Road Trip!

Frisbee Golf Road Trip.

The Chicago Disc Golf Road Trip. I can't wait. kidless!

About Five years ago, while Michele was waddling around with David tightly hugging her uterus, she allowed me to take a Frisbee Golf Road Trip with a good friend from Chicago. Wait. "It's not that I allowed you to go," she said. "I don't mind if you go." I love her.

So Jeff D. flew down from Chicago and as soon as he landed at the Providence Airport, we set out and we played 11 courses in 4 and a half days. It is Road Trip Magic I still think about over 5 years later. We played courses from Connecticut to Maine and back. Amazingly fun. I think my arm is still sore. ...and I think I might even still be hungover...oh boy

For as much as Jeff D. and I have talked about it for the last 4.9 years, I finally get to board a plane on Thursday and head to Chicago, his turf, for nothing but Frisbee Golf and Cold Beer. (...and so I am told - Ribs, and Margaritas, and Homemade Salsa...yeah baby!)

"Remember, it's not that I am allowing you to go," Michele says. "Just bring me back a Koozie." I love her.

The Chicago Disc Golf Road Trip... wifeless, er, I mean, kidless! not a catchy title, but an accurate one.
More to follow...

Why Does Everything Have to be So Fricken Difficult Sometimes?

Why is everything so difficult when you have children?

Saturday morning, all I wanted to do was put Matthew in the stroller, bring David and take a walk into town and pay the electric bill at the Town Hall. It was sunny and warm and a good excuse for a walk while Michele was still sleeping.

I might embelish here and nothing is said to hurt any feelings, but almost an hour and a half later, to make a long story short, Nana has lipstick on, Michele is dressed for a power walk to the Town Hall and the Post Office (with a toddler and a Nana with a flakey hip?) David is screaming he wants to be carried, Michele is disgusted we're bringing the big itchy stinky dog and I can't take it anymore. Drama.

Give me my keys, you guys go to the Post Office, and I am taking the screaming toddler home for a nap. Please Lord, this would be a good time to take me and bring on a heart attack. We pass a guy walking his dog, David is crying so hard his whole body is heaving up and down, and the guy just smiles, probably afraid to make eye contact. "Nice day for a relaxing Saturday morning walk, don't you think?"

Why is everything so difficult? I so thought having kids wouldn't change anything.

The kid is banished to his room. As I am mowing the yard, I see Michele and Nana and Matthew walking up the street from the Post Office. I swear it looks like Michele is pushing Nana in the stroller and carrying Matthew...

So, today I tested the waters again and David and I talked about taking a walk up to the park. Within 5 minutes, he had his toys picked up, and me and him and the freshly-bathed-itchy-not-so-stinky dog were already out of the yard and down the street.

AHA! Having kids wouldn't change anything! It's having a wife!


I learned something years ago, that I got to apply this weekend. I was working in a restaurant, a fancy restaurant, and I totally ruined a young family's night out. I spilled food, and soaked the wife with the water pitcher. It was horrible. They were mean and I did not get a tip. A week later, who gets seated in my area? I am mortified. I almost quit. I went to my manager Tony and pleaded to switch tables or go home.

He said No.
What do I do? They hate me!
Kill them with kindness, he said.
Kill them with kindness?
I sucked it up and did my best.
When they were done and leaving, the father points to the toddler in the stroller. "He has something for you" and the toddler is waving a twenty dollar bill.

The father smiled, acknowledged his wife like she was part of it too, and they both smiled with the look that thanked me for sucking it up and doing my best.

For Killing them with Kindness.

How does this relate?

When I drove to the Town Hall and paid my bill, I saw that across the street, a clothing/gift/surf shop, was closing and had a big sale. I am in a pretty lousy mood. Fed up. I was pretty fed up with "Life" you might say, and the whole difficult thing that having a wife and kids and bills and an itchy dog and for being a lousy provider and for everything else that not having enough money can bring on. I can really let it become a dark place, and I was deeply there.

But for some reason, I remembered the Killing Them with Kindness lesson. I could easily drag this weekend out and ruin it for everybody and sulk in my own drama - thinking they just don't get how hard I am working and how being a little more grateful and understanding could make a difference.

The last thing in the world I wanted to be was nice. But something overcame me. It was time to suck it up and do my best. I went in and bought each of everyone in the house a small present and came home.

I'm not bragging or anything of the sort. I am not saying that I bought their love either. But something about being nice, and trying hard to suck it up and do my best, made a difference. We had a wonderful afternoon. We watched the kids play. We talked. We laughed. We took pictures. It was much better. Amazingly, even I felt much better.


And yes, I also thanked the Lord for not bringing on the heart attack I so desperately prayed for earlier!

Nothing Says Happy Birthday Like Two Lungs, Two Legs and a Lot of Frosting

The First Year. Wow. I made it. I am One now. Does that mean I used to be Zero?

Thank You, Dad, for cutting my umbilical cord, and for not being the one circumcising me.

I'm sorry for the whole Nemothorax thing and the NICU stuff. I'm a pretty special kid - don't ever forget that , okay?

It doesn't feel like it's been a year already, does it? But - wow, I really made it. David didn't suffocate me in the playpen or break my neck when he pretends to turn into the Hulk. And, hey, double-check, David didn't actually really carve a Z into my neck like Zorro, did he? Sheesh, the things I put up with. Just wait til I get older.

My Hobbies include Clapping, Pooping and taking off my clothes as soon as you turn your back. Turns out, I also had the capability to grow bacterial infections on my bones and scare you all silly. (Not really something I am proud of, but Thanks for being there.)

Depending on who dresses me and what mood I am in, I prefer wearing (Thank You Dad) baggy shorts, surfer tees, and baseball stuff. Other days, I try to wet through my clothes as quick as I can, wearing (oh please Mom!) butterfly shirts with camoflauge bottoms, and Scooby-Doo pajama tops with bright yellow sweatpants that are way too tight for me. Although, I do really dig the John Deere attire and the cozy pajamas you put me in - Auntie KD and Nana must have sent those. Dad really hates snaps; he wonders what barren sadistic seamstress thought this would be a good idea on baby clothing and got away with it? I have so much fun knowing that, especially at each diaper change.

I love to crawl, crawl fast and eat anything in my way. Thank You for leaving out Ruby's water bowl. You just won't ever learn, will you? And please, stop looking at how big my hands are - it only means I'll wear big gloves, and big shoes, okay?

Secretly, I might be only one year and a few hours old, but I know and can understand everything you say. Dad knows. I slipped up once and he caught me on camera sarcastically sticking my tongue out. It's blurry, but I think he might be on to me. When I make Mommy jump by peeing on her when she gives me a bath - that's all on purpose. I may nod Yes, and I may shake my head No, but it's only to laugh at the faces you all make; like it's the cutest thing in the whole world and you think I am the smartest, cutest, most genius baby in the whole universe.

I am.

I love you.

Happy Birthday to Me. I'm glad I am here.

The Last Day of Being Zero

It is now the Eve of Matthew's first birthday. The following are updates sent out as we went through Matthew's process getting acclimated to life outside the womb and becoming an Emerson. Punk kid fought hard. ("Can you blame him?" says a particular wife fighting the same last name...) I was asked at work about Matthew's troubles - and I sadly realized how much I had not thought of, for so long. I feel like that is not fair to those that helped so much. Seriously, there is so much, more than here, that I hope I will never forget. Here’s a look back, I hope you don’t mind...

First though, The Silly Poem:

Roses are Red
You are my Hero
It is amazing what you've overcome,
Congratulations on No Longer Being Zero

Second, The Silly Perspective:

It is the eve of Matthew becoming one year old. It is after 10pm. I hear wimpering. I walk in to check on him. He is face down. He's taken off half of his clothes. Everything within reach is strewn on the bedroom floor. I step over clothes and a bottle. My Gawd, I think, not much changes - turning One or Twenty-One!

Third, More of the Heartfelt Updates from a Year Ago:

04-05-08

All tucked in at the end of the night.

Seems like we're stuck in a holding pattern! Not that that is a bad thing.

Everything seems good - except he's still an "immature eater." How he could be Michele's son and be accused of that, I'll never understand!




Matthew is still tubed with a feeding tube. They are adjusting his feeding schedules: alternating between tubed feedings, breast feedings and bottle feeding. The tubed feedings are basically 75mls of breast milk and a fortifier, put into a tube and slowly fed to him through his nose and into his belly. Fun. 75 mls seems like a lot. They then check his spit-up amounts and his "residuals" afterwards and try to determine how much he is eating. Residuals are described to us as the amount of undigested food still in his belly at next feeding. Breast feedings are going great - when he stays awake...and the bottle feedings are going no-so-great. It's more playtime to him than feedtime. As a result, his weight is fluctuating. We keep hoping he'll just catch-on and be able to come home. Hopefully he'll be c-sized early this week and then be able to come home. As impatient as we are, it's hard to see him now and realize its only been a few days since he was on the ventilator and scaring us silly.

The care at Wolfson's Children Hospital has been great. We have met many caring and helpful nurses, respiratory people and doctors. He is in great hands, and that makes it a little easier leaving to come home each time, as hard as it is leaving him there. We've also been lucky by having a private room, and not being bumped into the B-Ward just yet. (I probably just jinxed that, huh?!?)




Each day is still a blur, but all your calls, emails, cards, flowers, gifts and prayers are such a help.


Thanks so much! Much Love.

Matthew Is Home!! 04/07/08

Wow whatta day!

Per our routine, we showed up for the feeding this morning. Each morning for the last week or so, the nurse asks if we have any questions and each time I ask if I can circumcise him myself if it saves us money and we can bring him home sooner. The joke got old the second day. Seems nobody appreciates my sense of humor. They removed the feeding tube yesterday morning and thankfully he maintained his weight and his desire for boobage and bottles. This morning our nurse said the last few feedings have been good, and asked if we would we like to take him home!
Wow!I raced home, got David, got Nana, and little Matthew can now wear the t-shirt that says he is an official NICU Graduate from Wolfson Children's Hospital!

Matthew is home!You should see David's face - he is so bright and smiley looking at Matthew! I’m not sure now if David looks bigger or Matthew looks smaller – but one thing is certain – you sure can tell they are brothers!

Soon my emails will trail off, I'll return to a normal work week (I promise Susan & Leslie!) and we'll all be settled into a new and mundane routine! Thank you all so much for all your prayers and kind thoughts. There’s a strength, something hard to describe, that helped us put one foot in front of the other and no matter how numb we felt, or how dizzy we became, something helped us. I believe somehow not only Matthew grew stronger from your prayers, but so did we.

Today is a pretty special day.

I keep looking at pictures, and keep thinking of the roller coaster of emotions we’ve experienced. We are lucky; we are blessed. There are babies that are much sicker than Matthew was, and they are still there. I hope I’m not taking things for granted, because I feel like I’m talking like our ordeal is over – hopefully it is. His healing has been amazing. Thank You again for including him in your thoughts and your prayers.

Ok, enough of the sappy talk -

04/14/08

Hi All, just a quick Sunday Evening Hello. Matthew's been home almost a week. He's 18 days old.
Matthew is doing great. He is eating well, waking only to scream, "Boob!" then burp and fall asleep. Chip off the ol' block, you might say.

He is bright-eyed and inquisitive, following sounds and movement. I swear he smiles at me, but Michele swears I need to burp him more.

You should see David with him. Too cute. He wants to help with everything he can. This morning, while making a supplemental bottle, I asked David to shake it and place it in the warm water. He shakes it and breaks into, "Shake, Shake, Shake...Shake Your Booty!" He's only three and a half years old and he likes KC and the Sunshine Band. That scares me.

Matthew was circumcised this week. Probably not something you all want to discuss, but man, somebody actually thought of this and tried this before it became socially the norm?? Yikes. I look down, I'm circumsised, I think I'm born this way. I'm so glad the human brain can choose on it's own what to remember and what not to remember! We waited in the hall. He screamed like a little boy having his peepee cut off. (Oh wait...) As worried parents, we asked the probably over-asked questions about the doctor's last drink; how much coffee has he had this morning; can we see a portfolio of his previous work...... I felt I needed a "local" as much as Matthew did. Now, he seems fine, although everytime I change his diaper I can't help but think of the German Shepard that traumatized me when I was in the seventh grade...

Michele is doing better than great. She is handling the every-2.5-or-3-hour-feedings-even-in-the-middle-of-the-night pretty well. We are falling into a silent style of teamwork that seems to work at 3am. As long as he sucks and burps, life is good and we have nothing to discuss. We've never been so close.

I don't know how we could have juggled everything without Nana. She and David have something special, and that has made dealing with the surprises so much easier. Now that Matthew's been home a week, it really does feel like the roller coaster ride is over. Even though we check his breathing like every two minutes and see if he's blue the other every two minutes, we are all returning to a more normal, only half-insane way of life. Nana is so helping and as much as she says she needs to get home, we think we just might keep her. Plus, the more I tell her that airfares are over $600 (heehee) the longer she'll stay! (as Mikey will probably accuse me of - it's NOT about Matthew, it's all about ME!)

The list of names on this email has grown - included in this email is one of the day nurses that took such good care of Matthew (aka: sucked up to Mom & Dad) and has offerred to forward the email to a night nurse that also took such good care of Matthew (aka: also sucked up to Mom & Dad) Hi Aimee. We got to meet some very caring and helpful nurses throughout this ordeal. These are nurses that work 12-hour shifts taking care of other people's children. Taking care of children that need so much attention, and so much specific care. Uh-Oh, Carl's getting sappy.....here he goes...

So we had this child that got transferred to 2 different hospitals. We juggled the best we could, and could only get to the hospital twice a day for maybe a total of 6 hours a day on a good day. This kid could barely breath and we had to trust in our prayers, your prayers and in the hands of nurses at Wolfson like Aimee and Sheree and Luz and nurses at Memorial like Patty and Susan and the other Susan to take care of Matthew because we couldn't do it. I don't even know how to spell Dr. Suhumski's name, but I'm sure she has no idea how much I respect not only her decisions, but also her ability to reach me and talk me through some pretty amazing emotional circumstances. These are people that share a genuine feeling, something sincere and from the heart; more than just a professional courtesy trying to babysit me as a parent, you know?

There is no way, no way in a million years we could ever thank them enough. There is a helplessness, and a hopefulness all at the same time, when you leave that hospital and you trust in Faith that special people are put into your lives to take care of this little child when you can't do it. Oh, and you Hope, and you call at 3am and 5am and you feel yourself breath while you are on hold, and you second guess everything they say and then you begin to appreciate them, and you begin to trust in them, and then you begin to hope that nobody else will take care of Matthew, because that particular nurse is doing such good job. Nurses like Aimee. Like Cheree. Like Luz. Tears swell when the news is good. Tears swell when nothing seems to change, because if nothing changed, then nothing is worse.

And now Matthew's been home almost a week. This week has flown by. We miss the nurses that helped so much. Silently I wonder if they even remember us. But by believing that prayers are answered, and special people are put into our lives under such circumstances, I hope someday, that maybe, they'll see Matthew again, see how special he is becoming, and no matter how inadequate our attempts are to say thank you, that they will know how deeply we appreciate them and what they have done for our son.

And greedily in a sense, for what they have done for us too. Big hugs.

Don't even think I'll be getting any more sappy any time soon. I'm all sapped out. Next email updates will be covering nothing but poop and pee.

Beware.



And oddly, a year later, this turns out to be so true!

A Few More Matthew Updates from a Year Ago

We are coming up on Matthew's first birthday. The following are updates sent out as we went through Matthew's process getting acclimated to life outside the womb and becoming an Emerson. Punk kid fought hard. ("Can you blame him?" says a particular wife with the same last name...) I was asked at work about Matthew's troubles - and I sadly realized how much I had not thought of, for so long. I feel like that is not fair to those that helped so much. Seriously, there is so much, more than here, that I hope I will never forget. Here’s a look back, I hope you don’t mind.

03-30-08

Today was much more encouraging.

Matthew has responded well with the transfer and the new ventilator. The fear of Persistent Pulmonary Hypertension has been replaced with a theory that the xrays are showing fluid still there from birth, and not stress to the arteries and veins. His blood gases are within a good range. He is also doing well being weened off the oxygen.

Monday will be a key day - there is a strong possibility he may have the ventilator removed if tonight goes well. How he responds to that will be huge. We hate to jinx things by getting too excited, but we are so hopeful.

Michele is doing great - still fighting some headaches, but is recovering quickly and should be back doing dishes real soon, er, I mean, um, you should see her - you'd never guess she just had major surgery.

Thank You all again for your calls, your prayers, your help and especially for listening when I dominate the conversation! I'll say Hello again over the next few days, please keep him in your prayers.

04/03/08

It's been a little crazy trying to juggle so many directions, so I apologize for not saying Hello sooner. Plus, I figured I wouldn't over-email you all and appear dramatic with little things everyday.

But all in all, Matthew is responding very well. It is amazing the power of prayer and I am so amazed at how the human body can improve so quickly! (Not just Matthew, but Michele too!)

He is off both the ventilator and oxygen. They removed his IV line today too. The only thing he's got right now is a tube thru his nose, down into his belly for supplemental feedings. Seems that is the concern now, is keeping food down. He's doing okay, but they feel he should be doing a little better - maybe he is still irritated from the ventilator they hope, and nothing more serious. With the amount of milk he's expected to consume, I'm afraid Michele will be pumping 24 hours a day!!

Anyone who knows Michele might enjoy hearing that Matthew is definitely a Sleeper. He's taking his sleep very seriously.

I'm sorry I haven't had time to download any more pictures - I promise we have more pics now that aren't so scary and that are ok to share!

Thank You everyone for all your calls, emails and Thank You for including him in your prayers, especially when we all seem to be facing so much as it is.

04/04/08

8 Days Old and 1 tube to go!

Matthew Update 03-29-08

We are coming up on Matthew's first birthday. The following are updates sent out as we went through Matthew's process getting acclimated to life outside the womb and becoming an Emerson. Punk kid fought hard. ("Can you blame him?" says a particular wife with the same last name...) I was asked at work about Matthew's troubles - and I sadly realized how much I had not thought of, for such a long time. The next few posts will be a look back - I hope you don't mind.

3/29/08

Just a quick update, I haven't checked email for a couple days, and wanted to say Hi. Matthew's had a couple setbacks and was transferred to another hospital this morning.





He seems stable now, but is having a hard time maintaining a healthy oxygen level in under-developed lungs. Also heard the term, Pulminary Hypertension, for the first time this morning too. Seems he's a big boy, having a hard time pumping what's needed. Good news, seems that he has battled his nemothorax (air between his lungs and chest cavity) pretty well, and they have removed a tube from his side.



He had a real good night they said, but something this morning triggered a transfer to a bigger hopsital. I'm learning a whole new vocabulary, so bear with me if I'm not quite accurate. (However - I have to tell you - He did not have "cardiac arrest" as Nana said - he had "respiratory distress." There is a HUGE difference!! NANA!!)





Please keep him in your prayers. Michele is doing great - she's wiped out as you can imagine, but they did let her out a day early and she seems like she is getting stronger. She looks great and is handling all this quite well. It can't be easy for her - she hasn't even held him yet! That breaks my heart.

Meet Matthew!

We are coming up on Matthew's first birthday. The following are updates sent out as we went through Matthew's process getting acclimated to life outside the womb and becoming an Emerson. Punk kid fought hard. ("Can you blame him?" says a particular wife with the same last name...) Recently, I was asked at work about Matthew's troubles - and I sadly realized how much I had not thought of, for so long. I feel like that is not fair to those that helped so much. Seriously, there is so much, more than here, that I'd like to remember, and not be forgotten. The next few posts will be a look back, I hope you don't mind...

Meet Matthew!

I Have a Cat Story

Lots of people have Cat Stories. I have a Cat Story too.

My Cat Story is a story I have to be careful who I tell. I fear what may happen, telling this story.


My friend we call Goofy was telling me His Cat Story about how he had a cat that was getting into everything and his wife didn't want it anymore, so instead of taking it to The Pound, or to the woods and you know, killing it, he took it to a farm 5 miles up the road and let it go in the middle of the night. Two weeks later the Cat had found its way back, 5 miles to Goofy's house and his wife didn't want it anymore and he was telling me he was thinking of taking it to The Pound or to the woods and you know, putting the cat down.

I said no way - my Mom lives next to a farm that is like 10 miles away and there are lots of cats that live there that don't seem to find their way back to their homes, so let's sneak up there one night and drop the cat off and it will live happily ever after. Perfect, says Goofy.

Goofy's cat is a big, black cat with a white chest. It is a male cat and it is not thrilled about being put in a box in my truck. My truck smelled like cat urine for weeks.

We got to my Mom's house, Goofy went inside to create a diversion. According to plan, I was to sneak over to the barn and release the cat. Except it was muddy and it smelled like muddy cow poop and it was dark and I couldn't really get that close to the barn, so I let the cat out of the box next to the tree, next to the driveway, not really that close to the barn. However, nobody saw me. According to plan, we say nothing.

My heart is filled with Doing-the-Right-Thing. I saved this cat's life and have allowed it a second chance in life. A Ninth Life one might say. I think this looks good on my Getting-to-Heaven-Resume.

A couple days go by, and I'm talking to my Mom on the phone and she's all happy about a new cat that's been hanging around; a big black cat that purrs and rubs up against her leg all friendly like. She's feeding him and he appears well behaved. "See," I silently reward myself, "It is behaving like a good cat now." According to plan, I say nothing.

My brother loves the cat. He's letting the cat inside, he's taken over feeding it and it returns the attention by following him around like a puppy. I couldn't be happier. According to plan, I still say nothing.

A week or so more goes by, and this cat is like an official member of the family. It’s inside, it's outside, it doesn’t leave the yard and it sleeps with my brother at night. Good deal. Heaven is mine. I tell Goofy how things turned out and that his cat has a loving home. Job well done, according to plan; if not even better.



Time passes and I'm talking to my Mom one day and she’s all frustrated. She says this cat "that has become my brother’s" is getting up on the counters and she can't leave anything out without the cat getting into it. It desecrated a chicken just out of the oven. She and my brother are fighting. My Mom wants the cat to stay outside. But the cat is like my brother's little puppy friend, and he is putting up a good stubborn fight. Oh boy.

I'm talking to my Mom again one day and now she says, she and my brother aren't even speaking. She laid down The Law and the cat is not allowed inside anymore. She explains, it was constantly on the counters and it began to smell like it was spraying in the house. Now it's an outside cat, howling at night, crying to get in and trying to claw its way in through the screens. My Mom has had it.




The cat is destroying the flowers around the yard; spraying on, and trampling the plants. The screens are frayed, the screen door is all scratched up. My Mom asked my brother to take the cat out back and “put it down.” My brother says, "No freakin' way." Now, she says, my brother wants to move out.

So much for Heaven. The guilt is an overwhelming burden. Yet, I say nothing.

So I stopped calling my Mom. I avoided my brother. Seems like the obvious choice.

Seems like I don't hear anything for a long time. Seems like things have quieted down. Seems like it is safe to call; safe to have my Mom do my laundry again and safe to have her cook me supper again. My brother didn't move out. I am afraid to ask about the Cat. I say nothing.

You know what happened?

A friend of a friend tells me my Mother went behind my brother's back and had a friend of his take the cat out back, behind the barn, and "put the cat down." I am stunned. I am so responsible for this.





It's a week or so later. Maybe two. I know better than to ask about The Cat Situation. I am at my Mom's house. I'm sitting on the recliner, dinner plate on my belly, it's like 9pm, Drew Carey is on TV, my Mom is on the couch to my right, and my laundry is in the wash. Suddenly I come flying off the chair, arms waving, hair standing up on end; I am wild-eyed. Food flies all over the place and there is a big black cat with sharp claws, spread-eagled, matted hair, clinging to the window screen; it's like slow motion, trying to claw its way into the house, wailing this eerie, crying, screeching wail like I've never heard before in my life. I am pinned by fear against the back wall.

My Mom doesn't budge, barely moves a muscle. Just closes her eyes and takes a long deliberate drag off a cigarette. "You don't want to know," she exhales.

I envision this cat digging its way out of its shallow grave, half its head shot off, barely alive, desperately trying to get back into the house. I can't breathe.



"Tristan shot your sister's cat."

My Priceless Nine Dollars an Hour Lesson

I got reminded of a story today that I had not told in years. With older kids, maybe it might sink home.

I was working on this really, really nice house being built in Pebble Beach, CA. I was up on the roof and my job was to wipe down the inside of the gutters with vinegar.

Yes. I am up on this roof, hanging over the edge, wiping down the INSIDE of the gutters with vinegar. It is over 100 degrees up there. I am on my knees. This is killing me. This is a big house.

I look down. "Dave, Dave! Why in the world am I up here wiping down the inside of these gutters?"

"Nine dollars an hour. That's why." And he keeps walking.

I think about that all the time. I can still hear him.

"Nine dollars an hour. That's why."

It's Impossible to Kill Him, So I Gave Him Brain Damage Instead

It is Saturday afternoon and David joined us outside. Dressed in his pajamas. He's playing with a stuffed Nemo fish his Mom got him this morning.

Now, it's a little after 5pm, and he has a red sock on one hand, a black sock on the other hand and baby blue socks on his feet. He's crawling around on all fours. David is almost five. He looks up, "Is this funny?" He asks so sweetly and innocently with big brown eyes.

I knew it. My son has Brain Damage.

Ironically, within just a few hours he has already lost Nemo, and is busy finding Nemo. I don't know why, but I find that so funny.

When David was little, he would fall. And land on his head. It wasn’t an everyday thing, but when he was little, he fell soundly on his head six times that I can remember. Six times I can remember. God only knows how many other times he fell on his head that his mother didn't tell me about, just so I wouldn't worry about our son having brain damage. According to Parenting Magazine, I read that it is hard to kill a child. I was relieved by that. Each time David would fall, I'd breath a little easier, knowing he was not dead.

And it wasn't just that he would fall on his head, it was that he would fall and land on the same spot on his head. oooch. Just above his right eyebrow. He would develop a nice round, almost symmetrical circular blue spot on his head. The swelling would go down almost immediately, but the blue circle would last. As an aware Dadman in this watchdog millennium and with a wife addicted to Law and Order reruns, imagine my paranoia.

Do the math. I'm thinking he fell six times while "being little" which I figure equates to about once every six weeks. So then figure it takes about three weeks for the blue spot to go away, which then it turns that sickish yellow brown color, then finally all evidence goes away completely for um, a week, then Bam. Booboo on the Noggin. And the whole cycle repeats itself. Seriously, imagine my paranoia. Especially that episode about Munchausen’s disease or whatever.

David uses phrases like, "Hey Lookit my Poopie Butt" and "Here, Lick my Stinky Piggy Toes." He likes bologna for breakfast. We believe he secretly ate his boogers til he was almost four years old.

We were at my sister's house for dinner one night and from across the room I could see it coming. The head had been shiny and healthy looking for about a week, which already had my reflexes on guard. In slow motion, I leapt across the living room, arms waving. I clear the coffee table and proudly don't spill a drop. David goes to stand up and leans into the table cloth, thinking there is a table behind the cloth and, Crunch. Blue Spot. Same Spot. Big Egg. Brain Damage.

I wanted to take him to Emergency. Seems everyone there had read the same Parenting Magazine article and made fun of me. This was like the fifth fall on his head in same spot, and I was getting a little concerned. Thankfully, he was not dead, although the article said nothing about Brain Damage.

David has not one blankie, but three. He sleeps with three blankies, a jaguar, a 4' stuffed dog and a stuffed horse that has spots like a cow. Sometimes he also sleeps with a train or a giraffe or a paper airplane. He likes Zorro.

We had a big pine tree cut down a while ago and we had these really cool tree stumps in our yard. We rolled a few into our backyard as seats around the fire pit, and the remaining were left along the street to get picked up. At my prompting, David was jumping from one stump to the other. Way cool, I was thinking, he's not brain damaged at all, his coordination is perfect. Famous last wor---

David missed a stump, arms out wide, missed the stump and crashed head first. He scraped the insides of both arms, bloodied both knees, and yes you guessed it - he was not dead. Wait. Yes. Same Spot. Big Egg. Big Loud Tears.

I am THE most horrible Dadman on the face of this entire Earth.

David likes KC & The Sunshine Band, Shakes His Booty for anyone strolling past the house on any given afternoon and yells, "Happy Holiday!" David is four and would rather watch The Godfather than The Muppet Movie. I worry incessantly that he is the stinky kid in class.

This week, we walked into daycare and David pulled his jackolet down, his hands all wrapped up behind his back and he goes from "clown to down" in a matter of seconds. I could only stand there. He’s laying face first on the carpet, arms tied up like a straightjacket, big tears, shoulders shaking. I roll him over and I am shocked. I lay him back down so I can get a good, good look at him. He’s sobbing and looking at me dead in the eyes with a look that says sincerely, “What the…”?

I point. He landed on the other side. My little boy is growing up. Nobody else shared my joy and amazement.

Tonight, when it came time for Matthew to hit the crib, David unselfishly offered him his Spiderman doll. It was a true act of kindness. He melted the hearts of a particular set of parents and his Nana.

Moments later, David came out and asked if I would read him a story. He was tired and wanted me to read to him. I said no, it was too early, but after we ate supper, I said I’d be happy to curl up and read him the story. David sat next to me while I ate, book in waiting.

I cleared the table and looked down at David. Limp as a pale white four-year-old ragdoll. Sound asleep. Book on the floor.

There is no brain damage here...

..only a most horrible Dadman on the face of this entire earth for even thinking such a thing.

When Two is Never Enough

I have a dilemma.

To update the Status of the Stomachs, it has only gotten worse. But first, yes, Matthew is doing much better. Thanks.

Second, I just ate a really big bowl of leftover Chili for supper.

The dilemma?

Michele is throwing up in one bathroom. Nana is throwing up in the other bathroom.

Let me restate what may not have been a real obvious point: I just ate a really big bowl of leftover Chili for supper....

The Sorry I Don't Have Anything-to-Blog-About-Blog, Written While Being Hit by Vomit

The Sorry I Don't have Anything-to-Blog-About-Blog, Written While Being Hit by Vomit

I guess it was inevitable. A blog that includes raising children and surprisingly I have made it this far without any mention of Vomit. Poopie Butt, Yes, Vomit, No.

Tonight, I have been hit by Vomit. Twice.

This is a week that included taxes, subfreezing temps, high winds and nearly slicing my thumb off at work; all in an effort to break out of the, “I got nuthin to blog aboutsince last Saturday” slump.

And to think, as I was all cuddled up with Matthew tonight - him sleeping on my chest, all cozy and comfy; just knowing how he doesn't feel good, but he's comfortable enough to fall asleep on my chest during American Idol. It would make a very deep meaningful blog about the depths of Fatherhood versus Motherhood and the roles this Generation is facing and the Reversal of the Roles we are ill-equipped to deal with.....er...um...no wonder he puked all over me.

Whatever. If my Dad was dead, he'd roll over in his grave hearing sissy girlie talk like that.

As I raced by with vomiting child in hand, Michele calmly stated without even looking up, "Well, now you have something to blog about" as brown liquid toast pukelets are soaking through my favorite long sleeve Frisbee Golf T-shirt and giving me the chills.

We are all sharing The Plague.

It is now Matthew's turn.

First, it was me; I felt crappy. I drink a lot of coffee and a lot of beer and because of that, I'm thinking I warded off a few days of feeling nothing more than crappy. Even though I whined like a weak little girl scout, it got me nowhere, so I did not vomit.

David then woke me up crying. I truly believed he wet his bed, and I began the Dadman-Latenight-Wetting-The-Bed-And-Lying-About-It-Lecture,
and realized, "Hey, you really didn't wet your bed, why are you crying?"
I don't want to grow up.
You don't want to grow up?
I don't want to grow up - I can't do it all by myself.
Did you have a bad dream?
No.
You didn't wet your bed?
No! I don't want to grow up! Big muffled tears in his pillow.
David, DO YOU HAVE TO THROW UP? Wide-eyed holy crapness at 3:30am, yes in the a-fricken-m morning.
Uh-huh.
Mad dash to the toilet.
He throws up like every 16-32 minutes. I know, because I was wide awake watching the alarm clock, and there by his side every time he came to get me and said it was time to "grow up."

We developed a very intimate, reassuring vomit routine:

. I rub his back. If I stop, he reaches out, even in the middle of heaving nothing but stomach acid and tries to find my hand to keep rubbing.
. I push his pajama sleeves back and he washes his hands, then puts liquid soap on my hands and waits while I wash my hands too.
. I then hold the towel out flat and as he places his palms onto the flat towel, and the "towel monster" eats his hands until dry.
. He holds his arms out straight until I pull his sleeves back down, and then he raises his arms so that I'll carry him back to bed.
. He buries his face into my shoulder and I wonder how long I'll be able to carry him to bed in the years - months – days - to come without damaging my rotator-cuff.
. I also wonder if he's throwing up on purpose because these father-son hugs are so fricken special and maybe he wonders too, how long my rotator-cuff will hold out.

Later, Michele helped him in the bathroom and let me rest. Thank You BumBum. And then I hear, "Huh?, Why do I need to wash my hands? I wasn't the one with my face wrapped around the toilet bowl. Put your arms down, get back to bed." I immediately got up and made Michele feel inadequate as a Vomit-Trauma-Counselor.

Michele called in sick on Monday. Her turn. Should've washed her hands.

Now Matthew is sick. Nana is even feeling less than her happy-natural-lite-self. She went to bed tonight with chills and 14 sweatshirts on.

Joy...

But phew, thank goodness, at least I had something to blog about.