old Spicey.
I remember sharing beer with my dad. I had this tiny little beer mug that he would pour a swig into and I’d get to share a moment with him. (I remember this one clearly. This isn’t a perceived memory.) I remember “taking rides” on his stomach. He’d lie on the couch and I’d lie on top of him. He’d breathe. I’d go up and down. (It was the seventies. I was five. There wasn’t much else to do.)
Other odd things I remember were the glasses he and my mom drank cocktails out of. They had the same patter on the bottom that you’d find on a meat tenderizer. I remember visiting his office and usually walking out with some sort of weird trinket. I remember his car. I remember going to the football games he coached.
Anyway, today being his birthday I began thinking about the things that have come about since 1978 that my dad would enjoy.
1. Picture-in-Picture. That way he could watch more than one football game on Sundays.
2. CD/Cassette players in the car. Very few radio stations play Vaughan Monroe these days.
3. DVD players. My dad loved westerns and war movies. If he saw The Searchers on DVD, in wide screen, with a good sound system . . . he’d be in heaven.
4. Borders. My dad loved to read books on war and the Wild West as much as he loved the movies. Borders has both.
5. Microwave popcorn. Five minutes and you’ll have theater corn. No oil, no monitoring.
6. Cable.
7. Being a grandpa.
Things he may not like:
1. I’m not sure they make station wagons in his signature color of red anymore.
2. Brittany Spears (although he’d have some great comments about her).
3. The Kiel Center. Or the Savvis Center, whatever the hell it is. I’d have to agree. It doesn’t quite match up to the Arena.
4. The fact that Dances With Wolves was listed as one of the top ten Westerns of all time.
So, anyway . . . just wanted to say Happy Birthday Dad, where ever you are. Give mom a kiss for me, would ya?
And tell her we’re all okay.
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