I love children. I really do. My favorite child of course is my own, but even being around other people's kids brings a certain degree of joy that nothing else can. My favorite part of teaching was making a room full of children laugh. Children really are wonderous things.
That being said, don't put your toddler on the phone with me while you tend to some routine household chore. No really. Just say something's come up and that you'll call me back. Yes, even if it's just for a minute or so. I really don't want to listen to your child's barely intelligible toddler babble or worse yet his slobbery labored breathing. Sure, to you he looks so adorable standing there in the kitchen awkwardly holding the phone to his ear, but to me his gagagoogoo is no more enjoyable to listen to than automated voicemail prompts or nails on a chalkboard.
What sort of dialogue do you expect me to have with him anyway? Sure, I could ask about his day or his favorite TV show or his latest bowel movement, but funnily enough I don't have near the interest in these things that you do. If he wants to talk on the phone, maybe he has a grandparent who'd be more than willing to listen. Maybe you could just get the kid the Mickey Mouse Talking Phone. Remember that one?
Hey, Mickey, come over for a party.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Keep your germy paws off my kid
Many apologies for my sudden absence. I know I'm basically only addressing a few family members when I say that, but with my new position at work, I have absolutely no time on the bossman's nickel for creative writing. Can you imagine? Working? The whole time you're at work even?
With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.
Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.
For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."
Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.
I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.
Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.
When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.
Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.
Just my luck.
With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.
Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.
For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."
Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.
I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.
Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.
When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.
Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.
Just my luck.
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
Golem teaches us to enjoy the little things life has to offer
This morning I was reading to my four-month-old daughter. With a children's librarian for a mom, Meryl has a slew of books and did have long before she was ever conceived (which by the way happened almost a year ago to the day -- just thought I'd let you know.) Actually it was my wife who had the books before but we'll tell Meryl we got them in preparation for her arrival. My wife and I were always fans of children's books long before we were considering parenthood so our collection is quite varied and includes small board books like Doggy Dog by Chris Raschka and more elaborate tales like The Three Little Javelinas* by Wutzer Nehm. Ok, that's not really who wrote it but I don't feel like getting up off the couch right now to find out who did. I'll give her credit in a minute.
This morning's story was Golem by David Wisniewski . The book's sitting right by me, otherwise I never would have guessed at the author's name much less spelled it correctly. Anyway, the story is based on an old Czechoslovakian Jewish legend in which the people of Prague are harrassing Jews and spreading rumors that they're mixing Christian children's blood with flour and water to make matzah bread. Now you and I know that if those Czech fundamentalist xenophobes had ever eaten matzah bread they'd know that surely if it had been made with the blood of Jan Hus's followers it might taste slightly better than styrofoam, but this was the Middle Ages and intelligence hadn't been invented yet. To solve the problem Rabbi Loew creates a giant man out of clay named Golem whose job it is to stop the goys from spreading such nasty rumors about the Hebrew people.
Golem, while gargantuan and thus intimidating, has a gentler side kinda like a Lou Ferrigno who keeps the Sabbath. At one point in the story Rabbi Lowe sees Golem staring at the sunrise. When he asks Golem what he's doing Golem says he's admiring the beauty of the night sky as it changes from black to blue. "It's so beautiful," Golem says.
Golem takes great pleasure in something as simple as watching the sun come up. Likewise my daughter has developed quite a fascination for ceiling fans. When she's lying underneath one that's not on, she sometimes will let out a single quiet coo. When you turn it on for her she smiles and babbles at it. Hearing Elaine's voicemail greeting makes her smile too. She is also entranced by the spiraling colors that dance on the screen when we listen to lounge-radio via Windows Media Player. I like to think this is somehow educational for her and that someday she'll grasp fractals and chaos mathematics as a result. A dad can dream, can't he? My point is that the seemingly simplest things bring her pleasure.
Do you think there's something to be learned from this? I'm not suggesting we all lie on the floor and stare at ceiling fans for personal enjoyment, but maybe somewhere in the rat race there's something we take for granted on a daily basis that otherwise might bring us pleasure. My brother enjoys fishing for example. Now I've never understood the appeal to fishing but the conept is simple enough and requirements are minimal. I think some people do it for hours on end.
My mother has always been an avid reader. Whether she enjoys delving into new worlds or temporarily escaping her own I don't know, but what cheaper pasttime is there? Books are free at your public library, and the people there'll even go so far as to put them on hold for you and call you once they arrive.
As for me, I like to write.
I have yet to find the secret to eternal happiness, but I can't help but wonder if the key lies somewhere within us as opposed to outside us. Have you ever noticed that consumerism isn't really so much an economical term for Westerners as it is their dominant religion? We are drowning ourselves in our own stuff? Perhaps happiness comes not from getting all the things we want but from seeking personal enjoyment in all the things we have. After all, if you were to randomly pick a close relative out of your family tree, can you then remember what they got you last Christmas? Sure, there were those socks of mine but I mean besides that.
Golem is told by the rabbi shortly after he's created that once everything's kosher with the Jews and the Bohemians are put back in check, Golem will be returned to clay. Presumably his appreciation for the otherwise mundane can be traced back to this knowlege that his days are numbered. But really now, don't we all know our days are numbered? I've said this before, but none of us is going to live forever. The clay waits for no man.
My wife and I traveled to Prague a few years back and saw the synagogue where Golem's clay remains are rumored to reside. Just outside is the cemetery where the famous rabbi is buried. All along the streets in that sector of town vendors' stalls are decked out with yarmulkes and miniature replicas of the Golem. I made do with the free paper yarmulke but I did fork out a few crowns so that I could have my own little Golem. I'm sure if some people familiar with the Golem legend were to spot it they would tell you the moral of the story is that good triumphs over evil or more simplistically put don't mess with the Jews. I on the other hand like to think a more befitting message is that beauty and the enjoyment thereof can be found in the things right around us and that in the search for pleasure, we need not venture far.
I'd like to think I'm not big on material goods. There are few things I possess that I couldn't live without if I had to. You can take my souvenir postcards, my disposable furniture from Ikea, or my Mona Lisa socks. That stuff is truly that: just stuff. You're not getting my miniature Golem though.
He's mine.
* The Three Little Javelinas was written by Susan Lowell. See, I told you I'd give her credit.
This morning's story was Golem by David Wisniewski . The book's sitting right by me, otherwise I never would have guessed at the author's name much less spelled it correctly. Anyway, the story is based on an old Czechoslovakian Jewish legend in which the people of Prague are harrassing Jews and spreading rumors that they're mixing Christian children's blood with flour and water to make matzah bread. Now you and I know that if those Czech fundamentalist xenophobes had ever eaten matzah bread they'd know that surely if it had been made with the blood of Jan Hus's followers it might taste slightly better than styrofoam, but this was the Middle Ages and intelligence hadn't been invented yet. To solve the problem Rabbi Loew creates a giant man out of clay named Golem whose job it is to stop the goys from spreading such nasty rumors about the Hebrew people.
Golem, while gargantuan and thus intimidating, has a gentler side kinda like a Lou Ferrigno who keeps the Sabbath. At one point in the story Rabbi Lowe sees Golem staring at the sunrise. When he asks Golem what he's doing Golem says he's admiring the beauty of the night sky as it changes from black to blue. "It's so beautiful," Golem says.
Golem takes great pleasure in something as simple as watching the sun come up. Likewise my daughter has developed quite a fascination for ceiling fans. When she's lying underneath one that's not on, she sometimes will let out a single quiet coo. When you turn it on for her she smiles and babbles at it. Hearing Elaine's voicemail greeting makes her smile too. She is also entranced by the spiraling colors that dance on the screen when we listen to lounge-radio via Windows Media Player. I like to think this is somehow educational for her and that someday she'll grasp fractals and chaos mathematics as a result. A dad can dream, can't he? My point is that the seemingly simplest things bring her pleasure.
Do you think there's something to be learned from this? I'm not suggesting we all lie on the floor and stare at ceiling fans for personal enjoyment, but maybe somewhere in the rat race there's something we take for granted on a daily basis that otherwise might bring us pleasure. My brother enjoys fishing for example. Now I've never understood the appeal to fishing but the conept is simple enough and requirements are minimal. I think some people do it for hours on end.
My mother has always been an avid reader. Whether she enjoys delving into new worlds or temporarily escaping her own I don't know, but what cheaper pasttime is there? Books are free at your public library, and the people there'll even go so far as to put them on hold for you and call you once they arrive.
As for me, I like to write.
I have yet to find the secret to eternal happiness, but I can't help but wonder if the key lies somewhere within us as opposed to outside us. Have you ever noticed that consumerism isn't really so much an economical term for Westerners as it is their dominant religion? We are drowning ourselves in our own stuff? Perhaps happiness comes not from getting all the things we want but from seeking personal enjoyment in all the things we have. After all, if you were to randomly pick a close relative out of your family tree, can you then remember what they got you last Christmas? Sure, there were those socks of mine but I mean besides that.
Golem is told by the rabbi shortly after he's created that once everything's kosher with the Jews and the Bohemians are put back in check, Golem will be returned to clay. Presumably his appreciation for the otherwise mundane can be traced back to this knowlege that his days are numbered. But really now, don't we all know our days are numbered? I've said this before, but none of us is going to live forever. The clay waits for no man.
My wife and I traveled to Prague a few years back and saw the synagogue where Golem's clay remains are rumored to reside. Just outside is the cemetery where the famous rabbi is buried. All along the streets in that sector of town vendors' stalls are decked out with yarmulkes and miniature replicas of the Golem. I made do with the free paper yarmulke but I did fork out a few crowns so that I could have my own little Golem. I'm sure if some people familiar with the Golem legend were to spot it they would tell you the moral of the story is that good triumphs over evil or more simplistically put don't mess with the Jews. I on the other hand like to think a more befitting message is that beauty and the enjoyment thereof can be found in the things right around us and that in the search for pleasure, we need not venture far.
I'd like to think I'm not big on material goods. There are few things I possess that I couldn't live without if I had to. You can take my souvenir postcards, my disposable furniture from Ikea, or my Mona Lisa socks. That stuff is truly that: just stuff. You're not getting my miniature Golem though.
He's mine.
* The Three Little Javelinas was written by Susan Lowell. See, I told you I'd give her credit.
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