Posts

Posted on

like a ton of bricks


First day back at work, even if it is from the comfort of my couch in slippers, and I’m already ready for another baby-vacation. It’s always been hard for me to truly work when I’m “working from home,” so I’ve been closeting myself away in the computer room – attempting to be isolated as much as possible from the hustle and bustle of the new-baby rest-of-the-house area. It’s working OK so far, I was able to catch up on mail and at least bring myself up to speed on what’s going on – now if I could just read enough e-mail to make me care. Nah, that’s unfair; I care… just not as much as I do about the new little life that’s sleeping behind the office double-doors, just in the other room. Somehow work just pales in comparison.

While I was sleeping on a hide-a-bed in the corner of the hospital room where our daughter was born, I’d put the iPod on “shuffle songs” and drift off to sleep to some rand() generated mix of tunes. Today I took advantage of the rarity of recent days that was sunshine and mowed the front and back lawns during a working-from-home lunch break. Again, I put the iPod on “shuffle songs” and let the little computer decide what I’d hear. It was during that random listening session that I got the idea for a blog feature centered around the iPod’s “shuffle songs” function: the iPod random memory generator. For me, songs are tied to memories almost as closely as smells are (I’ve written about it before, so won’t put myself through documenting it again). So, this evening while Sharaun and her mom were out shopping, I put the iPod on shuffle and began remembering. The rules: I document what the song makes me think of, what I remember thinking about the song, and I skip songs that have no appreciable memories. Here goes:

The Byrds – Eight Miles High
Middle-school summer, maybe 7th or 8th grade. I think I 1st heard this song as part of some “deep discount” bin 60’s psychedelic comp cassettes. The seemingly random guitar jumble that makes up the bridge immediately turned me on, as did the foreboding harmonies throughout the track. Another one of those songs that made me want to try marijuana.

The Beatles – When I’m 64
Middle school again, 8th grade this time. Sitting in the backseat of my best friend Kyle’s mom’s miniature Dodge Colt, Kyle’s had her put his Sgt. Pepper cassette in the deck. At the time, I’m deeply in 7th-grade-love with Kyle’s little sister – something about which I think he has no idea. In reality, sometime later Kyle tells me all his friends eventually come to be infatuated with his sister. I felt bad, but that can-count-the-weeks-on-my-hand closet “relationship” did wonders for me on the road to the perfected womanizing I’d so enjoy come my nubile college years.

Ministry – Flashback
9th grade. I’ve taken to wearing black steel-toed boots, long back socks which, when coupled with my too-long black shorts, leave only an inch of exposed calf, a Skinny Puppy t-shirt, and shades. My lord, I must’ve made the worst looking wannabe goth of all time. I remember diving into the industrial/noise scene head-first. Fueled, of course, by a fascination with the music – and then later bleeding into a misguided attempt at adopting the culture. I tried my best though: bought incense, outlined my windows in velcro and affixed a hook-side copy of the velcro square to pieces of 5mil black visqueen which I could use to completely blot out all external light from my bedroom, dressed the part, etc. I did everything short of dying my hair, painting my walls black, and posing for pictures in graveyards. What a joke; but what a memory.

Dungen – Sluta Följa Efter
Fall 2004. Riding around with the windows down, this absolutely euphoric album blaring. Sharaun is complaining, they’re not singing in English, she can’t understand them, they sound all “fjordy” and stupid, like the hurdy-gurdy Swedish Chef muppet or something. But God as my witness, this album is infectious – saccharine and dreamy, with layered cymbal, bursting beats and spinny guitars. Eventually, I oblige and change to something more “intelligible” for Sharaun’s sake – but I think this LP will always remind me of my last pre-baby summer.

The Decemberists – Los Angeles
Driving the 405, headed to a yacht on which my best-friend from 5th grade is about to be married. Before this, I’ve only seen him once since I left California so many years ago. A surreal experience, seeing him again and being able to be there at his wedding – so many years in the future.

Donovan – Riki Tiki Tavi
College. I have a one-bedroom place in town, Sharaun stays with me most nights even though we’d be condemned to Hell should her family find out. We don’t hump, I swear. My computer is stashed away in a desk that’s been shoved into my walk-in closet – and it’s here that I struggle through my first few engineering courses. Every night I fall asleep to music, and Sharaun with me by default. I’d picked up a bunch of Donovan LPs remastered as CDs at the local college used-CD store, and kicked them fairly often. Visions of pizza boxes on the counter and second-hand futon furniture… college.

Sleater Kinney – Little Babies
Junior year of college. I take a 36hr bus trip halfway across the country to visit Kyle in his Air Force barracks. An amazing journey in itself – but while there he introduces me to some new music (as he’s done for years). Sleater Kinney is one of the acts he turns me on to. Without re-writing what’s already been written, here’s what I remember when I hear this song. Oh, and I think there’s a paragraph in here too.

That’s enough of that for now. It’s fun though, I think I’ll try it again sometime.

Today the baby stepped up her game and launched a three-front attack on her poor old dad. Sharaun pawned her off on me for a wet diaper change, so I stripped her down and laid her on the changing table for a wipedown. She immediately peed on herself, and the table. Pee on her back, legs, everywhere. I cleaned up the pee, wiped down her entire body, and laid her back down on a cloth diaper. I turned to reach for a fresh diaper, turned back, and she’d peed on herself again. Wiped her down, put her on a new cloth diaper, and began strapping on her new clean one. Then the coup de grace, she spit up all over her face, neck, and hair. A three-fluid attack pretty much warrants a bath… those scented wipes can only go so far.

Oh, and I’m happy to report that the dead-animal smell which was coming from my beautiful new daughter’s nasty bellybutton is waning – as the shriveled thing finally made up its mind and dropped off. But man, we had neighborhood dogs ringing the doorbell and asking, in an extremely complicated sequence of barks and whines, which I eventually deciphered, if they could roll around on her. I don’t know if I have an extra-sensitive nose or what, but, to me, it really was that bad. Apparently, rotting stuff stinks. Sure, they look cute in photos when there’s not liquid poop running down their legs and curdled boob-milk leaking from their mouths. I was misled, people, babies are nothing like their presskits.

Until tomorrow, hope all is well out there in the blogosphere. Oh, and a warning, tomorrow’s will be a completely canned entry about religion – written long-ago and saved for a “vacation” day. Despite this admission, I urge you to keep reading, and keep commenting – it’s what keeps me going.

Goodnight.

Posted on

the times they are a-changin’


Sometime toady I realized I uploaded the last batch of photos to Keaton’s gallery at 640×480 resolution instead of the 800×600 I usually use. With a little ingenuity, I discovered how to go into the Coppermine database and reset the size without having to redo the entire album. So, for the vision-impaired, the images should now be sized big enough for your challenged oculars.

Today we had the pleasure of an unscheduled doctor appointment for the little one. Being the 1st-timers we are at this whole parenthood deal – we were most alarmed by an extremely foul stink coming from our perfect little daughter’s shriveled beef-jerky-lookin’ umbilical “stump.” All the books say “stink = infection,” so we called it in and headed to the baby-shop. Turns out, she did have the beginnings of an infection and the doc recommended we clean the area with alcohol – something the hospital recommended against. One thing about baby-care advice: it’s a very waffley science. Not to mention, many of the things they told grandma to do with her baby a mere 30yrs ago are now strictly verboten or, much to grandma’s chagrin, recommended against. Nothing’s worse than a well-meaning grandma trying to dispense advice from the trenches she remembers being met with a, “Mom, they actually don’t do that anymore.” I think they probably hear, “Mom, you did things the wrong way back in the stoneage – we don’t use bloodletting anymore, it’s barbaric; you are stupid for ever buying into it and I’m likely damaged as a result of your outdated mothering.” Not that we’ve had that happen with either of our two grandmas, who are both low-touch as grandmas go and fairly unassuming. We got lucky.

It kind of scares me how tuned-in to my life the junkmail syndicate is. They knew when we graduated college, and assaulted us with loan consolidation offers daily. They knew when we bought our house, upping the number of “refi now!” offers we got to mailbox-busting levels. And now, somehow they know we had a baby. We get complimentary magazines, packages of laundry detergent, diapers, formula, and all manner of baby-sundry. I’ve often wondered what my junkmail “profile” looks like. I wish it had a radio button for “shreds every single piece of the shit we send him,” so they’d realize and stem the flow – but, alas, I doubt there’s such a field in the record. I likely show up as a twenty-something married male who makes good money, has a kid, a house, and some college loans. Oh, and if my snail-mail and e-mail junk profiles are one in the same, they’d also mention that I have a ridiculously small penis, desperately want to learn more about human growth hormone and phentermine, and have a 24×7 addiction to online gambling. Based on a profile like that – I better get into some therapy, stat.

Goodnight.

Posted on

why i work


3:30 on a Monday afternoon and it’s clouding over outside, making the light in the living room all grey and somehow damp feeling. I’ve got a sleeping baby nestled in the crook of my left arm, a crocheted pink blanket draped over her naked-save-diaper body to keep her warm; I couldn’t be happier. Sharaun’s out shopping, something that I think is actually pretty therapeutic for her – so I’m glad she’s feeling up to it. The iPod’s jacked into the stereo on “shuffle,” and is currently offering up some Doors – fitting the weather well. Today I wrote about the baby more. Oh, and here’s the toplink to her gallery – updated with a few more things yesterday afternoon.

A week folks, one measly week – that’s all the vacation I asked of work when Keaton arrived. One week vacation and the next week “working from home,” which means I sit on e-mail and attend meetings on my cellphone. But, one week without worry, not spent thinking about what’s due next or who I have to call tomorrow. I seriously just want to lie down on the couch and drift off to a lazy sleep, soundtrack provided by my newborn daughter on my chest and the little smacking sounds she makes with her mouth. Just one week of that, guilt-free. I’ve got friends who just had babies, and they took off three weeks – I only asked for one, yet I can’t seem to “escape” work. It’s more me than it is work, I suppose – not being able to detach myself completely from that sense of responsibility – but it’s not made any easier by people who seem not to care that I want, nay, need, some downtime. So today, a little late I know, I decided to give the whole deal the figurative middle-finger. I’ve got all the time in the world for friends and family and my wife and little girl – but just for the rest of this week, work doesn’t get a spot on the rotation. You hear that work, eff you.

I’m still in that giddy new-father phase where I actually smile hearing my baby cry. Where I just like looking at her little mouth wide open as she tries to communicate with us, the skin around her little eyes pursing up tight as her face reddens. But man, we’re thankful daily that she’s as “easy” as she is – I can’t imagine having one with a less sunny disposition. We’re lucky. We haven’t had a terrible night to speak of yet; last night being the “worst” of it with back-to-back set and stanky diapers and feedings keeping all three of us up until 2:30am. But, after that she sleeps right through to her next boobytime and lets us do the same. She did pitch a fit through the emotional clincher of Brokeback Mountain Monday night, right as they were trying to suck me in – effectively preventing me from getting tied up in the gay-cowboy love story. She was entirely silent, however, during the buttlove-on-the-range scene – go figure. Anyway, she’s a great baby – and we’ve decided to keep her, or, at least evaluate her a little longer.

Goodnight folks, we love ya.

Posted on

easin’ back into it


I’ve got a pretty random entry today, stuff I binned over the weekend that’s non-baby, and the obligatory baby. Here we go, short and sweet.

Grandma (on daddy’s side) left Sunday, and we had to check her carry-on twice to make sure she wasn’t trying to smuggle baby Keaton away with her. Grandma (on mommy’s side) arrives Tuesday – so Keaton won’t be doting-deprived for too long. Oh, and to satisfy the masses, I’ll go ahead and link Keaton’s gallery straight-away. I’ve updated it with some new pictures, and even some moving pictures (the future is now).

I half-wrote the following the day before the baby arrived, and wanted to be able to finish the thought.

I was thinking today about life-before-baby. Those post-college, marriage & career years, those before you decide to procreate. You settle into a complacency, because you’re ultimately familiar with the drill. My pre-child career years have conformed to a well-defined mold; so much so that I’ve kinda developed the feeling I’ve mastered things, know the ropes as well as they can be known. Not a conscious thought, I’m not that conceited, but a subconscious thing – a level of comfort with the established routine, a tried hand that knows how to execute the defined motions it’s practiced again and again. I suspect, though, that this baby thing is really gonna shove my perceived wisdom in my face. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m gonna find out pretty quickly that there’s a lot I don’t know. Time to learn new routines, to stumble and fall and curse the fact I wasn’t even given training wheels to ease me into this one. I think about this, and I actually get excited – excited about the new challenge, the new learning, the chance for new mastery. Bring it on little Keaton, I’m ready.

While I’m usually not one who makes a habit of stealing movies, I did download a screener of Brokeback Mountain last night (don’t tell the MPAA, OK?) – the hype just got to me I guess. Sharaun and I plan on watching it today (Monday), and I hope to at least have some kind of opinion formed to write about it tomorrow. I’ve wanted to see it for a while, dude-humping or not, as the story does admittedly sound pretty compelling. Not sure how much I’ll buy into a love story about two rugged cowboys – but I have a sneaking feeling that, if I do, I’ll know what the hype’s really about.

And, to end this entry – let’s get to some bloggin’ standard fare, eh? Link rodeo!

  • First off, and may be somewhat old as it’s been making the rounds on the ‘net for some weeks now – the compelling story behind one of the most sampled drumbreaks in history: the Amen Beak. Who’d’ve thought that a single drum breakdown from a ’60s track could’ve fueled an entire musical genre some 30yrs later.
  • Next, and continuing with the music theme, I ran across this hilarious little film about indie record store clerks the other day on videosift. Turns out it’s hosted at stereogum, and I must’ve missed the original post – but watch it – they’ve got us indie snobs pegged.
  • Now, check out this awesome “civil obedience” experiment by some GA State students, where they form a 4-lane front of cars going the legal speed limit and film the results.
  • And, second-to-last, some non-music links: these couple links about a hilariously overstuffed “Ebay house” and not-so-hilarious (but thematically related) pictures of folks dealing with depression-induced squalor.
  • Lastly, and equally unrelated – the results of treehugger.com’s “waste of packaging” contest – pretty shameful.

That’s it folks, lots of nothing. Goodnight.

Posted on

my baby is yellow

This baby is underpowered.
Ohhh man… I feel so lazy, so relaxed – it’s great. This morning, I woke around 7am as Sharaun prepared to feed the baby, and decided to get an early start on the day. Took a shower, threw some baby powder on the boys, and put on a comfy t-shirt, shorts, and my fur-lined slippers. Ready to attack the day, I strolled out into the living room where my mom had already made coffee and was doing e-mail on her laptop (seems parents can learn from kids, after all). My plan consisted of holding the baby, watching some TV, maybe grazing on some snacks – I was wide open. Took some time to upgrade the web-app I use for Keaton’s gallery, although the changes aren’t really noticeable. Speaking of Keaton’s gallery, I plan on updating it a little later today – if all goes according to plan. I’m really not sure though, with the demands of my current schedule and all, things could easily get pushed aside for some time-critical task… like a nap, perhaps.

Keaton’s been good: sleeps well, eats well, etc. (I say “etc.” as if to imply she does more than just sleep and eat, but, really, that’s the sum total of her doings – aside from the occasional waste-expulsion). She’s got a moderate case of the jaundice – so she’s fairly yellow. I keep telling her she’s not trying hard enough to be the right color (maybe she should convert to Mormonism so her “white pureness” can be restored), but she’s not listening to me. The hospital folks told us that her levels were low, and so the yellowness would fade with time – and she’s got a regular doctor-type checkup tomorrow anyway, so hopefully they’ll say she’s progressing well. I don’t mind her being yellow, I am a California parent, after all, and she has the right to choose whatever color she most prefers – it’s her prerogative after all.

She sleeps between eating, so our nights haven’t been bad at all (knock on wood), but they say that extra sleepiness is a side-effect of her yellow-tintedness – so that could be changing as she starts processing her bilirubins (I just love that name, so ridiculous). Sharaun’s feeding her roughly every 3hrs – since the 2hr schedule she’d prefer is wreaking havoc on her nipples. I know, folks, these entries may get a little more “colorful,” read: clinical, than normal – with references to things like nipples and whatnot. I apologize in advance to those with weak constitutions who can’t handle that kinda action – perhaps you should avert your eyes should you not wish to taint your virginal worldview. Anyway: nipples, cooter, butt. There, I feel much better now.

One thing I did want to write about, for whatever reason, is the sudden 200% increase in this household’s need for batteries. Batteries were never a commodity for us, we have virtually nothing that runs on them – and we used primarily rechargeables in what did. Seems like babies change all that though. I think it’s some federal mandate that any kind of baby-related accessory must require at least one D-cell battery – regardless of it’s need for power – it must have a batteries. Her swing wants batteries, her carseat mirror wants batteries, her “bouncer” wants batteries, as does her “playtime” thing, and even her bassinet. Her bassinet… needs batteries; oh, and not just like a single triple-A or something – the dang thing takes four AAs and two Ds. What the crap does a bassinet need 9 volts for? I swear, if her stroller manual tells me it needs a Die Hard and two quarts of Quaker State, I’m calling “scam.”

Well folks, as disjointed and ugly as it is – it’s an entry. Until next week, take care.

Posted on

shiny new penny

Daddy doing birth liveblogging.
I’ll keep this link to Keaton’s gallery at the top of posts for a while. I haven’t added anything since yesterday, and likely won’t until later tonight, when I plan to be back home in the fat, loving, fiber arms of broadband. For now here’s today.

I had plans to do a nice long writeup about the final hours before Keaton was born, even had five or six paragraphs worth of gritty realism already penned, replete with whaling metaphors and enough blood and gore for Saw III. But, over the course of the day, I got completely bored with the story. Sharaun and I tag-teamed the narrative for everyone who called, visited, and even just between each other. Instead, I was just gonna do a simply entry.

I have a feeling that the blog is gonna take a while to recover from this baby, as I’ll be shelving the regular banal commentary in favor what I consider to be more exciting baby updates. That’s not to say you won’t be able to come here one day in the near future and be able to read about the latest indie rock, theological debate, or general rambling – but for now that’s all on hold while my life, and writing, adjusts to daddydom. Too bad I can’t keep up the compelling writing that was the play-by-play, I think this blog had more exposure from that entry than it’s had since its birth years ago – but I’m just gonna keep on doing what I’ve been doing.

There’s so much I want to write, so many different things running through my head – but I just don’t have the energy to develop the thoughts properly, so I thought I’d just rough them out and call it “good enough.”

I wanted to write about the great sense of relief I had today. Something like the feeling you get when you take vacation for a holiday like Christmas or Thanksgiving – when you’ve finally arrived at your destination, your family is there, and you know you’ve got at least a few days ahead of you where you’ll be able to completely relax and enjoy your surroundings. It’s kind of like that, having Keaton finally here. Like every breath is that big, cleansing deep breath you take as you step back and take stock of work well done. Dudes might be able to relate to me if I described this as being similar to the satisfied feeling you get after

I wanted to talk about the urge to show off this new thing, the desire to hold her out for the approval of others – a “look what I did” kinda thing. How good it feels when people come by and visit, and shake your hand or offer congratulations in the way of words, food, flowers, whatever. I can tell Sharaun enjoys it too, watching people hold her and coo at her, shower her with baby-praise. It’s not bad for the ego, and the “brave mommy” sympathies don’t hurt either.

I wanted to talk about how content I am just staring at her, watching her little eyelids flutter and as she wakes, working her tiny tongue out of her mouth. Today she fell asleep on my chest as it rained, and I just watched her there – her little short breaths almost imperceptible. I think I could look at her forever, she’s that freakin’ awesome to me. I know she’s more than just eyecandy, something about “lifelong responsibility” and whatnot – but for now she sure is a shiny new penny.

I just don’t have it in me to write more, maybe tomorrow. Grandma gets into town tomorrow evening (my mom first, then Sharaun’s next week), so we’ll be grateful to have her around to lean on for her previous baby-rearing experience (damn fine resume, I might add, as exemplified by my total well-rounded badassness). I might be in and out in terms of wordsmithmanship (is that an awesome word, or what?), but I’ll try to make it up by posting more pictures to the gallery. Granted, they’ll all be baby pictures – but y’know how it goes… new poppa and all.

Until later, take care.