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Posts for the date of Friday, June 14, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:22 AM |
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Correction to Miss Pudding's comments. They will be eating sushi. I will be eating pizza. That's an exotic international dish that has been properly homoginized by the US, broken down into its main components and allowed to become virtually the same, no matter where you get it. Added bonus? It makes you dizzy as the plaque clogs a major artery.
Biking Update
Young Matilda, fresh from her triumph from running the mile in under three days in first grade, biked three miles today. It was her first non-neighborhood trip and she performed like a trooper. She still refuses to wear her helmet properly, but that's nothing some Crazy Glue and some carpet tacks wont fix.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:38 AM |
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Since Father’s Day is right around the corner, I was going to write a diatribe about how the media portrays dads as moronic half-wits who melt baby bottles in the oven. Of course, these dads are well meaning. However, if they are so stupid that they cannot figure out how to work a diaper, should they have been allowed to reproduce?
Rather than waste my energy on how the world has a hard time accepting the concept of a competent, loving dad, I’ve decided to take the day off and spend it with my daughter.
We’re going bike riding and then maybe to the Science Center. Or the zoo. Or miniature golfing. We haven’t decided yet.
Take that mom-centric Parents magazine!
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Posts for the date of Thursday, June 13, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:20 AM |
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I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I have enough irrational fears. I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept going over in my head, “do the Smiths have more irrational fears than I do? Does that make them a better modern person? Is that a spider on my leg? Get it off! Get it off!”
Once there was a time when people were supposed to be fearless. Enter a dark, scary cave, search out a bear, kill it, eat its liver, skin it and wear the hide back to camp? No problem! Why I’m sturdy pioneer folk. I eat rotten meat! I can do anything!
Not me. I’m a slovenly, fat suburbanite. There might be trilobites in that cave. Or meaner, now extinct arthropods hell-bent on trying to take over my brain and turn me into a member of the Reform Party supporting Jessie “The Mind” Ventura’s bid for Uber-Sexy Bald Guy Leader Person. Besides, I’ll get my Haggar slacks dirty. Seriously, they are nice pants.
And, to be honest, being brave takes so much . . . work. If it weren’t for the work, I’d be willing to do it. Besides, I’m a very delicate person. I don’t agree with wildlife.
To survive in suburbia, you have to be a little effete. You have to be a member of the semi-pseudo-elite. Otherwise they eat you alive. Dig in your garden without gloves?
My god! You’ll get dirt under your fingernails. Gasp! Do you drive a truck for a living?
No, of course not. I’m a writer and editor.
Gasp! Are you a heathen artsy type hell-bent on sodomizing my azaleas?
No, probably not. The Kings have a much nicer azalea bush with a truly bodacious, sweet stem that really gets me going.
The Kings do NOT have nicer azaleas. Mine are raised by professionals in the Appalachian Mountains. One of them is even named Zephaniah! The Kings buy theirs from a local nursery. Anyone knows if you want truly beautiful azaleas you have to buy straight from the source.
Crap. You see? That was a subversive little joke I made there. How can I possibly survive this jungle?
Which brings me back to my irrational fears. I need more. I’m positive the neighbors are out-fearing me by at least two to one. Currently I’m afraid of the following:
· Guys named “Joe”
· Platinum blonde hair
· Puerto Rican Cleaning Men
· Spider eggs
· Romanian Chickens
· Tofu dogs (actually gets me two points off)
· Dogs larger than a Bichon Friese
· A Bichon Friese who hasn’t been groomed in at least a week
· Lesbians with pitch forks
· Domestic cars
· Bottled water from the Eastern US.
· Rabid Marmosets
· The Gap
I have more, but it’s not enough. Just the other day I was talking to the Smiths and they told me that they just invested in an alarm that indicates when there is only 80% potpourri saturation in their living room air. “After all,” Mrs. Smith told me, “one never wants your house to smell, well . . . plain.”
Does my house smell plain? What are houses supposed to smell like? I don’t have potpourri at all. I need to invest in something that will make my house smell less plain. I wonder what flavor my house is? Good! I have a new irrational fear! That my house has not been properly matched to this season’s in fragrances. I need to come up with a master fragrancy plan.
I don’t think frangrancy is a word. I’ll bet the Smiths wouldn’t use a word that isn’t documented in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Still, I worry. I hope I can sleep tonight. I tend to toss and turn when I’m worried. I’m concerned that all this worrying is going to give me insomnia. That’s just what I need!
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, June 11, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:13 PM |
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Matilda stays home with me three days a week. I work; she plays like a normal kid. It’s a pretty good deal for both of us. I get to have her home to talk to and watch over, while she gets to have play with her friends and go swimming, when I get a modest amount of work done.
I’ve been working extra hours four days a week so that we can spend Friday together going to the zoo, science center or various other types of fun stuff.
Today, she dropped a bomb on me and let me know why parenting is a tough job.
It was humid today, with a threat of thunderstorm. Dark clouds hung low in the sky like, in an effort to show us who was in charge.
I was sitting at the computer, typing up information on one of the books we had worked on. We were fresh from the triumph of booking her birthday party at a local waterpark.
Matilda and her friend were sitting on the couch loading odd things into a small child’s purse. Important things like an inflatable frog, pop rocks, two small plastic watches and a small plastic whistle with the jingling ball missing.
Matilda went to close the purse, pinched her skin and, with the confidence of a forty year old, trampy woman exclaimed, “damn it!”
Immediately I flashed forward to the future. There she was, my beautiful daughter, in neon orange hot pants, a skintight Hooters shirt, smoking a cigarette, careful not to inflame the two cold sores on her lip nor ignite her carefully hair sprayed coif.
“See, Daddy,” she was telling me, “I got me a good job at the Hooters. It ain’t whorin’ myself. And just because Cletus is a carnie with not past don’t mean that we can’t get married.”
Snapping myself back into reality, I quickly ran down every instance where I used an expletive. They were many. I was guilty. Here it was, the moment of truth and I, the father of ill repute, had led my own daughter to this exact spot. How could I tell her she was wrong when I knew she’d just say, “You said it yourself!”
I was in a tight spot. I had to carefully move myself into a more comfortable position. But how? I had to admit my own guilt and tell her that I just wished her to have a better life.
A life free of the profane! A life free of expletives. A life without fear of being in a heady situation and saying to her schoolteacher, “You bet your ass two and two are four.”
The words hung in the air. There was a gasp from the friend, then silence. I turned towards the kids. Matilda had the same look as a condemned man who had just finished his last meal. I put on my Ward Cleaver face. Stern, but loving.
I called her to me and she came, slowly. She didn’t give me the teary doe eyes; I commend her for that. She knew she had done something wrong.
I explained to her that it was a bad word. I told her I knew that she probably heard it on TV, and from some of the older kids. “And,” I said, “I’ll bet you’ve even heard me say. Maybe even Grandpa or one of your uncles.” She nodded.
I told her that bad words were a sign that you couldn’t think of something smarter to say. I also explained that it was a very bad habit to get into and that if she ever caught me saying a bad word that he should remind me to find a better way to express myself.
She accepted that. I promised her I wouldn’t tell mom. I’ll let her find out for herself that when one of your kids does something like this that the first thing you do is to share it with everyone you know. Kids don’t understand that things like this are cute in an odd way.
To her, she has betrayed her parents and spoken the unspeakable. But it’s no big deal. She’ll say much worse to me in the future, including “Cletus and I are engaged.”
But, for now, I think she’s learned a lesson. And so have I. The boundaries are changing. And she, at the ripe old age of nearly seven, is going to begin to push them in different ways. She’s moved past the stage of jumping off the stairs because she isn’t supposed to. She’s investigating the taboo.
Though I’m disappointed, both in her, and myself I’m also a little proud. She’s growing up. And she’s exerting her independence. She’s trying new things. Granted, this time it was the wrong thing. But, your mistakes are what make you grow. If we never fail, if we never make a mistake, then we just aren’t trying hard enough.
Failure is the first step to success. I’m sure Einstein screwed up the Theory of Relativity a few times. I’m sure Shakespeare said to his mother “Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!”
It’s okay to screw up once in a while. I do. And damn it, I’m okay.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:30 AM |
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The baby woke me up at five a.m. this morning. Nothing too pressing. She was either lonely, hungry or suddenly stricken with a sense of dread borne out of what she considered poor handling of complex international matters by the last five presidential administrations which means that her generation will be saddled with a horrible responsibility that she didn’t feel it would be ready to handle.
I went and picked her up and handed her to her mother, who proceeded to provide the sweet nectar of life. Or something. They dozed of in content, sated slumber until the alarm went off.
For me, it was too late. Somewhere in the last few weeks the seeds of a bout with insomnia has been laid. Which is particularly biting because after the baby was born, my insomnia went out the door.
It’s not that I’m physically incapable of sleep in these instances. My brain simply won’t allow it. Imagine if you injected a gallon of coffee straight into your brain. That’s how this felt. My mind went from one connection to another at the blinding speed of light.
There’s a crack in the ceiling. What if that crack opens up and swallows us and takes to the depths of Hell? What if Hell is actually a place here on Earth, like Detroit under a methane cloud? Can gastrointestinal gas kill you? Did they name it gas because of the word gastro? Or did they call it gastro because of gas? Will the price of gas keep rising? Look the sun is coming up. What generation of my relatives will be on Earth when the sun goes super nova? Would they know that the end of the world was coming? What would happen to civilization if we knew that the world would end at a certain point? Would we devolve into anarchy? Or would we become a group of hedonists? Speaking of hedonism, why is Mick Jagger being knighted? What did he do? I never like the Stones that much. Sure, they wrote some good music but are they truly classics? In the beginning they were pretty much a white boy blues band. Lennon and McCartney were much better. Macca’s getting married today. To a one-legged-activist-model. Why can’t I be something hyphenated? Maybe I should take on a cause. What would my cause be? Americans for the Reduction of Pamela Lee? Concerned Citizens for the Destruction of Creed? I don’t have a cause. Maybe I should get a cause. Maybe I should worry about social issues like violence or drug abuse. Yeah, I could work with crack addicts. Look. There’s a crack on the ceiling. What if that crack opens . . .
And on and on. The alarm would go off and I’d hit snooze. I’d hit it with a certain vitriol that one (who doesn’t HAVE to get up at any particular time) would feel when they (who always falls asleep later) has been designated the snooze guy.
My wife finally went off to take a shower and I was left alone with the baby. She was sleeping like a . . . . well . . . baby. I was wide awake.
I suppose I could have gotten up. It was useless sitting there. But, the baby was all snuggly and cute. Why ruin it?
Ten minutes before I was supposed to get up I was sound asleep. My wife woke me up and I think I either a) asked her if I could sleep for another five minutes or b) told her that if she valued her life she would go back downstairs and not consider waking me up again.
Considering how I usually am in the morning (grumpy) I’m betting that I wasn’t polite in the least. My wife is a saint. She genially accepts that I’m not a morning person. She also accepts that I’m grumpy on Tuesdays, the third Wednesday of any month with an R in it, during Republican administrations, after drinking cheap coffee, near any state with less than three right angles, 1000 feet or more above sea level and when listening to the local “Modern” rock station. I should do more to show my appreciation. Maybe she’d like a nice ham.
Ten minutes later my wife came in to get the sweet, cuddly, snoring baby to get her ready for the sitter. She started stroking the baby’s hair (more like fuzz, but it smells good) and the little monster stirred. And reared up in a growl like a lion who had just been poked in the rectum with a flaming, pointed stick. She grunted, rolled angrily and moaned as if being picked up to have her diaper changed in the morning was a capital crime.
Poor baby didn’t want to wake up. I could see the look in her eyes that said, “Woman, when I can walk, talk and have more refined motor skills if you ever wake me again there will be hell to pay.”
She’s daddy’s little girl.
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Posts for the date of Monday, June 10, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:38 AM |
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I was sitting quietly at my computer typing a letter to some of my authors on Friday afternoon when Matilda and her friend came bursting through the door.
“There’s a hurt bird” they cried, nearly hysterical.
I walked outside with them and, surely enough; there was a little bird on the sidewalk with a broken wing. In fact, it looked as if the wing was nearly severed. The bird was surprisingly calm and allowed us to approach it.
I talked it over with the friend’s mom and we tried to figure out what to do. We didn’t know.
The girls were quickly getting more and more upset. They were devising plans. They’d nurse it back to health. They’d build it a home outside and allow it to recover.
To a six-year-old, these are reasonable responses. To a weathered adult, I knew that none would work. This bird would either die on the sidewalk or we’d have to get it professional help.
Matilda offered several options. Call 911. No, I’m afraid they only do humans. Call Kismet’s (our cat) vet. Well, as great as he is, I’m sure he has to draw the line at wild animals.
I left them to tend to the bird while I did some impromptu research. Which was like dealing with the seventeen layers of the FBI.
I called the Humane Society. They suggested the Missouri Conservation Department. The Missouri Conservation Department suggested a wildlife refuge, which was an hour and a half away. The wildlife refuge suggested the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center, which was relatively close by. I called, they told me how to capture the bird and how to get there. We were on the case.
The girls rounded up an old towel and a shoebox. They promptly poked holes in the box and we set out to get the bird.
We placed the towel over the bird and allowed it to calm down. We were then supposed to pick up the bird and place it in the box. But, how to do this without further hurting its already injured wing?
Matilda’s friend’s mom tried. I tried. To no avail. We just couldn’t do it because we were afraid of crushing that delicate wing. Finally I just placed the box next to the bird. I’ll be damned if he didn’t hop right in.
The girls and I rushed to the car and hit the road. To be stopped by rush hour traffic. They opened the windows and started yelling that this was an emergency. However, I didn’t want to be pulled over under suspicion of kidnapped two girls. So I nixed that.
They took turns holding the box, cooing and talking to the bird. For most of the drive, we wondered if the poor thing was alive. Finally, after hitting a bump, he stirred. There was a huge sigh of relief from the backseat.
We arrived at the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center. It was a tiny hole in the wall on the outskirts of civilized suburbia. It’s a volunteer organization, which seems to garner quite a bit of support.
I filled out the forms while the girls explained the situation to the woman behind the counter. Where he was found, what they think happened, etc. The woman told us that our little friend was a Chimney Swift. It looked like a car had clipped him. (She confirmed that it was a “he”.)
I gave a small donation for his care and inquired about what would happen.
This woman clearly understood the psyche of children. She looked straight at the girls and said, “We’ll look him over and see how badly he’s hurt and treat his injury. If he’s able to fly again, we’ll release him. If not, he’ll live here with us or with one of our volunteers. Because he’s an adult, we’ll release him in your neighborhood.”
She went on to tell us that we could watch his release when that day comes.
Walking back to the car, the girls talked of heroes. They felt that, without a doubt, they were heroes. And, to that bird, perhaps they were.
I was proud of them. They really stood up under pressure. They were insistent that we help the little guy. They pushed for us to find out how to help him. They dropped everything to go on our emergency run to the birdie hospital.
Most kids probably would have sat there feeling helpless, watching the poor bird die. Not my daughter. She helped. And I’m proud of her.
We celebrated their heroism with a cold soda on the drive home. A well-deserved treat for two young heroes of the aviary world.
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