Wanderlust

These eyes

"these eyes, are cryin'
these eyes have seen a lot of love,
but they're never gonna see another one like I had with you"

Apparently I've been not getting enough oxygen in my eyes because I have an cornea ulcer. I woke up on Friday morning with a searing pain in my eye like someone turned on the light in the middle of the night. It was an extreme case of photophobia. I didn't think much about it until it happened three mornings in a row. On Sunday morning the pain woke me up and it hurt like someone had turned on the light and then stabbed my left eye with a sharp pencil. It was 6am and it hurt so bad and it was the thrid day in a row, I even wept a bit. I was too tired to think straight and I thought I was going blind and I wouldn't be able to see anymore. But after a couple of hours it was slightly better.

I decided to call my eye doctor on a Sunday after noon and he met me at his office 30 minutes later. He diagnosed it and gave me a perscription for steriods mixed in a antibateria solution. He also gave me eye drops that makes my eye dialate to the extreme. That is what the picture is for. Can you guess which eye has the ulcer? So now I can't wear contacts for a week, and I need to take my contacts out a little more often. All so my eyes can have more oxygen. They need to breathe dammit! (Oh and on a side note, that was the first time in about 4 years that I've picked up a perscription for a drug. Drugs are bad, mmmkay? No offense Holly.)

He's mine. I swear.

From early on, the decided consensus seems to be that Owen looks like George. I never was able to see it much, I guess because I spend 24/7 staring at the both of them until their features become an indistinguishable puddle of goo. All the carrying on about how much Owen resembles George is slightly offensive, considering he put five minutes of effort (not even) into this venture while I put in nine months of torturous pregnancy and nine hours of labor (with THREE HOURS OF PUSHING). Seems somewhat unfair. But a few months ago, I could see some features of Owen's face that reminded me of something. When my Mom dug up some baby pics and brought them along on one of her visits recently, I knew what it was. So here's both Owen and I at exactly six months. I'm the one in the dress, smartass.

My Breast, my baby

When you have a baby, all manner of unsolicited baby paraphenalia arrives in the mail. One of the items I actually appreciate is "Baby Talk" magazine. It's free, probably because it's so chock full of ads it would seem like adding insult to injury to charge for a copy. As a matter of fact, the new edition came in the mail just a few days ago. I perused it quickly and then a day or two later, read it more thoroughly. I gleaned a few products to check out, a few money saving tips and was also a little shocked by some of the statistical material in the breastfeeding article that was the cover story. But otherwise, I noticed nothing unusual or noteworthy about the magazine and threw it away. It's in my bathroom trash as we speak.

Then I saw this article in the Washington Post and on CNN. I was positively baffled and frankly, deeply dissapointed. Apparently, because the Baby Talk magazine had a picture of half of a breast with a baby at the nipple (you actually couldn't see a nipple because the baby's mouth was entirely covering it), many readers thought it was scandalous. One women even commented "Gross," and I'd like to find her and inspect her lingerie drawer because I would bet money that she still wears her days of the week underpants from sixth grade. I saw the cover and not a single thought crossed my mind except that I hoped the breastfeeding article would tell me something I didn't already know (it didn't). It was mostly about the various reasons women don't stick with breastfeeding, despite the fact that they are strongly encouraged to do so by the hospital, pediatrician, World Health Organization, American Academy of Pediatrics, etc. While I wasn't surprised that the number one reason women quit breastfeeding is due to difficulties (including sore nipples, milk volume issues- and I can sympathize with that!), I was shocked to see that 15% or more felt that the social stigma attached to breastfeeding was a major factor in their decision.

Those 15% of you- meet me at Camera 3. Women don't breastfeed because it's cool to feel like a human cow, or because the world thinks it's a beautiful expression of love and intimacy to see an infant curled into the crook of it's mother's arm (although we should feel that way). Mothers choose to breastfeed because it is the best thing in the world you can do for you baby. It will give them antibodies, perfect nourishment and have far reaching health benefits. And doing the best thing for your baby should never be something you should have to hide under a blanket or in the bathroom. (For the record- I will never breastfeed my baby in a public restroom. Do you eat in the bathroom? Gross.) If the rest of society seems to have sexualized the sight of an exposed breast, that's their problem. Once again, Europeans make us look like squeamish middle schoolers when it comes to accepting the normalness of human nakedness. We are all naked under our clothes. Suck it up, ladies (and sadly, it's the women that have a problem with this. This is the same reason it took us so long to get the vote. Because the stupid bitches just don't know how to stick together. They're like the Democrats). I don't mind being discreet at the dinner table or on a public park bench. I'm not trying to flash the small portion of the world who haven't already seen my breasts. And I'll even admit to my own feelings of self conciousness about breastfeeding in public. But to give into that societal pressure and to pass along those feelings of shame about our bodies is a much larger wrong than any dirty look you'll receive from some prudish bitch. We're women. We have breasts. They serve a purpose. To feed our babies. It's an awesome gift and a responsibility. Don't let anyone take it away from you.

Why Pioneers really piss me off

For those of you who live in NORMAL states with a non-cultlike social atmosphere, it may come as something of a surprise to know that we have an unofficial but widely celebrated holiday here in Utah called "Pioneer Days." It is, in fact, nearly a week long celebration that culminates in several days of heritage type activities, buttloads of fireworks, rodeos and parades galore. Main Streets shut down, people take the day off from work, and children get to choke on hotdogs and run around high on cotton candy and soda. Sounds just like the 4th, only Utahians make it bigger and better because it holds such a special place in their history. They do re-enactments of covered wagon voyages, wear stupidly hot long skirts and bonnets in boiling July heat, and inundate their children with stories of pioneer trials and tribulations.

It is, of course, a celebration of the very day on July 24th when Brigham Young, in a dazed fever from what I am suspicious was a venerial disease, looked out over the Salt Lake Valley, waved his hand and said "This is the Place." Mormons hold this day as an independence day of sorts and keep it holier than the 4th, which is entirely scary to me and most of the rest of the non Momo Utah population. We've just wound up 2006 Pioneer Days over the weekend here and I've survived another year unscathed. Everytime it comes around, I grow anxious that Utah is going to announce their sucession from the Union and that I'll get hung as a rebellious traitor.

For more info on the Pioneer Madness that inflicts Mormonland in July (or in case you think I'm exaggerating), check out this site.
http://saltlakecity.about.com/od/pioneerday/a/pioneerday.htm

The circle of life

My grandmother had lung cancer and died at 92. Before her death she was pretty much self sufficent and lived in the house where I have most, if not all, of my memories as a grandson of two grandparents.

My grandmother is the quintessential grandma in every way I can imagine. She was firm yet loving, spoiling but not to the point of assuming I'd be spoiled. When my grandfather was alive, the house seemed like it was a grandparent's house. I can't really explain that, but when I think of how a grandparent's house should be, it is exactly like it was the last time I saw her. Whenever I came over for lunch or dinner, she made a full spread of food. Right down to the homemade applesauce. I swear everytime I have ever eaten at her house (even for family events), I've had homemade apple or pear sauce. There was always some homemade food around, from cake to cookies to frozen home-grown green beans, peas, tomatoes, etc. She has kept a garden for as long as I can remember and most of her vegetables were from the garden.

She was short and round and had a Pennslyvania German accent. I didn't really notice much until I lived in Utah. Everything about her seemed like a grandmother. Almost to point that I can't imagine she ever was anything but a grandmother. I can't imagine her being 32 like me, figuring out how to raise a kid. I think she just knew it from birth and immediately was a grandmother. At least that is what I'd like to think. I wish I could share her grandmother-ness with everyone, because I hope everyone has or had a grandmother like her.

Since I moved to Utah, everytime I saw her, I assumed it could be the last time. I distinctly remember visiting her last summer. As I left her house, I paused, took a deep breath, scanned the surroundings, looked at Grandma, and stepped outside. I wanted to enjoy the grandmother-ness just a little longer. Moving to Utah ensured that I wouldn't be able to see or talk to her as much as I 'd like or should. Life has a way grabbing you by the balls and make you focus on what is right in front of you. I am sad that she has died. I am sad that I didn't get to say more things to her. The cancer came suddenly and it took her quick. Originally it was 1-2 years, then 6 months, then a month, then a couple of days. It seemed like that progression was over a week, but I guess it was more like a little less than a month.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I had a chance to speak to her one last time. Before the cancer took her. I did not speak to her. At first I felt bad for not taking the time. But I do not regret it. I did not know what to say to her. I had no clue. Sure there were things to say, I love you, you meant alot to me, blah blah blah... But I guess I didn't know how to put things into words, telling someone something knowing they are going to die and that will be the last words you would say to them. Sounds like a cheap movie. I made my peace with her the last time I saw her. Everytime I talked to her on the phone, I assumed it could be the last. I knew, living in Utah, that each time could be the last. I guess I prepared myself for the eventual outcome.

The reason I posted the last two pictures, one of Grandma, one of Owen is because of one simple thing. When I found out my grandmother was sick, I was a father. Everytime I thought about her and I was holding Owen, it made her eventual death seem okay. Everyone dies, life is certain in that. But when I hold Owen, I am reminded that life is pushing Owen to live, to grow. He has almost gained twice his weight in 6 months. That is incredible. He is learning faster that anyone I've known. Everyday for him is something new to learn, to master, and to build upon. For my grandmother, death was pulling her down. Pulling her into nothing. Even without the cancer, death was right there, tugging on her, making things difficult. It is like a paradox for me. On one hand life, the other death. Without her, Owen wouldn't be possible. In a strange way, she must die so Owen can live. It is a circle of life.

So my feeling all weekend as been something of a happy sadness. My life has taken on something totally and completely different; focusing on Owen instead of other things. I wish Owen could have met Grandma. I think he would have totally thought she was the best thing. I can imagine him smilling at her as she talks to him. But he must grow and live, so one day he too, can die.

Dump Truck

Check out Owen's dump truck. Pictures taken today.
        

The last of my grandparents

My last grandmother died today at 10:20EST. Now I have no more grandparents.
Just like that.

(Picture was taken in June, and that is my sister Gretchen.)

Letters to the O

Six Months

The house has been filled with your infectious, breathless giggling this month. Your Daddy and I have spent long hours enthralled with making you laugh, willing to do all manner of ridiculous and humilating things just to illicit that uncontrollable spasm of giggling and shrieking. This month you seem to prefer animal sounds- the sillier the better. Favorites include anything ending in oo- "moo," Whoo-whoo," and "Cockle Doodle Doo" all get an immediate, delighted response. You've also become enormously ticklish, especially under your armpits, and even the threat of tickling fingers in your vicinty sends you off into peals of shrieking laughter.

We've begun to feed you real food- mainly just cereal so far. You are the most vocal eater, constantly making all sorts of grunts and throaty protests as you obligingly open your mouth so I can shovel more in. When I don't put enough breastmilk to sweeten up your cereal, you make faces and gag as if I am the worst sort of mother and I've just fed you your own feces. Your protesting cries, in fact, have become as loud in the house as your laughter and you are quick to sound the alarm of personal dissatisfaction everytime I dare to turn a corner beyond your line of sight. Your mommy attachment has become so severe and dehabilitating that Daddy is concerned for your future manhood. When he holds you, you reach your hands out to me and make pathetic little mewing cries that can only be quenched by immediate mommy contact or a verse of "Old McDonald had a Farm." You've even learned to hide your satisfied smirk when you've gotten your way into the shadow of my shoulder, but I've noticed and begun to deny you small things in an effort to build your patience and decrease your stubborn will. Life sucks, kid. And I can make it suck harder. Get used to it.

Perhaps your increasing demands have to do with those tiny little teeth that are painfully pushing on your tender gums. You've begun the first stages of teething and seem to edge on irrational breakdown at the drop of a hat. It's disrupted your nighttime sleep and sent me into my own fog of irritability. I've resorted to the monsterous poison of television to get through a daily shower without paniced screams. You're enthralled with Blues Clues and when I hum the "Goodbye" song you smile happily in recognition. God damn TV. It's just too easy.

While last month you could be trusted to sit up propped on a pillow for a reasonable amount of time, you can now sit independently for several minutes. We've made a game of it by sitting you in the middle of the bed and counting until you fall over. This is what we play when I'm getting dressed or folding laundry and when you fall over you squeal and rub your face into the sheets and wait fo rme to come and prop you up again. You hold onto your toes for leverage and have even begun to suck your big toe from this position, a habit which must certainly be your father's fault since he's from Kentucky.

You also amuse me with your impression of what I call "Darth Baby." You make these throaty, husky gurgles in the back of your throat while scrunching your eyebrows together. Perhaps you're trying to imitate the deeper tones of adult conversation, but I find it hilariously endearing. One of the other endearing things I've noticed about you this month is your walking stride. You always start with your left foot and bring it back to center and then take a right step, as if you were a tiny Buckingham Palace soldier and your life depended on the straight-legged percision of your baby steps.

For all the small quirks and irritabilities that have popped into being this month, you remain easy to please. In the middle of the night, when uncomfortable or frightened, I only have to scoop you up from your crib and let you nuzzle into the crook of my neck. The tears immediate cease and you sigh and snuggle your head in closer as if you've found your way home. And I stand there with you for long moments, half asleep, loving that small gesture of yours in the middle of the night.

Memoirs on Mommihood Part XV

The Parenting Club: Membership has its benefits.

It wasn't so long ago when I used to look at frazzled parents in shopping mall parking lots, dragging their kids from cart to car seat to stroller and think: "Now why would anyone in their right minds put themselves through such a torture?" Having children seemed then some distant possibility to ponder after I'd done everything, seen the world, made my fortune, and fucked Pierce Brosnan senseless.

And now here I am... struggling pitifully under mounds of debt, virtually housebound with a small bundle of defenselss, endlessly needy human. Pierce Brosnan would have to resort to Chinese water torture just to keep me awake during unspeakable sex acts. I look into the mirror only to realize that I haven't looked into the mirror all day and that I must have had that long line of spitup running down the side of my shirt when I went to the bank this morning. That highly unglamorous, tortorous, enormously stupid life seems to suddenly be mine.

Ever since this spring, I'd been looking forward to attending a particular wedding this summer. Out of the three invitiations we'd received, this was the only one we decided to attend. I'd even imagined myself in a devastating dress and zeroed in on the wedding date at the end of August as a deadline for major weight loss. George and I had made plans to go by ourselves for a wild, adult spree, leaving Owen (and the dogs) with my Mom for a few days. I had been staying up late and pumping breastmilk, stocking up a supply like a dutiful Mormon preparing for the second coming. I had stored away more than twenty servings for Owen over the course of the last three months. When my Mom let us know that she wouldn't be able to come watch Owen, I was somewhat dissapointed. Oops... there goes the naked orgies. But I tucked an image of Owen perched on my hip into the scene with the devastating dress and it didn't look so bad. I could be wild, I could be reckless, and I could sing all the verses to "Wheels on the Bus." My sexy swingin' days weren't dead yet.

Yesterday the couple made it known that this event was absolutely, irrevocably, unequivocally an "adults only" event, a fact which had escaped my mental grasp. I completely understood and sympathized with their position. It wasn't so long ago when it was me, horrified by the thought of wailing child within a twenty foot radius. I was, however, crushed with deep disappointment and another, more subtle emotion that was slippery and difficult to define. I realized later that it was the sting of rejection. For the first time in my life, I'd been excluded from something on the basis of who I was. A parent. It was an uncomfortable sensation but it gave rise to something unexpected.

Unable to sleep, I wandered into Owen's room and hovered over his crib, tucking the covers around him and listening to his breathy sighs. And instead of feeling sorry for myself and the opportunities I would miss, I felt sorry for all the people who might never hear his squealing giggles or see his open, delighted, gummy smile. And a feeling of deep tenderness engulfed me when I realized how much better every moment of my life after this would be simply because Owen would be there, breathing life and laughter into every corner of it. So instead of imagining myself twirling across the dance floor in my devastating dress, I painted a picture of Owen and I, romping in the mellow sunshine of twilight on the back lawn, my skirts ruffling in the breeze. It was almost perfect... just missing one tiny little touch. There. Pierce Brosnan watching us from the porch, holding a tall, cool glass of lemonade. Ahhh... now there's a life worth imagining.

The Cilantro Nazi

George has a dirty little culinary secret I'm going to share with the blogging world. He can't get enough cilantro. Seriously. The man has a hard on for those green leafed, fragrant stalks like you wouldn't believe. Saying George loves cilantro is like saying Bill O'Reilly is a delusional prick. It's a bit of an understatement.

This is somewhat problematic for me as chief culinary assistant (otherwise known as "the bitch"), because it is my duty to chop and prepare all herbs when George decides to cook. I could pick and cut half a bowl full of cilantro and George would scan it with his discriminatory eye and yell "More, more, more!" Most people, when they buy a bunch of fresh cilantro from the grocery store, rarely get to use it all before it wilts and rots. Not in this house. It ends up in and on everything. Here's a sampling of our dinner menu from last week. I typically cook during the week because I'm the resident SAHM (Stupid Asshole Housebound with the Mormons), so most of these meals were my creation.

Monday: Chicken Sausage with Carmelized Onions & Fresh Green Beans
Tuesday: Cilantro Grilled Ahi Steaks, Coconut Pineapple Rice & Roasted Asparagus with Lemon Juice
Wednesday: Indian Spiced Pork (with Cilantro), Spinach Naan and fresh Corn on the Cob
Thursday: Marinated Grilled Chicken (garnished with cilantro), Annie's pasta and fresh Green Beans
Friday: Pad Thai with Tofu (and LOTS of cilantro)
Saturday: Take out Sushi
Sunday: New York Steak and fresh grilled Zuchinni

And please understand, if I would consent to offer it, George would eat his Flax 'n Oats morning bowl of oatmeal with cilantro. I think when he dies I'm gonna grow it on his grave. Just to make sure he gets his fill of it even when he's up there kicking Jesus in the teeth.

I'm your daddy

Syd Barrett is dead.

Syd Barrett has died. It's a sad day.
Read more here.

Pictures Delayed

Here are the long delayed and much anticipated pictures from the last month of Owen. We were waiting for George's monitor situation to be resolved (it was dying a slow, torturous death). When I was sorting through the photos, I realized we hadn't taken very many so we've been much better at making sure we get the camera out more often this month. So for all those O fans out there (translation: Grandparents), here's your monthly dose of Bobblehead.

Weekend Warriors

I think George and I will have confirmed our insanity to all of our friends and family when I disclose that this past holiday weekend we embarked on a 8 hour drive into the boonies of Nevada crammed into our truck with a five month infant, two large, drooling dogs, and an air compressor. The fact that I'm now coherent enough to type this two days after our miraculous arrival home is a feat of human endurance in the face of overwhelming exhaustion. You see, I thought it would be a good idea to travel at night when Owen would be sleeping rather than attempt to entertain him for the entire trip. Hey, I'm still new at this.

It worked out pretty well on the way there. We left our house here in Ogden at about 4:30 for Fallon, Nevada to visit Auntie Gretchen and Uncle Bert. We went to get a look at their new house and to deliver Uncle Bert's air compressor, which we'd been storing for him until the day when he would be blessed with his own spacious garage. The dogs stayed up front in the cab until sundown when the back of the truck would be cool enough not to stifle the living breath out of them. I sat in back with Owen and sang "Five Little Ducks," until I wanted to throttle myself. He drifted off for a short nap, breastfed and then went to sleep for the night around Elko, at which point I took the wheel and drove us the rest of the way to Fallon. We arrived, tired but intact, at 12:30 pm.

After a lazy, long visit and an increasingly amount of tension between the FOUR different species occupying the house for the weekend, (Point of information: Dogs will eat guinea pigs without hesitation if given the opportunity), as well as some fun with guns (don't worry. It was only a flesh wound), we decided to depart late in the evening on Monday. This was my bright idea. Owen had been sleeping well at Auntie Gretchen's and I felt sufficiently rested to attempt an all night drive. Owen fell asleep and after a short dip in Auntie Gretchen's hottub, we packed up the truck and woke Owen up to leave.

This is where it gets scary, because Owen was pissed. After only being asleep an hour, he didn't understand why it was necessary to expose him to bright lights and loud voices. I got him calmed down enough to nurse again and drift off to sleep, but he woke several times and by the time we reached Elko again and it was my turn to drive, he was a fussy ball of intolerable baby. We got him back to sleep somehow and I managed to do the long haul home with a half cup of coffee while George and Owen snored away. We arrived here in Ogden at 5:30 am, just as the sun was rising. There's nothing so painful as seeing the sun rise when you really don't want to.

So next time we try to pack so much fun and excitement into one weekend, I'll make a mental note to myself. Have dogs, have kids- no fun allowed.