Fear, Loathing, and Teething

So Rowe is teething...Not just teething though. It's more like TEETHING.

Something I've realized over the last year is that for all their linguistic limitations, babies are particularly adept at expressing their emotions. Perhaps they don't meet our expectations of speech clarity, but they do put forth an unrelenting effort to convey their needs. It's as though they realize their inefficient speech and to compensate, they escalate the volume and intensity of their protestations.

This week has been full of said protestations. Loud, angsty, temple-throbbing protestations.

I don't begrudge him this because I suppose that if I had shards of teeth slowly descending through my gums that I probably would be similarly unpleasant.

Which is where we find our problem.

Essentially, this process provokes frustration and stress. Ingredients like a shrieking child, profoundly poopy diapers, poor appetites, and late night rampages are the fundamental elements of stress.

In and of themselves, these are not overly problematic things. But when intermingled, they work to undo our sanity. Justified as the descent into sanity might be, we still feel guilty.

The guilty feelings are so potent because we know that our ideal reactions would be those of grace, sensitivity, and calm in the frenzied face of his screaming mouth and swatting hands from 2am - 4am nightly. But those ideal reactions are generated from equally ideal behavior from Rowe.

Realistically, I'd like to say that our temperament is unconditional and not dependent on his interactions with us. It should be anyways. Maybe it will be one day.

But for now, under the influence of sleep deprivation, that notion is naive and dangerous, particularly if said by someone without kids.

So how do we reconcile how we feel versus how we should feel?

I don't know. Endurance I guess?

Someone smarter than me once said that stress and money don't make you a different person. They just make you more of who you actually are.

While we don't have money, we do have a surplus of stress and what we're finding out is that we'll never be able to pull off the idealized concept of the perfect parents.

But who can? There's this notion that you have to have everything figured out to be a good parent. You don't. You just have to be consistent, loving and resilient. Mistakes will be made, but love is always an effective elixir.

Besides, we get like four years before they remember anything right? Right??

Wide Awake, Wired, and Updating...

Ok so, a couple of things:

I'm wired with the euphoria that typically accommodates the vanquishing of a migraine. I went to bed at 9:42 with a massive migraine and am now WIDE awake. Awesome.

For anyone that may care, I did not get my Tennessee Titans internship job. Long story short, I spoke with a friend at bleacherreport.com and he informed me that I was the clubhouse leader after the application process ended. Unfortunately though, CBS was approached by some out of work NFL beat writers who had gotten wind of the contest. They offered to work for significantly less than what I would have made, so I got cut out. Sad times.

The good news is that the people at Bleacher Report felt pretty crappy of how everything shook out, so they are sending me a check for $500 and they've offered me a featured columnist position with their website.

Even though the gig pays exactly $0.00, I'll take the exposure. Though it all feels like a consolation prize, Ashley and I are pretty happy with how everything turned out. I won't have to be away from her and H.R. for 7 months and I still get to write for a larger audience.

Not only that, but I even made my first $$$ from writing. Is it enough to buy a beach house? Not exactly, but I guess Rome wasn't built in a day, right?

With all that being said, I've decided to begin posting links to the articles I'll be doing for Bleacherreport.com. I'm sure that this is incredibly exciting news for the 4 people who read this blog regularly. Feel free to pinch yourselves.

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

Recently, after yielding the remote and thereby forfeiting my chances of watching the NBA Playoffs, I watched the tabloid melodrama that is Jon and Kate Plus 8.

Admittedly, my history in watching the show is brief and limited to random viewings as seen when 1) the remote was lost, 2) I was too lazy to get up and retrieve said remote or 3) Options 1 and 2 simultaneously.

At any rate, given my occasional indulgence in US Weekly (there I said it) my interest was piqued given the allegations of Jon’s philandering, Kate’s profiteering, and a cult-like obsession with the “unique” stylings of Kate’s hair.

Given the Lost, American Idol, HIMYM, and Southland-sized holes in my TV schedule, JKP8 was definitely getting a look-see at what the Gosselins had in store for the American Public.

Sadly, the show quickly took me from morbid curiousity all the way to discomfort in watching what transpired.

First, before I begin launching boulder-size stones at J&K’s massive new glass house, let me say this: If I was approached to do a reality show with my family, the easy answer is to say, “No thanks.”

But when people start throwing out compensation figures like $50,000 - $75,000 per episode, then things change. Everyone has a plan until they get hit with the green wave. But would I still say no? Ideally, I’d love to say that I would, but knowing myself, I would negotiate with myself until I could say yes. Doesn’t make it right.

But even then, does that make it a bad decision? From everything I gathered, early on J&K seemed to have a good relationship centered around a strong faith. Sure, Jon always seemed to look about as enthusiastic as I did during my colonoscopy purge and Kate managed to make Bellatrix LeStrange look charming. But there was an authenticity to their relationship that made the show feel less like a reality TV show and more like an earnest documentary with flawed but genuine subjects.

But at some point (and I haven’t watched enough to know when), J&K clearly allowed their own self-interests to usurp the original priority of their family first and foremost.

For Jon, this is most clearly seen in his forgetfulness about who his wife is. For Kate, this is seen in her choosing to be away while trouble brewed. The blame pours both ways and though many excuses and arguments can be posited forth, what remains is that you NEVER are justified in cheating and leaving when things are left unresolved is unacceptable. This clearly wasn’t a conscious decision on either of their parts, but what ensues will be.

While some will scream that they should cancel the show and work out their problems, I’m not so sure that it is that simple. TLC has made J&K the incubator through which all the other programming is gathered around. It is a cash cow and this kind of cow is usually contractually obligated to continue being milked until every last drop is extracted and the network is content to move on, so I can’t beat them up for not shutting this thing down and trying to work on their problems.

The next few episodes will provide all the answers though. Will the show center around the impending split? The marital strife? The accusations? Or will it show two people humbled by their mistakes and attempting to rebuild the foundation in which their marriage was originally built on? The optimist in me hopes they rally, but I’m afraid we’re about to get 39 more episodes of the smoky descent and fiery crash.

Lessons in Leg Lesions

These are the facts: I have a large, gaping wound on the side of my left leg. It has been like this for 2 weeks. I’m whining slightly more than the average contestant on the Biggest Loser. I did this playing church softball. I am 26.

Having no other recourse after my amateur medical methods yielded little improvement, I sought out the good doctor, Doc Thompson to shed some light on the unrelenting grotesqueness that sits just below my knee. At the conclusion of our visit, Dr. Thompson declared my wound to be, not an abrasion, but a severe 2nd degree burn. Good times.

This struck me as odd so I compiled 2 theories on how the leprosy of my leg came to be.

Theory #1: I was running at such a great speed, that my slide simulated that of a motorcycle wreck, resulting in a wound similar to that of an injury earned during a motorcycle’s skipping across a hard surface (A 0.01 % chance of being the likely answer).

Theory #2: The cumulative mass of my ample backside forcibly striking the ground, created a big-bang style explosion of energy and heat. The burn on my leg was ground zero of the massive release of energy, thus providing the source of my heinous, festering sore (A 78 % chance of being the likely answer).

I’m fairly certain that the truth is somewhere in the middle of those theories.

Following a nightly occurrence of my yelping in pain as a result of peeling the bed sheets from the gooey adhesiveness of my wound, I thought of this situation as a plush garden from whence I could extract many teaching points for young HR: The benefit of pants when playing baseball/softball, being content with doubles, and addressing problems head were just a few of the gems I came up with.

Since the origin of my wound, I have been diligently treating the problem. Triple antibiotics, Neosporin Pain+, and surgical dressings have all been purchased in an effort to quell the throbbing pain emanating from just above my shin.

My attention has rarely wavered from it and it’s healing has never been far from my focus. But it was only recently that I understood just how starkly my handling of this injury stood in contrast to my approach in other areas of my life.

If given truth serum, could I honestly say that I’ve approached all my problems in this manner? How would my marriage be if I attacked each of my faults as I have my melted tissue? What about my spiritual walk? Have I ever paid as much attention and been as consumed with my spiritual flaws as I have been with my leg?

Most of the last two weeks have been spent franticly trying to figure out some kind of resolution to my problem, but yet when God is dealing with me about something, I often find it appropriate to stick my head in the sand and hope for the best.

The physical immediacy of the pain made it the preeminent problem of the last two weeks for me, but discomfort alone isn't the measure of a problem's depth.

So if there is anything profound to be shared with HR from an injury incurred just before third base, it is to tackle the problems of his spiritual walk and personal relationships like they are throbbing flesh wounds.

Sometimes they go away quietly and just leave a faint scar as a silent reminder, but other times they escalate, and in doing so, are complicated infinitely more than they ever should have been.

Or sometimes they make you have to wear shorts for two straight weeks, ensuring that you look REALLY professional at work, as you’re forced to walk like Lieutenant Dan after Vietnam. Awesome.

Enlightenment at a Yard Sale

In the interest of spring cleaning and eventually selling our house, Ashley and I planned a yard sale and so embarked on the process of inventorying and itemizing the wealth of junk that had accumulated in our house. This was no small job, but we found it to be liberating and cathartic when we observed all our tables and blankets robustly filled with once treasured items.

As early morning on the day of the sale approached and our first customers shuffled about our cast away items, Ashley and I revisited a previous conversation we had joked about. We should sell, nay, give away our dog, Emma.

Before you leap to conclusions though, ignore the simplicity packed into the previous sentence. To accept Emma as an ordinary dog is to casually dismiss the essence of her being.

Our dog Ajax is normal. Though he is princely, moody, and sensitive, his behavior typifies that of most humanized and domesticated dogs. By this definition though, Emma is not normal.

She is a swirling vortex of death, destruction, and mental problems.

Her name is the last vestige of femininity that has been associated with her and a portly frame combined with killer instincts works to betray any softening perceptions one may have of her.

Her weight gain has been especially troubling to us and to combat it, we stopped leaving food in her bowl and began feeding her smaller portions but the balloning continued. It wasn't until I realized that she was supplementing her diet with high fat dishes like squirrel, blue jay, and rats that I understood how her rotundity came to be.

Naturally, with Rowe on the scene, the exit of our natural born killer has been weighing heavily on my mind. But even with her foibles, I still feel she deserves a graceful exit to a setting where she and her unique skill set would be welcomed (like maybe Afghanistan).

So a yard sale seemed to be the perfect venue to find a decent home for Emma.

A couple of prospective adopters passed after seeming concerned that I had to bring Emma out like a restrained Hannibal Lecter, but it was still early when a female customer asked to see Emma and seemed genuinely delighted that Emma was overweight with a nervous tic.

After some pleading with a disinterested husband, I found myself hoisting Emma into their car while excitedly detailing some of Emma's "quirks."

And just like that, the fat, black albatross that hung so heavily around my neck was gone.

But just like Michael Myers, Jason, or the Fast and the Furious movies, she was never really gone because 5 hours later, there she was soaking wet and back in my arms.

The girl gave me some delirious story about cats, eyeballs, and frantic french bulldogs, but I waved her off because Emma is my cross to bear and I was kidding myself to think her exit would come so easily.

I think as parents you are naturally eager to convey all your failures to your children in the spirit of improvement and avoidance. I have no shortage of failures and screw-ups to share, but Emma will be a vivid lesson for me to share with Rowe.

My rescuing of her, though noble, was ill-fated as I had neither the space nor time to properly invest in her. Optimistic intentions without consideration rarely end well. Especially when dealing with a killing machine.

And so when Rowe asks about the shadowy, black shape waddling around our back porch in the pictures or videos of his infancy, instead of needlessly recounting the massacre of woodland creatures around our house, I will use it as an opportunity to teach Rowe about the importance of foresight and consideration in decision-making. Because if not, he could end up with a dog that can eat an entire kitchen floor in one night (a story for another time).

The Paradox of Parenting

Never before has 5 months felt more prolonged. But what's funny is that I find myself unable to recall much of the goings on throughout these months.

It feels like a phenomenon more suited to the (re)cast away survivors on LOST. That, or it could be lack of sleep.

Regardless, life has seemed to slow down but with very little anecdotal evidence to support that claim.

What is for certain though is our new station in life, which is complete with parental duties, new responsibilities, and skills yet to be learned. But not only has the time spent in these roles left us memory-challenged, it also is beginning to wipe out my recollection of life before Rowe.

It's almost like Back to the Future when Marty keeps examining the photograph of his family as siblings begin to slowly vanish from view.

What exactly was it that I did on week nights? On Saturdays? At 5am in the morning? All the things I did that were such large and prevalent portions of my life are now drifting away with very little attention being paid to their dismissal.

But unlike the time-traveling McFly, I don't feel a sense of urgency to reclaim my lost freedom. It's a good loss as only now do I realize that most of my time was spent catering to a massive self-centeredness.

If it seems as though I am painting myself as enlightened, please understand that (in staying with the Back to the Future theme) in many things I still operate with an ignorance befitting Biff.

It's more of a situation where beyond the perfect miracle that Rowe is in and of himself, God is also using him as a daily reminder of how much richer life can be when I realize that there is more to life than myself.

The Smell of Weakness

He smells the weakness.

His nose and feet twitch instinctively as the mechanical mongering of the garage is faintly heard and he knows that my wife - his mother - has left us alone together. This is his cue, his summoning to awake and pounce on the weak one left behind.

The attack begins with a muffled cry. I have come to know that cry as a scare tactic. A taunt meant to send my blood pressure sky high much like a coyote circling his prey from a distance.

I scurry about the house collecting paciphers, blankets, gripe water, and any other items that may temporarily stifle his unrelenting outbursts.

Deep down, I see these props for what they are. They are my water guns and he is the inferno.

His muffled cry now becomes a full on battle cry. He is eager to engage me and shame me into running my hands through my hair and dialing my capable and competent wife for rescue. But I am eager to meet his challenge.

He is not to be taken lightly. I am 26 and a salty veteran at life compared to my formidable opponent, but what he lacks in experience he more than makes up for in unpredictability and shriek-ability. He has the is stubborn and merciless.

I enter the bedroom, the oft-chosen site for many of our clashes. He flails his arms from within his bassinet and begins cooing and giggling at my entrance. His laughter ridicules my presence and his cooing is no doubt some form of infant trash talk berating me before we've even begun.

I pluck him from his bed and he stares at me wide-eyed, no doubt shocked at my willingness to endure the spittle and ferocious screams he will direct at me.



He laughs.

It is a laugh borne from disdain for me, entertainment at my attempts, and relief that he will not meet the iron will of his mother.





He waits.

He bides his time before striking and we continue circling each other as though we are sword-wielding combatants directly from King Arthur's round table.

The tension is palpable and unyielding against the back drop of Praise Baby and Baby Einstein but I see the first subtle signs of his coming attack.

He yawns.

He waits and again he yawns. The yawns grow stronger and less concealable and soon it is clear that he will be striking soon. He begins fussing like a pent up bull in anticipation of his entrance into a rodeo. Emboldened, I make the first move in an attempt to catch him off guard. I shift him against me so that he quickly finds himself in a sleeping posture against my chest. My plan is to sneak-attack him and hope he is too tired to retaliate. I have grossly miscalculated.




He screams.

He is irate over my surprise attack and launches a full-on assault on my ears and spirit. I shift him into several different positions that I have learned from the master, Ashley, but it is to no avail. I have angered the bull with a bright red cape and he is intent and making me pay quite possibly with my sanity.

He doesn't not waver in his assault. He will not be reasoned with nor is he interested in surrender. He will not relent until he has wrestled my dignity away from me, because Rowe does not take prisoners.



As he settles into a berating rhythm I find myself becoming systematically worn down as he drops the hammer on me. I have no counter as he has successfully defended all my offensive tactics. Though I promised myself I wouldn't do it, I begin entertaining the thought of calling for help.

He senses my indecision and increases his audible attack on me. Victory is only seconds away.

I fumble for my phone and as I am close to dialing the numerical code for surrender, I hear a glorious sound.

The long and laborious sound of the garage door emanates through the house. Back-up has arrived. His screaming subsides into a smattering of whimpers before he retreats completely into silence and as the sound of my wife's footsteps echo in our kitchen...

He sleeps.