The Walking Man

Recently, based the history of heart disease in my family, my doctor referred me to the hospital to have a “stress test.” The “test” essentially consists of walking for awhile on a treadmill at increasing rates of speed while nine different monitors attached to various places on your chest are read by computer. Mine was an “echo” stress test, which meant that they also took ultrasound pictures of my heart while resting and once my heart rate had reached a certain target.

Now I have never belonged to a health club or had other occasion to use a treadmill, other than maybe for 30 seconds at a store. But lets face it, its not brain surgery. It is, when you get right down to it, walking and/or jogging. That is why I was unprepared for the looks of grave concern and trepidation on the faces of all three nurses as they learned, one by one, of my paucity of treadmill experience. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ON A TREADMILL???” they exclaimed, clearly alarmed. One even pressed me, insisting that I must have at least been on one to mess around, even if I hadn’t been serious about getting some cardiovascular activity. I felt like I had just told them I had never taken a ride in one of them newfangled auto-mobiles or seen a talking picture show. I stuck to my story through their interrogation concerning my treadmill experience, or lack thereof, which was easy considering it was the truth rather than, say, some Roger Clemens-style pack ‘o lies. Finally, satisfied that I was genuinely inexperienced and was therefore facing near certain death, each nurse then felt the need to explain in detail how a treadmill works, where to stand, where to put my hands, etc. I assured them that I grasped the basic concept and that it would be fine but I could tell they were not so sure. While all this was going on, they shaved various patches of my chest hair off to attach the monitors, leaving me with a “40-year Old Virgin” style patchy chest hair look. Normally, that wouldn’t be problem, it being February in Chicago and all, but unfortunately for me we are off to Florida for a little down time shortly.

Anyway, the test finally got underway, as I stepped aboard the great machine and it began to move. As it moved, I walked. It was then that things got even more bizarre as the nurses, apparently convinced of my doom mere moments ago, now began to marvel at my treadmill skills with comments that included, and I am not making this up “Are you SURE you have never done this before” and “You are so good, you must do a lot of walking.” The former is a compliment that hasn’t graced my ears since a particularly memorable night back in 1984, although that involved more horizontal-type activity. But the latter, what do you even say to that? “Why yes, as a matter of fact I do. Walked in here from the parking lot, if you must know. I may even walk a bit more later, perhaps around the block, or to the library and back. I thought about turning professional once, but it’s hard to make a living on the circuit, even with my natural abilities.” With each increasing level of speed on the treadmill, they became more open and enthusiastic in their admiration. Finally, my stint on the treadmill having come to a triumphant end, the machine having eventually wrestled my heart-rate up to what the staff considered an acceptable rate, the technician having studied the ultrasound pictures intently for a few moments and having decided I was not on the verge of death, I was dismissed – given my walking papers, so to speak.

As I strode through the halls of the hospital, the fresh knowledge of my natural walking ability lending a newfound confidence to my gait, I could feel the eyes of the staff and patients upon me and hear the whispers – “Who is that? So tall, so obviously talented, one foot placed successfully in front of the other time after time, never tripping or tiring, just moving inexorably forward towards his destination?? Yes, it is he. The Walking Man.”

Jesus Wore A Coonskin Cap

Owen is in his second year at a Catholic pre-school. Overall, we have been generally happy with his time there (although not so happy that we won't be packing him off to public school come next fall). Not having attended Catholic school myself, or even being Catholic for that matter, I have been interested, bemused and sometimes downright befuddled by the religious aspects of his pre-school education.

During the exciting weeks leading up to Christmas, for instance, we unloaded Owen’s backpack one day after school and found, among the usual two-inch thick pile of updates and fundraising pitches, a picture of Mary with a caption below that said “Mary is Jesus’ mother.” When you flipped the picture over, there was a picture of Joseph with a caption that said “Joseph is Jesus’ stepfather.” Now when you get right down to it, I suppose that is the technically correct term, but I had just never thought of it that way in all of my 41 plus years. Jesus was from a broken home? Jesus had an absentee father? I suppose you could say God is everywhere so he really wasn’t absent per se, but do you think with all he had to do, especially back then, that he was making it to every school play?? The whole thing conjures up images of a 16-year old Jesus, recently grounded yet again by Joseph after turning water into wine for he and his posse, yelling “Don’t tell me what to do, you’re not my real dad. My real Dad totally rules, and when he comes back for me, he’s gonna kick your ass! So go to Hell!”

Speaking of school plays, I attended my first during the recent Holiday season. How could I not, considering Owen had been promoted from his role as a cow in last year's Christmas production, all the way up to shepard this year (one of three shepards in the play, keeping watch over a single sheep, thereby creating a shepard to sheep ratio that the public schools could learn a thing or two from). He was outstanding, leading his two fellow shepards as they heartily shook Joseph's hand, mistakenly assuming, perhaps, that Joseph was Jesus’ father and congratulations were thus in order. By far the best part of the play was when the cast earnestly belted out some lyrics written by the teachers especially for the show to the tune of the old theme from Disney’s Davy Crockett. “Jesus, Baby Jesus, Born on Christmas Day.” Bit of a bad break for Jesus by the way, as every kid knows there is nothing worse than having your birthday so close to Christmas.

Most recently, and perhaps most bizarrely, this week Owen brought home what is allegedly a letter from God. The entire text is “Dear Owen, I Love You. God.” The I Love You is written in big white letters inside a large red heart – no God of fire and brimstone and eternal damnation at the old Catholic School apparently. Although it has been theorized that God might be a woman, it is not often assumed he/she is a junior-high aged girl. The “letter” is actually inside a fake airmail envelope, addressed simply to Owen and bearing the return address of “God, Heaven.” Not sure what the kids were told, but Owen was excitedly telling all of us that there is a post-office in Heaven. The stamp bears a picture of a single tree and gives no indication of what kind of currency they may use in Heaven. No postmark either. It would have been interesting to see whether it came through the branch office at the Vatican or, perhaps, was routed the long way through the sorting facility in Hell, which is definitely where I am headed for writing this post. Unless, of course, God Loves Me Too and I just don’t know yet because my letter is sitting in the Purgatory branch due to insufficient postage.

POTY Hopes Down the Drain

For those of you who have been on the edge of your seat since my September post, the votes are finally in, the ballots have been counted, the red (and somewhat stained) carpet has been rolled out, and the winner of the Parent Of The Year Award here on Cloud Eight is … Hey there. Stop rifling through the goodies in your POTY Award giftbag and pay attention. There will be plenty of time later to enjoy that sample size Head and Shoulders shampoo and leftover Halloween candy each lucky attendee will be taking home.

Anyway, the winner is … whoa, a dark horse candidate has swept in from nowhere to claim the prize. No, not Hillary Clinton. This is Illinois damn it, Obama country. Anyway, we are pleased to announce that this year’s award goes to none other than ... Suzy the Nanny.

That’s right, when it came right down to it, despite a year of solid parenting by both me and Deanna, neither of us were able to really distinguish ourselves from the crowd (I made a last ditch effort, but my attempt to potty-train 18-month old Cooper only pissed the boy off, sending my hopes, but nothing else, swirling down the drain). In the end, it is only right to give the nod to our awesome nanny who, in addition to taking such great care of the kids on a daily basis, keeps our chaotic lives and household afloat in a myriad of ways. She is, in all seriousness, truly a blessing. Well done, Suzy.

All right, enough of that, lets eat some three-month old Nerds.

The Blurry Line

I am not heavy into blogging culture, although I have certainly learned a lot about it in the past year. I post when I can, and sometimes there are lengthy periods of silence because either work and/or life in general have left me little time, or because I am not feeling particularly inspired. Still, I enjoy doing this and aspire to post more regularly. I marvel in slack-jawed amazement at those parenting bloggers who can write not only frequently, but who are also able to consistently have something funny or interesting to say (see e.g., Make It a Double, who is not only posting lengthy, well-written, often hilarious pieces frequently on his blog, but is writing (almost) daily pieces for StrollerDerby as well). I often wonder how they do it.

Even as infrequently as I post, it is interesting to me how it becomes a part of your life. When the kids do something particularly bizarre or cute, Deanna and/or I will look at the other and say “blog it.” Although I frequently do not, it shows how it becomes part of your mindset.

A few weeks ago, however, I found the line between blogging and reality being blurred, and fear I may have crossed the line. It was a Friday night, and Owen and I had just returned from buying a Christmas tree with my father-in-law.

As an aside, the tree, which passed my rigorous series of “freshness tests” on the lot (ramming it into the ground, smelling, running hand over needles, examining the “decorate by” date stamped on the trunk), would mysteriously drop about ½ of its needles by the next morning. Three weeks later, and the tree is now so dry that I wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted prior to the New Year. But I digress.

Having just returned from picking out our gem of a tree, we were sitting around with my in-laws, chit-chatting before putting the kids to bed, when Hayden made a bizarre noise. My father-in-law looked at him and said “Are you all right, buddy”, to which Hayden responded by puking a shower of corn, raisins, and other partially digested food onto a shag throw rug in the living room. Minutes later, we were in the kitchen, where Deanna was holding him against her after finishing holding him over the sink, when he made the same noise and, before anyone could move, deposited a thick chunky layer of yellow-orange puke all over her shoulder and chest. It was at this moment that I found myself reaching for … not a towel, but the camera. That’s right, with my son’s body wracked and heaving, and my wife covered in nastiness, I thought to myself “this would make a great picture for the blog!” Although Deanna’s shout of “What the Hell are you doing!?!” was enough to dissuade me from actually taking the photo, by that time I had actually picked up the camera (which lay tantalizingly close by), turned it on, and stood there considering whether to take the next step of asking my puke-covered wife to turn a little bit so that I could get a better angle. To be honest, I was already looking at an extended period in the doghouse by that point, so I should have just snapped away. Even three weeks later, feet firmly planted back on the reality side of the line, I contend that a picture like that capturing the less-cheery side of parenting would be a hell of a lot more fun to look at 25 years from now than yet another picture of smiling kids. Still, it was probably good to be reminded (then, and frequently since) that I am a father and husband first, and a photojournalist something like 27th, so although I will continue to chronicle the less-savory aspects of parenting from time to time, you may simply have to use your imaginations to picture the nasty details.

Hey Oldtimer!

Things that make me feel old:

Owen was having a pretend car race with some Hot Wheels cars, one of which I was informed was being driven by me (an orange 1970 Wildcat Dragster), another by Owen, and a third by Mickey Mouse. Owen stopped by the kitchen to tell me that I was in first place (I have noticed over the years that I am often in first early in Owen's races, but invariably crash or otherwise lose to Owen by the end). As he walks away, I hear him say "Watch this, oldtimer, vvvroooom!" and suddenly he has passed me and I have fallen to second place. I know he is just quoting the Cars movie, but damn.

I periodically prosecute municipal ordinance violations for one of our municipal clients. I recently noticed that the 17-year olds I was prosecuting for underage drinking were born in 1990. 1990, that was, like, yesterday.

A paralegal from my office flew to Las Vegas on a recent weekend to attend the Spice Girls concert with 12 of her college friends. This doesn't actually make me feel old, so much as amazed that anyone I know would even be a Spice Girls Fan, much less pay money to see them. She was even able to go through the Spice Girls (short) discography for my benefit.

Using the term discography in the preceding paragraph.

Leftovers

Some Thanksgiving Weekend Highlights (and Lowlights):

Festive Holiday Decorating: Owen was in a drawing/decorating frenzy in the week leading up to Thanksgiving, specializing in before and after drawings of turkeys - the first drawing of a live happy turkey, the next, always on the same page, of a turkey ready for eating with its eyes marked with an x. He also refused to eat any turkey, basing his claim on a book that was read to him at pre-school involving turkeys who did not want to be eaten and who were holding up "Eat Tuna" signs. A budding vegetarian at age 4?? Is Tofurky in our future???

Blessings Bestowed: We hosted 20 at the house for Thanksgiving. It is a tribute to the organizational skills of Deanna that we were so ready for the party that I was able to take a 1/2 hour nap with Owen just prior to the guests arriving. Unprecedented! Although I avoid the pressure of having to carve a fresh out-of-the-oven Turkey right before dinner by us cooking and carving the turkey the day before and then simply reheating the cut meat in a big pan with gravy, I still have to say Grace. This year, I decided to wing it (pun vaguely intended). Perhaps channeling my inner Pilgrim, this resulted in me using the term "bestow" about a zillion times during the blessing as I rambled on fairly aimlessly about how lucky we all are. Various blessings that I may have mentioned had been bestowed upon those present included, but were not by any means limited to, good health, family, freedom, the food, kids who sleep through the night on occasion, strong cocktails on the odd-night out, HBO, the Bears vague playoff hopes, indoor plumbing, good heads of hair (my dad, not me), Schick Quattro razors (a gift to all the world!), and being lucky enough to live in the same country as David Beckham and Posh (the just-announced reunion of the Jackson Five was but a gleam in some promoter's eye on Thanksgiving, or I undoubtedly would have thrown that in as well). It all gets a bit fuzzy from there but you get the idea.

Thanks for the Smallpox, White Devils: After Thanksgiving Dinner, I read a children's book called The First Thanksgiving to the assorted kids present. Owen had checked it out of the library a couple of weeks earlier and had solemnly informed me that it "was a little sad" in the middle. Indeed it was. In this relatively unsugarcoated version, the kids were informed that there were no Indians in the immediate area when the Pilgrims landed as thousands had been wiped out by a "terrible sickness" brought by English fisherman four years earlier. Three pages later, half the Pilgrims are wiped out during the first winter as they huddled all together in the only building they had had time to construct that first season after landing. It has been a long time, but I don't recall the accounts of the Pilgrims I received as a child being quite so full of grimness and death. If this particularly version doesn't make today's kids thankful for their cushy lives, nothing will!

Doorbusters: For the third year in a row, I participated in a little Black Friday door-busting. This has much more to do with my poor sleep habits than it does with my actually accomplishing any Christmas shopping. If I am going to be awake at 4 a.m., I figure I might as well be awake at a store accomplishing something rather than awake in bed idly hoping I can fall back asleep. Since there is only one day a year that I can actually go to J.C. Penney at 4 a.m., I went. I marveled at the crowds. The lines at every register were 25 people long by 4:30 a.m. The line at Circuit City at 5:40 a.m. was over 150 people long. It took me a bit to warm up, but I eventually did get in the spirit by throwing a few elbows and closing some blockbuster-savings deals. And, I was back in bed by 7:30 a.m. The twins, unfortunately, got up at 7:31.

I'm On My Way to Church, Officer, Honest!: At 9:29 a.m. on Sunday morning, I was pulled over doing 70 in a 55 mph zone by a 20-year old cop who was wearing sunglasses despite the fact that the sun was buried behind a wall of clouds. As luck would have it, we were late for a 9:30 a.m. memorial mass for Deanna's grandmother. That fact, my cute sleeping kids, and my stellar driving record persuaded him to let me off with a warning. Perhaps Deanna's grandmother was simply having a bit of fun with us, as we were, spookily, pulled over across from the entrance to the cemetery where she was buried.

Bears Playoff Hopes Live On, Family Time to Suffer Further: Half-way through the 4th quarter of the Bears game on Sunday, Rex Grossman fumbled for what seemed like the 8th time of the day. With the Bears down by 14, I turned off the TV in disgust, and loudly proclaimed to Deanna that the season was over, that I was done watching any further Bears games for the year, that the players should be shamed into giving back their undeserved salaries, and that Sunday afternoons were once again "Family-Time". I wasn't alone, and I am sure any alien listening devices aimed from outer space at the Chicago-metro area at about that time would have picked up the sound of thousands of TVs clicking off simultaneously. It was only by chance that twenty minutes later I went down to the basement where we had left a TV on and learned the Bears had closed to within a touchdown. They, of course, went on to win in overtime, thereby keeping hope alive and requiring at least one additional Sunday of me being tethered to a TV for further torture prior to the eventual and inevitable extinguishing of all hope. Until such time, Sunday afternoon Family Time is on hold. Daddy likes a quiet baby.

Back to School: As we walked Owen through the school parking lot yesterday morning, he yelled "Hey Gas-hogger!!" at the driver of a GMC Yukon. Strikes me that it might be time to dial-down the anti-large SUV ranting around the house.

Attack of the Giraffes

The twins turned 1 1/2 a couple of days back. They are slow to talk, especially compared to how verbal Owen was at this age, but I feel they are, at last, on the verge of a verbal-explosion.

While Hayden already sports a massive vocabulary consisting of "mama, dada, duck and boo (the latter having gotten quite a workout in the recent Halloween-season), both Hayden and Cooper currently communicate primarily through baby sign language and by grunting and pointing. The pointing by Hayden is often accompanied by quite a bit of animation and urgency, along with a series of plaintive little "ah, ah, ah" sounds. Sort of like Lassie, but instead of trying to alert us to trouble down at the old mill, it usually turns out to be something much more mundane - most commonly that Cooper has swiped something from him.

Cooper meanwhile, has, in recent weeks, taken a stab at making animal noises. Hopefully a precursor to actual words and a ritual I would guess has been enjoyed by toddlers for the last 6000 years or so. Apparently channeling those cave-dwelling ancestors, Cooper makes the same drawn out monotone grunt for every single animal. It actually sounds an awful lot like Phil Hartman doing Frankenstein on those old Saturday Night Live skits. Probably for that reason, I find it endlessly amusing to sit with him and go through a book featuring different animals. After I turn each page, he gazes at the new animal with a serious little face, points at it and goes "aaaaaaaagggg." So, although giraffes don't actually have voiceboxes (or so my smart wife claims - sounds like crazy-talk to me), I like to imagine a pack of them lumbering along stiff-legged, making their ominous Frankenstein-sounds as they bear down on an unsuspecting Village while Lassie attempts in vain to wake the local Sheriff.

You Can't Get Through!

A recent favorite game of me and the boys in the evening is "You Can't Get Through!" This essentially consists of me building a blockade of pillows and blankets in the upstairs hallway and the boys attempting to breach the wall while I try to support and maintain it from the other side (I would respectfully suggest that the offensive linemen of the Chicago Bears might want to try this game at home with their own kids, in order to get in some much needed additional practice). While attempting to prevent a breach, I will periodically yell "You Can't Get Through!" - thus the not-so-creative name of the game. They ultimately, of course, do get through, proving Dad wrong once again. I suppose that I could fancy up my motives and claim that through this simple exercise I am teaching them that no obstacle is insurmountable, no mountain too high, no river too wide. If I had daughters, I could even rename the game "Glass-Ceiling." But, in reality, it is just another excuse to wrestle around as I get them good and wound up just prior to bed, a dubious endeavor that has not escaped the eagle eye of my wife. I am also a sucker for anything that keeps them from spreading a million plastic or wooden pieces, figures, shapes, etc. around the house, so that the time we spend restoring the place following their Sherman-like march of destruction towards bed each night is marginally curtailed.

Post-Halloween Thoughts

Hey parents, were you as disappointed as I was in the lack of variety of candy being disbursed by your neighbors on Halloween this year?? While much has been made of the shrinking size of the candy portions being made for Halloween, I also feel like everyone is buying the same couple of variety bags of treats from the local mega-mart. Granted, the situation was not helped by the kids, who, when offered a choice at a trick-or-treat stop, would invariably grab the exact same things we were giving away at our house. Owen, bless his kind little heart, was doing this in part because he knows I love peanut butter cups, but without regard to the fact that we already had a zillion back at home. Anyway, whatever happened to Butterfingers? Not a one to be found (well, okay, there was one, which I promptly ate and probably what has inspired this mini-rant - perhaps I should just drag myself down to the store and pony up a dollar to by myself one instead of whining here). I would like to give kudos to John and Connie down the block for stepping out of the box AND supporting a local business by giving away Ferrara Pan products, including Red Hots and LemonHeads. Also, Hershey's "Take 5" bars (peanut butter, peanuts, pretzel, caramel, and milk chocolate!) are a winner and I predict a long and happy future for this bar. Although the Hershey's website claims Take 5 has was introduced almost three years ago, this is the first time I remember seeing them in such wide distribution.

Unleaded Christmas

I saw a blurb the other day that said 25% of American parents are vowing to only give toys made in America as Christmas gifts this year. And to those parents I say GOOD LUCK. No one, of course, wants their kids playing with (or chewing and swallowing, as the case may be) lead-coated toys, but this made in America thing strikes me as an extreme and unrealistic overreaction, since even a casual survey of the bottom of your child's toy collection will reveal that there aren't actually any toys made in America. So, unless your kids have their hearts set on corncob dolls, sock puppets and action figures made out of pipe cleaners, expect some seriously disappointed faces on Christmas morning. That retired grandpa in Tulsa who spends three hours a day making hay corn checker sets out in the woodshed is going to have a banner year as 15 million American parents descend on the shed, having realized too late that he is the only U.S. toymaker in a 900-mile radius.

And what about Santa?? At least there haven't been any recalls (yet!) of toys manufactured at the North Pole. But, having closed his last American manufacturing facility eight years ago (the Rochester, Minnesota plant, following that bitter labor standoff - who can forget those scenes of striking elves chanting "Santa sucks"), how is Santa supposed to honor these parents wishes? I suppose he could start a third list to go with naughty and nice: "Kids with Parents Who Are Ruining Christmas With Their Unrealistic Knee-jerk Reaction." If managing three lists proves too confusing for the old guy, chaos will reign on Christmas Eve as safety-crazed American parents wielding golf clubs and torches chase the confused octogenarian out of their houses. Meanwhile, their children, having woken from all the noise, will scream in horror in the background - the visions of organic American-grown sugarplums dancing in their heads permanently replaced by the vision of Santa cowering in the bushes with his giant bag full of lead paint-infested goodies as the mob slowly closes in. Merry Christmas.