Senyor Madre

MIA

2011-08-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

Hmmm, these babies turn into toddlers and then into smartasses, huh?

Let's do this together: now that the huge milestones of sixth grade (Connor) and kindergarten and first tooth loss (both Maggie) all have happened, what milestones are next for the wee ones?

You, who have older kids than mine, chime in. Me, who can only guess....

1. First eye-roll at something I say
2. First joke played on me
3. First time I'm made fun of
4. First time I'm shown how to do something I can't figure out
5. First joke shared

I think #1 has happened, and they've tried #3, but I don't think it counts when I show them the ol' 'What's that on your chest, they look down and I run my finger up their face' trick and they immediately do it back to me.

Surprise is the key, kids.

Of course #5 has been attempted as well, but I'm not counting:

"Knock knock"
"Who's there?"
"Banana"
"Banana who?"
"Banana in your butt!"

Nor do I count it the fifth time it's used.

We almost got caught shirking our Tooth Fairy duties BTW. Maggie was so excited to get the world's loosest tooth out that she let Carrie show her how folks sometimes just go ahead and pull that thing out. She woke me up extremely excited that it came out one day last week, and handed me what appeared to be a chip off a tooth. It was in fact, the tooth.

They look so much bigger when they're attached to gums.

Anyway, I awoke the next night about 2 am, to some strange noise. Maybe that's what the Tooth Fairy does, wakes your forgetful ass up to do the right thing by knocking something over. I woke up Carrie to ask if she had put a dollar underneath Maggie's pillow or did we use the Tooth Fairy pillow we have for some reason that has its own little pocket and hangs from a doorknob?

She had done neither, but suggested an envelope to hold a dollar, then returned to Lala Land. Now here's a problem with folks using debit and credit cards so much these days--we rarely carry cash. Sucks for homeless folks, no?

Well, luckily, Carrie has a social life, and that includes needing cash for her and her friends' ventures. Her purse is like a waitress's, with cash hidden in all the folds and pockets and at the bottom. I found a buck, but thought it would be weird for a fairy to use an envelope.

Then, I had an idea. What if I wrote some weird shapes on the envelope, and called it fairy writing, and that the fairy letters spelled out Margaret? It was fun making up my own mini alphabet. Stuck it under her pillow and went back to bed.

She still believes in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, and will now be translating the Tooth Fairy Dictionary into English.

White Stripes

2011-08-24T20:53:00.000-07:00

Quick refresher: the titles of each post are bands who have some connection with what is in the body of the post. Could be a lyric, could be an album title, date of an overdose...something.

This week all kids started some form of school. The difference is, instead of two forms of school, there are now three--middle, elementary and pre.

Yes, that means I have to remember three different times and places. Connor the sixth grader is fine for me: he can get on and get off his bus without anyone meeting him. Not kindergartner Maggie though. Someone has to walk her to the bus stop and stay with her, and if it's me because Carrie's working, the 4-year-old twins have to come with.

That didn't work out great today. Gavin wanted to bring books and go back home, and Darcy wanted to sit on me and Carrie. Both had to be reminded multiple times that sidewalks were for people and streets for vehicles. They didn't get that sending a child to kindergarten for the first time was a big deal, so let's not make it about them!

Then Maggie's bus didn't come, so we piled everyone in the van and drove her. First week of school, I understand the rough start; Connor's bus came so early he missed it, and thankfully his neighborhood friend's mom drove them. At noon, I had to haul the twins out to pick up Maggie from the bus. This will be a treat once the weather turns nasty.

The twins are backwith the Warenville Park District's preschool program, where they were with Maggie all last year. Familiar teachers, but unfamiliar other parents. Had a good group last year, with one dad who is a real sweetheart of a guy who has twin boys and loves his football. They moved to Yorkville this summer and we hope to go to their housewarming party soon.

But now I have to get used to new other-kids' parents. It's only a problem because for the most part I don't like people, so it's either fun times talking with folks I like while the kids play at the preschool playground before and after school or me being anti-social because I don't like to gush about how crazy parenting is or the latest cute thing they did (that's what Facebook is for, no?) or making small talk just to have something to say or laughing at lame jokes.

Other than that, I'm a real peach.

Bottom line: I've just about had enough of these critters and adjusting my life and work around them. Next year at this time, I will have half of each day to myself, as the twins start kindergarten.

Then I can really waste some me time.

Bye for now, and thanks for reading

Supertramp

2010-08-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

So Connor starts school next Tuesday, and I'm making that the day that I finally get serious about the twins' education. Loyal readers will be tired of reading how smart Maggie is, and how the twins won't match her because we haven't had the same one-on-one time and opportunity with them as we did with Maggie.

Because it's been 14 months since my layoff, the twins' lack of facility with the alphabet, numbers, physics and Classical Greek is on me. I have chosen play over academic drills, my own fun and laziness over play and academic drills, and the result is that my 44-month-old twins can get to G before spewing a mishmosh of sounds until they get to U, V, W, X, Y, Z. That's why they can't read yet.

Meanwhile, Maggie plows through second-grade books while laying on her stomach, twirling her hair and humming.

So, I am using Connor's first day of fifth-grade to promote the preschoolers' first day of homeschoolergarten. Number and letter flash cards for the twinnie twin twins and in-depth study of definitions and sentence structure as well as math for Maggie. She's a whiz reading, but is like a 4-year-old with math.

Something I discovered with Maggie that is probably a well-known phenomenon with early childhood educators and researchers: while taking spelling tests here and there with me, like we do with Connor during school, there are words I know she can read with no problem that she can't even come close to spelling correctly.

So, it has something to do with successfully sounding out letters when seen on a page, but hitting a wall when matching sounds to letters out of thin air, as in a verbal spelling test. Anyway, I want to make sure she knows the meaning of words now that I know she can read them and pronounce them correctly. Oh the dic dic dictionary, is very necessary...(old-school hip-hop reference, De La Soul I believe).

So that's it. If they don't give me an apple next week I'll be pissed. But I think this will work--they are excited to be like big brother Connor, and their Kindercare experience should have softened them up for me.

I said 'Criss-cross applesauce,' god dammit!

Stevie Ray Vaughan

2010-08-07T19:10:00.000-07:00

What's strange is once your kids go to some school, whether five times a week or two, they come back knowing things you didn't teach them.

So the small ones have been going to Kindercare two times a week, and we're hearing songs we don't know and learning about kids we've never met. Not really sure where Darcy is getting some of her slinky dance moves, but she's a tiny go-go girl. Seriously, she may have a natural dancing talent, though it's worrisome to see a 3-year-old go all Soul Train in the kitchen. No school dances or teen clubs for that one.

It's nice though, feeling so secure about a daycare. Connor was a Kindercare kid from 2 until kindergarten. He made some friends, one of whom is still a buddy, though we live further away than we used to. I don't see what paying more will get you--Creme de la Creme, the Snobbington Academy, etc. I wouldn't feel good about a step down from Kindercare, but I am not sure what the next level up does for your kid, especially at this age.

They play, do crafts, sing, dance, do letters, numbers, socialize, eat well, no TV or movies, and many of the teachers that I've met over the years have been attractive. Maybe that's it..the Creme de la Creme teachers are dressed like Hooters girls. Great, because I've never thought that outfit or for that matter most of the girls I've seen there are special. They bait with the calendars, and switch with the boots on the ground.

But I digress, just a bit. Sometimes they bitch about going, but when we take them inside their friends run up to them and say their names excitedly, and when we pick them up they're grabbin ass and running around and their friends say bye and it's a nice feeling to see your kids are liked by other kids.

Gavin had a rough morning or afternoon once and got to hug it out with a big frog they have just for that occasion. There's a guinea pig named Mr. Incredible. They go on field trips to Outback and Noodle & Co. I bet Snobbington Academy doesn't do that. They probably have Rick Bayless stop by for some PB&J grilling.

I'm not paying extra for that.

Squeeze

2010-07-31T12:15:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd see how many neat-o moments from being a Senyor Madre I could list. The wee ones are going to Kindercare three times per week now, so I'm more Senyor than I am Madre lately. Before I forget:

*Reaching behind me while driving and grabbing Darcy or Gavin's toes and feeling them instinctively curl around my fingers.

*Listening to any of them sing to themselves while playing or drawing.

*Coming upstairs and finding Maggie on a bed or on the floor reading a book.

*Gavin sleeping late disguised as a blanket

*Anytime Maggie, Darcy and Gavin, in any combination, are caught hugging, kissing or both.

*Anytime they hug and kiss on Connor and you can see he loves being an older brother.

*When Darcy slam dances to any of my favorite music. When after an Eleventh Dream Day song in the car, Gavin says, "Daddy, do that one again." Ok, bud!

*When Gavin or Darcy say they want to watch or have me read "Hat in the Cat".

*Dropping them off at the gym's playroom, and Darcy turning to me and saying "Daddy, you go exercise."

*Seeing kids at the playroom or Kindercare get excited when they see Maggie, Darcy and Gavin come in.

*How brave Maggie is, from asking a bully to say sorry when she was 3, to insisting on practicing treading water in the pool.

*Any time they obey.

Time to go do other things now, as always, but you can guess that the preceding was a small sample of the wonders that balance the aggravations. Feel free to leave some of yours in the comments.

Ricardo Lemvo

2010-07-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

Oops, missed the anniversary. Just too tired, fell asleep on a bedroom floor helping Darcy get to sleep.

Nevermind, here I am. 8:20 a.m. Three wee ones playing puppets upstairs with me, Carrie sleeping downstairs in our old-person first-floor master bedroom, Connor with his Dad for the weekend, three cups o'coffee already in me, listening to some Afro-Cuban All-Stars.

That musical group reminds me that Maggie at 4 is already having image issues with her brown skin. It ties in with my final ESL-certification class--Cross-Cultural Something or Other; how to educate and nurture kids from different cultures who are trying to assimilate in the dominant U.S. culture.

Now, Maggie is not from another culture, but she looks around at home and sees Irish skin everywhere but herself and me. She got my brown skin (naturally exacerbated in the summer), while Connor and Darcy got Carrie's North Atlantic ivory. Gavin is in between. Still, even the twins will say, "Daddy, you're brown, and Maggie is brown. I'm white."

With Hispanics expected to be half the U.S. population by 2050, Maggie may eventually feel more comfortable outside the home than in. Right now, she doesn't see many brown-skinned (not African American) kids at Kindercare or in playdates. In Carrie's women's group--most of the kids our kids know come from there--there are a couple families with Hispanic parents and their kids show it, too. I'll make sure to point them out from now on. Once elementary school begins in 2011, she'll blend more.

Maggie has told us a few times that she wishes she was lighter-skinned, and said yesterday that a girl at Kindercare made fun of her skin. Of course we tell her that she'll be so happy for it later, as Darcy will be with her unique curly-Q hair, and that that girl is just jealous. Then she says that the girl also has brown skin. Oh.

So there's no moral here or lesson or even a plea for advice. I'm proud that my skin reflects my heritage and looks great with yellow shirts, and we will be sure to dress Maggie in bright colors as well.

The Go-Gos

2010-04-24T17:23:00.000-07:00

So, back after another one of my hiati (plural for hiatus?). Good thing I don't get paid for these, or I'd be unemployed! Um, wait...

Anyway, let's catch up:

*Gavin is just about potty trained (he and Darcy wear pull-ups at night; occasional accidents during day)--haven't changed a poopy anything for more than a month at least. I am not sentimental for that shit, so to speak.

*The twins had their first dentist visit, and it couldn't have gone better. Using a new place, which said it wanted kids to start at 4 y.o., because they want them to go to THE CHAIR w/o a parent.

(A digression: when I was 7 or 11, can't remember which trip, I had to go to a dentist in El Salvador for a very painful molar. I don't recall all the details, but I do remember the novocaine situation was me squeezing a kleenex. Been dentist-shy ever since, as in, haven't been for close to 10 years and will only go for severe pain or nasty breath. This will not affect my children's regular visits.)

Well, I didn't feel like calling another place so I said, let's try it with the 3 y.o. pair. Maggie had an appointment same day, and in a flash of genius, I sent her first. She had gone by herself at the former dentist, when she was 3, so I figured IF she came back, the twinnies would see it was no biggie. She came back with a smile and a goodie bag, and the twins fought to be next. Yee-haw!

Quick hits:

*The Fancy Nancy Fathead sticker on the girls' wall has finally peeled off, and won't stay. I know it's a climate thing, but can't figure out if it got drier or more humid. A shame.

*Darcy is the accident-prone one we've decided. She's taken the most spectacular falls; yesterday, ass over tip off our bed, clipping her ear on some furniture (no blood; could've been so much worse) and today, ass over teakettle (my next band) off a chest onto the hardwood floor. Wow, you could've fed the family off the egg on her forehead.

*Connor's getting to the end of fourth grade, holding steady with mostly Bs and Cs. Stayed up on his bike for 15 seconds, but has no wish to do it again. Hey, Einstein never learned to ride a bike (no idea if that's true). He's into the scooter we have, and still likes to play catch with the football, play PS3 and sneak food into his room.

I'll try to be better, for those who enjoy these, but still job searching, freelance writing, taking two classes in pursuit of ESL certificate, wifing, touching myself, and wasting time on FB and my favorite sports blog (The Big Lead)--all but the last two have to be done after bedtimes. Plus, still trying to get my freelance website up and running. Oh, and always always trying to find time to reflect and marvel at the wonder and joy life brings.

Which one don't you believe?

I'm not perfect, which may come as a surprise to you.

Ralph Covert

2010-04-05T19:18:00.001-07:00

One of my goals as someone who isn't goal-oriented is to read Dr. Seuss stories with nary a flub. Was doing great on Happy Birthday To You tonight until late in the tale, then I almost choked on a line with some sounds that might have scared the kids.

One of the great revelations since having young'ns has been Dr. Seuss. I thought I knew him--Green Eggs n Ham, The Grinch, Cat in the Hat--but to know only his most famous is really to not know him. I found a book by chance with 13 stories, each prefaced by an author or famous person (Pete Seeger does The Lorax).

It has cool rough drafts, other Seuss artwork and advertising pieces. The collection includes the three above, but I had never read Horton Hears a Who, If I Ran The Zoo, Happy Birthday to You, Yertle the Turtle, McElligot's Pool and a few others.

So much fun to read, and so much respect for that writing. I don't care if he made up names to help rhyme; of course, those invented words doubled as his signature charm. The rhythm of the meter makes your mouth feel good when reading aloud.

The bonus of the discovery of this book was that even though I knew The Grinch and The Cat in The Hat very well, that knowledge was from a child's point of view and also from the cartoons. Reading them as an adult was like seeing them for the first time. The eureka also revealed that Green Eggs n Ham is weak, maybe his weakest. Over--rated, clap clap clapclapclap.

I'd cite my favorite lines, but it would take too long, and I promised brevity here. I know, better yet, read them yourself, and find your own (typed in a sweet, fuzzy tone of voice).

Van Halen

2010-03-31T20:17:00.000-07:00

Man, there's a new fear in my life---swinging.

I know what you're thinking--swinging's not something to fear, Senyor Madre, could all your suburban friends be wrong? Hey! I'm typing about the chain-and-rubber-seat swinging, the kind where you give and get pushes and then move your legs a certain way when you start to slow.

Wait, that didn't help. OK, playground swings, playground swings, dear readers. They are making me crazy when I take the darlings to playgrounds; more wince-inducing than sandboxes and more uncomfortable than grandparents chasing their grandkids around the equipment.

I used to worry mostly about the cutiepies falling while climbing or being pushed accidentally from up high or pitching over the side of a tall slide. Now, I only cringe when one of them goes near a swingset with other kids already in motion.

I don't remember this being a problem with Connor, but Gavin and Darcy have each been knocked down, and the damn thing is, you could never blame another parent for it. Your kid was the dummy, not theirs. Luckily, the collisions haven't been hospital-worthy, but all it will take is one of those damn heavy plastic chairs with the roller-coaster-ride-type restraint, and your kid will remain permanently in the La La Land that made him run into harm's way in the first place.

Saw it nearly happen a few times today, to other folks' kids, and made sure to warn my own anytime they stepped in that direction. It's one of those events you can imagine and flinch just imagining.

So, to summarize, get some bubblewrap, stay away from playgrounds with swingsets, or try to go when there are no other kids, and go have fun!

Helmet

2010-03-26T21:19:00.000-07:00

Poor Gavin's head had quite a week, and the damn thing is, with the way blows to the bean work, we'll never know how he's affected until he's 7 or so. No way you can judge if a 3-year-old's smarts are affected by concussive action. For the good or the bad.

First, on his request, he got his head shaved by Carrie and me. Then, later that day, at Monkey Joe's, he stayed too long at the end of the slide and then looked back as Darcy's feet biffed his right eye. Thought it would be a shiner for sure but turned into only two scrape marks. I really only have three rules at that place--we didn't come here to gape at the flashing lights and push buttons in the video arcade, only one ICEE for sharing, and get the hell out of the way at the end of a slide.

Halfway through the week, I threw squishy balls off Gavin's head repeatedly while the wee ones and I played something involving me throwing a ball and them chasing it indoors. I wouldn't do it if the ball wasn't soft.

I'm sure he banged into things along the way as well, but today I saw Darcy push him into a playground post. There was a metallic sound, and he grabbed his head and cried, so this one was confirmed. Without hair, his noggin is looking like a toddler's legs--happily marked with dark spots from playtime collisions.

And describing a bruise to them is fun, too. I think I have it right--a knock that doesn't break the skin but causes bleeding underneath, thus the discoloration. You could have bruise-free legs, sweetie, but then you might not have any fun. What would you rather have, bruises and fun or flawless skin while you watch?

We'll see how Gavin answers that when he comes to.

Blue Rodeo

2010-03-21T21:27:00.001-07:00

My sister Ana sent me some pictures last week I had never seen, from my two visits to El Salvador when I was 7 and 11. She got them from her aunt Marta, who lives there still. Thanks to both ladies.

Freaky, because since then, my only recollections of those months were in my head. I had only one vision of a toddler Ana, and so I figured we didn't see each other much. But there were two family pictures with us in them, and one with her and I. Carrie thinks from looking at that latter picture that Ana really loved her older brother. Any new pictures of my dad are always cool, too.

Lo and behold, I had misplaced some pictures of me and my Dad from when we lived in San Francisco and Carrie found them tonight while looking at some of her old pics. I will scan every one of them--wait until you see 1) how chubby I was as a baby, 2) how much the 3-year-old me looks like Gavin, and 3) my mom's late-60s hair and fashion. She was a looker, no doubt, though.

Ana and I had exchanged photos back in October when Maggie and I visited, but to my dismay there had been none from my time in El Salvador. Now, with Carrie's discovery, Ana can see some pics of her dad she had never seen as well.

So strange to look with my kids at pictures of him--and maybe she and my brother Jose have the same feeling--and tell them that's their Grandpa, dead nearly 20 years before they were conceived. Funny, too, when they say my name as they look at a picture of him, or Gavin's name when they see a picture of me as a little guy.

Bob Seger

2010-03-15T20:01:00.000-07:00

Carrie surprised me tonight by getting our favorite babystitter on last-minute notice, and we went to see Ralph Covert at Two Brothers Brewery in Warrenville.

Ralph was the leader of the locally-legendary Bad Examples in the 1990s, and then got really famous by doing children's music, most noticeably on the Disney Channel. Folks around here love him because he'd do well-attended shows at the Morton Arboretum. Our kids loved him, and a lot of his songs stick in our heads as parents.

Carrie sees him every once in awhile at Whole Foods, shopping, and he will be at the Borders in Danada March 25 at 11 am during their regular storytime, for a few songs and probably a CD launch. Anyway, at Two Brothers he was solo acoustic, and his first number was Not Dead Yet, the Bad Examples' best-known song.

That surprised me, and since I didn't know any other Bad Example songs, I wanted to then hear "I Wanna be a Puppy Dog," "Dinosaur Rumble," "Surfin' In My Imagination," and what is more appropriate for a brewery crowd, "Peggy's Pie Parlor Polka."

Have you listened to the words to that last song? "When I wanna a piece of pie, I polka down to Peggy's, I know I'm a very hungry guy, so I say 'May I please have a slice...."; "....if you want pie of any kind, polka down to Peggy's Pie Parlor...."; "...and in the sun or in the rain, I do the Peggy's Pie Parlor Polka."

You see it, right? Do I have to spell it out for ya?

Peggy's Pie Parlor=The Chicken Ranch. Pie Parlor Polka=The Horizontal Bop.

If you're still not with me here, "I love Peggy and she loves me, at least she gives me pie to eat."

Are you horny now? Or hungry?

Snoop Dogg

2010-03-12T19:38:00.000-08:00

I've got a three-headed dog guarding the gates to Daddy Nirvana, and its name is MagDarGaverus.

The fun is being stubborned out of this whole Mr. Mom thing by the ganging-up that was inevitable and is solidly here. I hear 'No' as much as I hear 'Can I have?' Then there's the seemingly-illogical choices that slow things down as seats are fought over in the van; shiny objects distract when focus is needed; 4-year-olds named 'Maggie' decide that since 'Maggie' didn't make the mess, 'Maggie' doesn't have to help clean it up.

And on and on. Today, they all chose leaving the playground as Daddy's soft white underbelly, and each made me chase him/her. I carried the twins, asking Gavin to pick up my keys from a bench, and when we got to the van, them laughing all the way, no keys.

I didn't hear them fall, so I retrace steps with them in my arms and don't find them until we return to the bench. He of course had not snagged them from the start. Darcy escaped and I had to start over. Got Gavin to the van, returned to chase Darcy, got her in the van, returned to chase Maggie. I spanked her while I carried her, imagining what a casual observer of this mayhem might think as they reach for the phone to report an abduction.

Calgon, abduct me!

James Taylor

2010-03-08T19:48:00.000-08:00

There's been a lot of poop in my life the past 36 hours.

First I had to remove one of our toilets, clean it out and dislodge a little doll that had been gumming up the works. Here's the conversation I had afterward with three little people: "Three things go in that potty--pee, poop and toilet paper. No toys, no wipes, no food, no toothbrushes. Pee, poop and toilet paper."

New wax ring, new water line, bathroom spotless until...no names, but someone's stomach problems couldn't resist a gleaming target--the newly spotless bathroom.

No more details, but it was late last night, so it was unfortunate as well as ill-timed. It led to little sleep as well as the need for diaper-rash cream. I left that jar out and tonight, the Terrible Two got into it and smeared the cream all over the boys' bedroom.

TV screen, bed frame, wall (little white handprints like some Native American tribe or the Blair Witch Project tent scene), poor Spiderman plush doll. Is life a great big bang-up NOW, Spidey?

Thanks go to Connor for doing a great job cleaning up the cream. I'm done.

Cowboy Junkies

2010-03-05T21:42:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is our annual day/night without the kids for our anniversary. We used to get a room at the Herrington, but last year just had the house to ourselves and will do the same this year. It's the same, just no room service or frosty views of the frozen Fox.

Connor is with his dad this weekend; Darcy will be with a friend and then her godmother and her family; Gavin will be with his godmother and her boobs and her family; Maggie will sleep over at one of her good friends' house.

Carrie and I will not clean, not serve food to anyone but each other, not get anyone dressed or changed or bathed-- be semi- to fully naked ourselves in fact-- watch some Mad Men (and maybe re-enact a scene or two, especially the ones with bourbon) and eat some treats.

Mine will be some kind of meat on the bone; hers will be wine and something like sushi and a vegan ice cream. We'll maybe fall asleep at 10 and wake up at 10.

Thanks so much to our friends and the kids' godparents.

Cheech and Chong

2010-03-04T19:45:00.001-08:00

I think we can call Darcy potty-trained at this point. She wears a pull-up to bed only.

Gavin is as usual another story. Pull-up during the day and night, and not above pooping and then taking the damn thing off, then running and hiding because he knows Dad's going to flip a lid.

The hiding place has been in a blanket rather than the more convenient standing behind a door so the poop on his butt wouldn't smear whatever it's touching. He goes all out, in other words, and I can only hope this trait follows him to school and sports and career.

His wearing of pink things would be much more palatable to me if he would just figger this out, though, like his oh-so-sweet twin sis. Where's his sense of competition, his pride, his muscle control?

Not sure if he's showing independence, doesn't want to grow up, just spaces out, or simply enjoys the sensation of squishy drawers. No alarm here--he's only 38 months--but it's been a drag the few times it's happened, especially since we've eliminated the diaper pails. Now, whereas I can throw a peed-in pull-up right in the trash, for #2 issues, I have to get a ziploc.

Then make sure I put the right thing in Connor's lunch.

Hee hee.

Foreigner

2010-03-03T20:21:00.000-08:00

I was reading Miss Rumphius to the girls at bedtime tonight. Maybe you know her as the Lupine Lady. Well, Carrie and the preschoolers planted some watermelon and lupines indoors the other day and we've been seeing every day how much they've sprouted.

Anyway, when the Lupine Lady was a wee one, her grandfather told her to set a goal of doing something to make the world more beautiful. I read that aloud, and thought, what have I done or what could I do to make the world thus? A nanosecond later I thought "My kids make the world more beautiful."

I pondered telling Maggie and Darcy this right then, but decided that even they would think it was too sweet. So I'm telling you.

Pink Floyd

2010-03-02T20:26:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite songs is Megadeth's Peace Sells...But Who's Buyin? Lots of fun lyrics, but a repeating one is "If there's a new way, I'll be the first in line."

Well, there's a new way of me writing this blog; instead of agonizing over how I'm going to fit in a 500-word post with all the other things I've got going--job search in two industries, homework from two ESL classes, kidcare, occasional housecleaning, freelance assignments, grooming--I'll just do smaller ones more often, like daily.

So, I'll put a word limit on them; better for

Skid Row

2010-02-03T20:51:00.000-08:00

Field notes from potty training of twins:

January 23rd: Yuck.

January 24th: Ick.

January 25th: Blecch.

January 26th: Yay!

January 27th: Yuck.

And that's just Gavin.

We decided to use the method where you go cold-turkey and deal with the consequences. Supposed to work quickly.

Darcy has been mostly Yay! We've even been oot and aboot with just panties several times now, and no accidents. So, she's just about set, and I'll tell you what: apart from the milestone that it is for them (well, her), benefit 1a is fewer (none) diapers to change and less stink from the diaper bins. Just typing this made me realize that the nearly-5-year practice of diapering is damn near over. Smile.

Carrie even said the other day that we should get rid of the bins--one upstairs and one down--and throw anything that does come up in the regular garbage. That was like a bolt from the blue. Haven't calculated money saved from not needing diapers, but it will surely be made up on therapy costs for Gavin, who really has some issues.

He will go in the porta-potties, but only after he's been busted for peeing (or, yes, pooping) in some out of the way place, or even, right next to the potty. Just today, he ran out of a room in which I had placed a potty with great fanfare--Look At This Guys, I Have a Potty Here, For You, To Poopie and Peepee In.

I followed his path to the stairs, where sure enough, he had marked his territory, then ran and hid. The running and hiding is really a drag if he poops, as you can, and probably will, imagine.

It doesn't take a psych degree to know that young Gavin is flexing one of the only control muscles he has right now. Damnit, the other day, Maggie's first day at her new preschool, he peed his pants right in front of the new teacher as we were dropping off Maggie. Good thing he's 3, or we'd have loudly made fun of him.

I'll let him have his fun for another day or two. Then, you guessed it, I'll let him have a couple more days after that.

But after that, he'll only get a few more before I give him another couple. He'll know who's boss by then.

Orleans

2010-01-27T20:21:00.000-08:00

This is a long-overdue piece about Carrie, my lovely and pliable wife.

There would be no Senyor Madre without a Senyora Madre, especially this particular one. We have so many children because I just had to lay with her more than twice. Had to.

She's The Catch in this relationship, so many things that I'm not: beautiful, volatile, smart smart smart, forgiving, energetic, sociable. Ok, I am some of those things.

Let me try again: computer whiz, industrious, female, emotional, human, great mom, employed, nurturing, and cooking from scratch. Also, she's fun and has many friends because she likes people. Mostly though, she's who I envisioned marrying when I was single--ponytailed, serious, girly, argumentative, and above all....fertile as the old woman who lived in the shoe!!

I kid because I love, but only about the last part. We have so many kids, too, but we do know what to do, mainly because she's ambitious about planning and wants the best for them. When she was home and I was working, their days were full with her women's group (Newcomers shout-out!) playgroups and walks and trips to the gym and I'm sure some dancing and singing and water-hose play.

I do that stuff, too, but not as much. What I do, though, is because of her example.

We're approaching our fifth anniversary, and thankfully, the official gift of fifth anniversaries is wood. I can give her that, easy.

Ahem, moving on, she's a great spackler and does not wait for me to take care of home projects. She loves to garden and make messes with water. She probably could install ceiling fans and light fixtures, but she lets me, because she knows it's the sort of thing I wanted to do when I became a husband.

She laughs and I like it a lot, particularly if it's me who made her laugh. I will tell Connor and Gavin that if they can make women laugh, they'll do alright (unless they turn out to prefer men; then I guess they should make men laugh). They could snag a babe like their Mom (unless they turn out to prefer men; then they could snag a....I can't finish that).

I like that people like her, because I know it makes her feel good. I've seen her go all Momma Bear on folks, too. We have one well-defended litter, to take an analogy too far.

I try to remember to tell her nice things, and say thank you, and clean the house more, and not call her Momma even when the kids are in the room, but I don't as much as I should. Carrie does so much to make our lives better and happier, and I take her for granted.

Doesn't mean I'll stop, but now it's out in the open, so we can deal with it. Communication like that will get us another five years, and after that, we'll just grab onto the romance rocket and blast through another 40 years.

I'll be 88 then, and she'll be younger than me still. And we will be that old couple holding hands and shuffling down the middle of the bike trail, wondering where our house is.

I love you, Carrie

Mick Jagger

2010-01-20T19:22:00.000-08:00

The cliche for parental sacrifice for the good of the family is Dad and Mom working two or three jobs just so Junior can have a personal trainer for traveling-team baseball and Princess can follow her ballet dreams with private lessons 300 miles away three times a week.

Well, I've made a couple sacrifices this week, I'm here to write ya.

My kids will reminisce that Dad stopped sports gambling so they could eat, and stopped the family gym membership so Maggie could go to a more-challenging preschool. Sentimental? For me, you bet (pun alert!).

I already miss gambling, which I'm good at until I bet too many games because it's fun to have action, and any half-assed gambler will tell you you have to be patient and disciplined so you can do the opposite of what I do. I have less than half an ass, apparently. For me, it's fun, but the winners, the guys in the black, make it more like work.

I win, say Yipeee, then bet three more games, and lose more than I won. No need to know how much I've lost this time, but suffice to say that unemployed people shouldn't lose anything. Another reason I need a job. You can see that I'm finally getting it, yes?

As far as the gym, we've been members of Lifetime Fitness since 2003. Great place, well worth the expense. Maggie's been a member of our family since 2005, and unfortunately, as has been recorded in this space before, her birthday is at the end of September, meaning she'll be the towering kindergartner who steals lunch money and understands algebra because she'll be almost six when she starts.

That is bad enough, but the main problem is that Carrie and I have somehow produced a child who could read at age 3. Her park district preschool is boring her, which isn't as ugly as you might conjure---Daddy, I'm so bored, I want a new school and a squirrel, now! She only admitted it under interrogation, and I believe her. Her class is mixed 3- and 4-year-olds, and the descriptions of what the class will be covering this winter is pretty fundamental. Wow, there's no way to type this stuff without seeming like a real butt hole.

Anyway, I've been slowly looking around for where we can send her for more challenge, yet knowing that the right place would cost more. And knowing that if and when we found a place, the gym would be the first to go. Jefferson Preschool came highly recommended and is part of our school district, so Maggie and I went to register her for next fall, but got lucky that there was space in a 4-year-old class that she could join in February. We're all excited.

Four days a week, 2.5 hours each class, comes with a screening, and is twice what we're paying now, but also more hours. When I get a job, all the wee ones will go to Kindercare, but for now, January 30 will be my/our last day at Lifetime. So I will either become a runner or a lard-ass, because my metabolism is slow and slowing, and I will not diet.

Push-ups; maybe some jump-roping because we have lots of 1st-floor hardwood space; we have a nice-sized and steep staircase to run; I can do that personal-trainer favorite where you run with your butt in the air and hands on a towel, sliding it across a slick floor (did it once, it's uneasy, you might say). Yes, all those things I can do. But, will I?

Hmmmmm, better get the kids trained on what to do when Daddy (or Joe, for Connor) grabs his chest and screams "Kelly Clarkson!!" just before landing with a squelch on his blubbery belly and coughing up a half-eaten double cheeseburger. No, don't eat the rest! Call 9-1-1!

I had other thoughts for today, but let's stop there. Ciao

Danny Elfman

2010-01-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

So, let's do this thing. Ok, you start....

I'm going to warm up, ease back in, with a few randomosities from the past six weeks. See if you can spot the jokes.

*I've finally gotten the little ones to flinch when I enter the room.

*Potty training in earnest the past two days, with no-diaper shock treatment. There have been messes and successes. I think they will be trained when the latter outweighs the former. I have said "Who needs to go poopy-pee-pee" at least 12 times per hour.

*I thought the biting stage was over. I was wrong. Today, Gavin bit Darcy at the gym playroom, and per house rules, we had to go home. I said to the girl, because I was only halfway done with my mega-muscle-building workout, "Look at my triceps." No, I said, "Do we have to go, even if it's his sister?" I realized as I was saying it that it was silly. They're all meat to him.

*Not sure how it started, but I've been able to combine two loves of mine in the past month: air guitar and my kids, at least the ones small enough for me to lift and hold in the air.

There was dancing and iPodding one afternoon, and next thing I know I'm drumming on someone's head and playing piano on another's. Eureka! I picked up Darcy sideways and played her like a guitar. Instead of stinging, acid-scratched solos, there was tickling and laughing as one hand was on the "neck" and the other strummed.

Creativity was at a peak, and I lifted Maggie, with her facing away from me, raised one arm and blew on her hand like it was a saxophone and tickled her tummy like it was the holes on the reed (or whatever the terminology). More tickling and laughing.

They ask for it by name now. I think Connor would be a tuba, with me having to sit.

Oh, I'm exhausted. My blogging muscles are slack and I find myself short of breath. Must...slow...down....get....a....secretary....to....take...dic

Sister Sledge

2009-11-25T21:10:00.000-08:00

My sister Ana called the other day, just to tell me how happy she is that I'm in her life.

I'm a little strange when it comes to feelings, emotions, and dairy products, but I know enough to react appropriately when really nice things are said to me. We had a great talk, beginning with me telling her that I too was happy that she and my brother Jose and all their family members were in my life. Then I told her I wasn't sure how to be a brother specifically or a family member in general.

For those of you with siblings, this might seem odd--it's all you've known. No cry for help here, it's just natural that if I was an only child raised by a single Mom, with the nearest relatives in California or England, intra-family training was limited.

I have had role models all my life; it seems rare to be an only kid with a single parent, so my friends along the way have all had brothers and sisters. When I started having girlfriends serious enough to risk inviting me to dinner and holidays, I got a dose of the large family stylings. Hell, before I knew any better, I wanted to marry an Italian girl, so I could be a part of those noisy, 100-yard-table feasts and get money in envelopes.

My wife has a sister; they get along like sisters--they call each other all the time and sometimes don't like each other, but always say I Love You. It's too late to follow their lead, mainly because they have a lifetime of history, while Ana and I and Jose barely know one another.

We have only good history, though, no complications or old battles. It doesn't feel fake to tell Ana I Love You (but I'll probably just verbally punch Jose in the arm); it's not that I should say it just because we had the same father, it just feels right. I think it helps that Ana is so nice.

Anyway, I guess I will try hard to remember all the new birthdays in my life (I'm one for two so far with Ana's family and still have to think a minute to get Carrie's and the twins' right), and call for no other reason than just to say hey. People like those things.

So, on this Thanksgiving Eve, I'm thankful for the family I've made with Carrie and the family I found and the family I was born into. I am happy that as I've seen happening every day, the kids in my house won't need lessons in family relations.

It is a daily jolt to me that an only child with one parent is now surrounded by children who have siblings and who have two parents who kiss a lot. I can't relate to how they are growing up, but boy am I glad they have each other, even when there's maiming.

Just like I feel that every time I roll around with them, wrestling, tickling, nibbling, that bonds are tightening--like being able to make cats people-friendly by handling them when they are kittens--their interaction is shaping them. They will be so scarred, I mean, close.

Close.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Van Halen

2009-11-17T21:36:00.001-08:00

I'm getting heavier.

In the first month or so after the lay-off, I was losing weight because I was getting to the gym five times a week, and me and the wee ones played outside a lot.

Well, my body got used to the extra exercise, and while some of the 10-poundage I've added is muscle, because I've been lifting weights for the first time in years, the rest is good old-fashioned blubber. Another factor is that I don't have the motivation of swimming pool appearances anymore. Oh, and I don't even try to let the kids have all the Halloween candy; I've snagged most of the best mini-bars (Nestle Crunch, Snickers, Hersheys), you know, to spare their teeth.

Above all, though, having little kids is the difference between being 212 pounds and 200. I cannot waste food, and they don't eat all of theirs. This equals me eating more than I should and things I would not choose for myself.

When it was just Connor, we named me The Vulture, circling as he neared the end of his meals, then landing and tearing at the leftovers. That was just one kid, though. He, at 9 years old and 100 pounds, finishes all his food now and asks for more. Four-year-old Maggie mostly cleans her plate, too.

The 2-year-old twins, though, will be the big-rear-end of me. Like most parents I will err on the side of making more than less, so more food will be ready in case they want it; we all want them to have good appetites and chow down. Until they pack it away, though, there are leftovers, and I'm the only one who a) has a problem wasting food; b) isn't disgusted by food with teethmarks (hey, they're my flesh and blood's teeth).

Unfortunately, there are only two foods we make or buy for them that I can't stomach--cream cheese and yogurt. They typically finish all yogurt--I push half-eaten cups on them, and Target's cups are best, because they have a lid you can put back on.

When Darcy and/or Gavin ask for bagels and cream cheese, though, I get worked up: first off, you have to make sure they don't just lick that nasty white substance--no, bite it, watch Maggie, see she bites it! Second, they're still not able to finish even a half bagel. I won't eat the rest, because it's gross, and Carrie and Connor and Maggie won't, because they think half-eaten food is untouchable.

The main problem then is that there are plenty of foods I will finish: chicken nuggets, peanut-butter and honey/jelly sandwiches, homemade quesadillas (with cheddar, so good), french fries, occasional fast-food burgers, grilled pork chops, ice cream (Darcy doesn't always finish her bowl--what's a guy to do?), cereal, mini-raviolis, waffles, eggs, sausage, toast.

Sure, I could store it and heat it up for them later, but I'm only human (more and more so), and eating is easier than putting it into Tupperware or bags. Most times I don't make a meal for myself, because I know there will be plenty to finish. Plus, since I wouldn't choose to eat what they want, I don't make something different for myself that I like because that's double the work.

Lest you think we're poisoning the little darlings, or malnourishing them, there is plenty of fruit and veggies that I have to finish. Just today, there are five half-eaten apples in the fridge--they're just too big for tiny tummies to finish. Some days I'll get fed up with such a display and eat five orange slices, two half-eaten apples and half-eaten pear, whatever the mix is. Seems healthy, but if you ate 100 pounds of fruit, it would still be 100 pounds.

The only solutions are: make less per meal, change exercise routines, store and re-heat, force feed. All but the last one are better than throwing away food. I'll start with the first and second before trying the third. The fourth will be on a case-by case, mood-dependent basis.

Manja!

Blue Oyster Cult

2009-11-09T20:51:00.000-08:00

If men are truly just super-sized boys, in other words, immature, then being a father of kids under the age of 18 is perfect.

You always have an excuse for making strange noises (with your mouth), singing silly songs, making faces, and acting like animals/monsters/robots--many times all at once. As an aside, if you've ever been embarassed to show public affection, kids naturally melt that inhibition.

I don't believe they bring out what was already there, though, as much as provide inspiration. They are so carefree and un-selfconscious, sometimes it's like being with a best friend---anything goes, without fear.

I loved watching Connor when he was 3 and 4 and then Maggie and now the twins: marching and singing something, with or without pants; putting on a favorite ballerina dress and immediately assuming the pirouette position; wearing said dress to the playroom at the gym, along with rain boots. Of course, while you can.

I've blogged before about the funny things toddlers do and which of them we as grown-ups could get away with in the office or at home or the park. We're so conditioned now against silliness, even though it's been proven that laughter is good for you, that it only comes out with good friends or too many drinks, and hopefully the latter with the former.

I'm sure most parents let themselves go around their children, especially when they're tykes, but we've all seen those that are so clogged up they're uncomfortable even when their kids are being goofballs.

On the other extreme, I see grandparents all the time at the playground chasing their grandkids like they were another kid. Not graceful, and let's face it, playgrounds aren't made for grown-ups to be clogging the aisles and alleys and slides and ladders, especially when it's crowded.

When I see this discomforting sight, I quickly review what I've learned about CPR, and vow to not do that when I'm a granddad. That's sitting-back-and-appreciating-the-life-you've-lived time. Grandads tell stories, and smoke pipes, and take Junior for walks in the damn forest, slowing down and stopping to catch breath every so often.

Hell, I don't climb all over the equipment now unless we're the only ones there--then it's hard to resist. No, let the kids play with other kids and hone their social and combat skills. I draw my silly line at engaging at a busy playground.

Hide and seek is just no friggin' fun when the kids are too young: "One, two, four, seventeen, eight," while they look through their hands, or they go hide and come out in 10 seconds or are discovered by a sibling who is not familiar with the rules. Acting like I'm "Gonna get ya" is a lot more fun when you're the only one who's gonna get them. Other parents are not going to see me Godzilla or Jaws or Zombie it up.

I'm going to try to make these things shorter; maybe that'll help me do them more often. Thanks for reading--now go nibble an ear while saying Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum.

Jigsaw

2009-11-04T19:58:00.000-08:00

The best part about having kids is...wait, I am unable to choose among the plethora of best parts about having kids, who am I pulling the leg of?

Ok, one of the best parts of having kids is the world of media previously closed to you the single person. Cartoons, movies, music, websites--oh, the kaleidoscopic and cacophonous joys! Right?

I've done a list on this blog of favorite movies that I wouldn't have known without kids (left out Sky High--Kurt Russell is a hoot, and Kelly Preston manages to look OK). It has grown: Monster v. Aliens was pretty good--"What do they call you when they're scared, you know, 'Oh No, it's....?" "Susan."

Tonight, we cartoon. I can go old school here on cartoons, because you see, Connor was 2 when I met him, in 2003. That's only six years, I know, but that's an eternity for Nick Jr., Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. Screw Disney and WTTW for Kids, they're for the brown-nosers who want to do science experiments while dancing in their classroom of five kids. (Full disclosure: I can do the Goofy dance from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse).

Connor was all Thomas the Tank Engine and Dexter (top 3 for me) and Billy and Mandy (love Grim--"I'm bleaching ma bones, mun.") and my least favorites, the Bob Dylan of cartoons for me (meaning channel-changer), Kids Next Door and Ed, Edd and Eddy. The former wasn't funny and the latter is mean-spirited and ugly animation and not funny and has annoying voices.

Then Fairly Oddparents came along, and I met crew-cutted and muscle-bound Jordy, the Ahnold sound-alike--accent and busted syntax and malaprops. So many funny lines--I used to tell Connor to let me know when Jordy was on. Teemy Tuhnah! (that's Timmy Turner, in Jordy speak).

PowerPuff Girls? Oh yeah, we loved us some Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup, and I hope that Maggie or Darcy (or both, oh, could it be so?) get to one day take on an evil monkey named Mojo Jo Jo at least once in their lives. Har, har, maybe it's me, you say.

Teen Titans, too; thanks, Connor. Funny faces, interesting twists and topics/lessons, and of course the Japanese girl band theme song. na na na na na na na na na, Teen Titans!! Super nice cool groovy times, yeah!

I made the acquaintance of Jimmy Neutron (hot Mom, along with Dexter's), and Samurai Jack, and Johnny Bravo, too. Not nearly enough appearances by the latter two, but memorable, nonetheless. The former for the animation (Ren & Stimpy guy John Kricfalusi), mainly, and the latter, well, if you haven't seen Johnny Bravo, let me describe: hunky, blond, dumb, Elvis voice and Elvis hair that you never ever touch, always chasing the ladies.

For some reason there was a Johnny Bravo episode that included the Scooby-Doo gang. At one point Velma says "Jinkies!" as she is known to do. Johnny says--remember, in an Elvis voice-- "Jinkies? What is that, some sort of breakfast cereal?"

Even though Dexter and Samurai Jack and PowerPuff Girls are no-shows these days, I'm so glad that Connor and his pals have been and continue to be a part of my life. Disney and WTTW are favorites now (Connor's into Clone Wars now, animation-wise), with the wee ones, and if they're super-serious lab assistants by next year, so be it.

As long as they wear their safety goggles and matching hairclips (Gavin will most likely be their straitjacketed guinea pig, not a whitecoat), I'm good.

John Denver

2009-10-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

All went well the first night of our visit to Colorado; considering the altitude, the different bed, the excitement of travel, Maggie was solid--I'm sure having three kids to play with helped immensely. I stayed up late with Ana and we talked, just like I told her was going to happen.

Here's some of what I learned: everyone liked Dad, his family did indeed own the coffee plantation and he ran it, his popularity kept him from any entanglements in the violence between guerillas and the state in the 1980s, he was a womanizer, he had liver cancer and died and had a well-attended funeral.

I brought a bunch of pictures from my childhood that Ana and Jose and Ana's Aunt Marta hadn't seen, ones of Dad in his 20s, when he was with my Mom, and ones of me at ages 1,2,3. I had hoped to see some of my time in Chinameca, and others without me, but only had two to look at. One of Ana at her high school graduation and one of Dad far into his cancer, posing with Ana and Jose and the other Jose (by the third woman). I left all my pictures there, for them to scan, but brought back one of myself at age 3, looking exactly like Gavin. I was assured that Marta would send back pictures from her collection in El Salvador.

That was the only disappointment of the trip. Ana and her husband Jose and Jose my brother saw to it that I paid for nothing, and told me from moment one of the visit that theirs was my house as well. So, to summarize, my family lives in Warrenville, and can stay anytime in two houses in Chinameca (Marta's and that of my father's cousin, Rene, a developing-country economist living in Alexandria, Va., and working with UNICEF in Africa) and one in Commerce City, Colo.

On Day 2, we drove to Breckenridge to spend a few hours at a family-oriented resort Ana and her family frequent. Beautiful place, with indoor and outdoor pools and indoor/outdoor hot tubs. That day the region suffered record lows and snow (the weather canceled a playoff baseball game between the Phillies and the Rockies), and Jose took us on the scenic route because he knew I love mountains and Maggie had never really been in them. Myself, Jose, Ana, Lilo, his 8-year-old sister Maggie and 3-month-old Nicolas rode in Jose's pickup and it was scary.

I am a bad passenger in even good conditions, and was nervous because I know what mountain driving is like, and the weather was not ideal, so the anxiety was compounded. Still, what scenery to crash in, if you had to. Plus, the scenic route involved many switchbacks without guard rails overlooking hundreds-of-feet inclines. I was happy to stop at Loveland Pass (ele. 11,990 ft.) for pics and leg-stretching. Windy, cold.

Had a blast in Breckenridge, and it was interesting to be in a world-famous ski town. You could spot the hardcore skiiers a mile away, and really got that fit and beautiful and rich vibe which is apparently more friendly than that of Vail or Aspen. We stopped at a pizza place called Fatty's and the 10 of us took over a back room, ordered pop and water and two large pizzas and took a bunch of pics. When the kids got restless, I took little 3-year-old Frankie and six-year-old Lilo outside. Had a lot of fun carrying Frankie on my shoulders and running around, and it sounded like he did, too. He was my Gavin for a couple days.

At the resort, we swam and steamed and sprinted to the outdoor hot tubs and drank a couple beers in sight of a massive mountain. It was Maggie's first hot-tub experience. She thought the jets were a hoot. We let the kids play at a nearby playground before heading home, as my brother Jose confirmed on the phone our large order of pupusas for pick-up once we got back down to mile-high territory.

It was great fun, and only in retrospect did I realize that our first day at Ana's was perfect preparation for the altitude we rose to the next day. Had we gone from Chicago to Breckenridge we would have been miserable, and I recall being short of breath a couple times while carrying either Maggie or Frankie. We took the fast way back, a little bummed we wouldn't have the Rockies game to watch that night.

Pupusas are corn tortillas with cheese in the middle, at their most basic. We also had frijoles pupusas, and some with shredded meat. They are eaten with a side of vinegary cabbage and some sauce--tear off some pupusa, pinch the piece together with the cabbage and sauce and pop it in the piehole (that would be a great name for a band, huh, Piehole). I first ate them in El Salvador and since I was 11 had eaten them only once, from a Salvadoran place in Chicago, in 2000. Maggie tried some gamely, then switched to mashed potatoes.

Ana drove us to the airport early the next day. Her husband Jose woke up to say bye, and Ana included some gifts for the kids and some of her Maggie's old shoes for Maggie as well as a purse as a belated birthday gift.

For the trip home we had no window seats, but it was a ride in one those new 777s. Very sweet. Maggie was happy for the headphones and kids' music channel, while I love listening to the air-traffic control channel. Plus, you get those TVs in the seatback and can see how high and fast you're going, which is very cool right after takeoff, seeing how quickly you're climbing. I watched a Tim Gunn makeover show because he's fun to listen to.

All in all, a great trip, still trying to wrap my head around having more family. This re-connect was something I had thought about and wanted for decades, and we did it. So happy I have a family to show off, and cannot wait until Carrie and the other kids can meet the Colorado crew.

Probably, we will drive out someday, and for the grandaddy of trips, coordinate a reunion in Chinameca.

Thank you so much to my Mom, who bought us the tickets for my birthday, and who was as happy as me to have the opportunity. Also, to lovely and sassy Carrie, who rejiggered her work schedule so she could be home with the other kids that weekend. Worked her ass off for four days at her job, then a couple more at home alone. And of course to Ana, Jose, Lilo, Maggie, Marta, Jose and Margarita for warmth and fun.

Sly & The Family Stone

2009-10-22T19:57:00.000-07:00

After we took Maggie's picture in the pilot's seat, we headed to get our bags. I can never remember if folks can meet you before or after baggage claim, and sure enough, there was Ana, my sister, and Lilo, my first nephew. My sister-in-law's daughter, Samantha, was my first niece.

A little background: My dear ol' Dad had kids with three women--my Mom, the mother of Ana and my brother Jose (he named all his boys Jose), and another, with whom he had the other Jose. By the grace of God go I, but the apple fell just far enough from the tree--I wasn't careful either, but apparently didn't have the same number of gold-medal swimmers (Update: well, I caught up, but not until I met Carrie, with whom I will spend the rest of my life).

I knew Ana, from my two trips to El Salvador, but barely remember her. She was 2 and 6 on my visits. Jose is only 30; because he was born after the last time I saw my Dad (1978), and Dad never mentioned him, I had no idea about him and the younger Jose until re-connecting with Ana this past winter. Ana and her husband, yes, Jose, live in the Denver burbs, with their three kids, Lilo, 5, Maggie, 8, and Nicolas, a few months. Jose moved there with his wife and three-year-old, Frankie, from Maryland a few months ago, fortunately for my visit.

I was nervous, but excited, both for traveling with our Maggie, and for seeing long-lost family. I wanted to ask lots of questions about my Dad, with whom Ana and Jose lived until he died in 1988. I wanted to see pictures I hadn't seen, especially of me on my visits to El Salvador. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be in the same room with my brother and sister and a brother-in-law and sister-in-law and nephews and a niece.

Just to be clear: I have never been angry, consciously, with my Dad for not being around. I have been sad that I would never know him as an adult, to have adult conversations with him. I believe we would have had some laughs. But not angry. All you can ever do is wonder how things would have been different. I have been curious about how he died, how he lived, whether the civil war of the 1980s affected him.

It's also a little sad to show our kids his picture, when he was in his late 20s, very handsome, good picture to have, and say "That's one of your Grandpas, Daddy's Dad." Who you'll never meet. But Ana and Jose know about that, too.

Anyway, you'd expect such a reunion to be emotional, and it was....for Ana. No surprise to my wife, I choked up exactly almost once, when talking late at night with Ana. The first night of our visit, I said something about how it had been 32 years since we last saw each other, then felt one of my lips quiver. It's always a surprise. I cleared my throat and moved on.

The next day we were talking about Dad, maybe it was earlier that first night, and I did a thing Dad used to do with his hands in front of his mouth when he was revved up, like when watching a tense sports moment on TV. It's a surprisingly loud slapping of the fingers and palms together, with the thumbs hooked under the chin and the lips manuevered to change the pitch, almost like whistling. Anyway, I did it, and Ana nearly broke down being caught by surprise at such a haunting.

Her aunt (Mom's sister) had been visiting from El Salvador to help with the baby and we arrived just in time to catch her before she went home. I'm glad we did. She was another witness to Dad's life, as well as my drinking buddy. She and I had a beer before noon the day we arrived.

Maggie and Lilo were like old friends, and played almost from the moment we got to Ana and Jose's house until we left two days later. Eight-year-old Maggie was in school when we arrived and Lilo stayed home from p.m. kindergarten. Hostess Maggie took a while to warm up to visiting Maggie, but I think the gap from 4 to 8 is wide. Eventually, they were just like cousins.

Jose and his family got to the house at dinnertime, and there was nothing to do but hug and take pictures of all combinations of family members. They call him Frankie, because his middle name is Francisco, like my Dad's (and Gavin's, though his is Francis). He's all of 6-foot-3, and to me it was like being with my Dad, height- and looks-wise. He's quiet, but playful.

His wife is named Margarita, continuing a crazy name-game: Ana and Jose's mother was named Margarita, and Ana's daughter is, too, and now Jose's wife, and of course, my Maggie is officially named Margaret. Their son Frankie (another Francisco tribute, I believe) filled up any emptiness I felt not being with the twins--he's about the same size and temperment--so I lifted, tickled, flipped and teased him most enjoyably.

When we got to the house from the airport, Ana's husband Jose was there. A trucker for years, Jose surprised me by telling me that he was my designated playmate in El Salvador, probably on my second trip. The way he described it, whenever I wanted to play some soccer on the cobblestone streets, he'd get a phone call. He's three years older than me, and while I didn't remember him, I may have tried to attack him back then: I had quite a temper as a kid, and fought at the drop of a hat, and I distinctly remember going after someone I was playing ball with.

I also used to be religious; I haven't attacked anyone in years, but I'm now indifferent to religion. I believe that's a whole different blog. And I believe that because I have so much left to write on our visit to Colorado, I'll do it in two parts.

Next: our lasagna dinner and scary but fun trip to Breckenridge, as well as another reunion--with pupusas. Thanks for your interest

The Boxtops

2009-10-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

I don't mind telling you, I typically have a love/hate relationship with flying. But it was all love last weekend, when I flew with Maggie.

I was a little globetrotter when I was younger--to England a few times, and El Salvador twice--and I don't remember being scared or even nervous. Maybe it has something to do with getting older, having things to lose, or having control of some aspects of your life and then once you buckle up in a plane you have none. A former girlfriend told me turbulence was just like a bumpy road; yeah, I said, but you probably won't fall five miles off the road.

When you fly alone, there's a lot of time for reflection, and the wonder of flying never leaves me. Not so much about how this really heavy machine can get up and stay up, but all the great sights you just don't see anywhere else: breaking through rainy gray clouds to brilliant blue; the giant cauliflower caverns of storm clouds; lightning; seeing just how fast planes go when you see another one pass by 30,000 feet in the air, because you can never tell how fast your own plane is flying; the geometry of fields and towns; the clusters of lights.

Part of that reflection and beauty is tied into mortality. Whatever will happen will happen once the wheels roll, and there's nothing you can do about it. My thoughts always turn to the life I've lived, what I would leave behind, how I would call my wife and kids and mom if there was time and an inevitable conclusion.

I think about how I would respond if I survived impact--when I was single I thought I'd save a kid's life and forfeit mine (as long as burning alive wasn't an issue), but now I have kids, and the kids I don't know would have to call for some single guy if it came to them or me.

Flying was brand new though last weekend, my first time flying alone with a child of mine. Maggie had flown four times before, but was so little, she doesn't remember. It is usually very cool to be with someone when that person is doing something for the first time, and I had a blast explaining everything--moving walkways and escalators (had to pick her up, though she did try both); e-ticket machine; security process (no problems going to Denver, but she freaked on the way home); then boarding and buckling up.

We had window seats on the outbound trip, though partially obscured by an engine. Unfortunately it was rainy and overcast, and the three factors limited the fun of having a window. Maggie didn't care, and the takeoff, something I would normally be squirmy about, especially in soggy weather, was spent vicariously taking off for the first time with her.

It wasn't long before the pilot, who liked to share all he knew rather than keep us blissfully ignorant, told us that the ride would be rough for half the trip. The weather moving through, and the proximity of a 700-mph jet stream.

Great. The cow spends his dull life happily because he doesn't know he's destined for a bash on the skull and a Happy Meal box. I get to imagine just what this guy means by 'rough' while we're still climbing. Then we find out, and I believe it was the worst I've been in, as far as dipping and yawing.

My brain wrung out the memories of last year's flight from Rio to Paris that broke up in turbulence, and the flights to Hawaii that end up with holes in the roof. Sure, these planes are built for it, but that wing seems like it's going to snap! I had to be cool under pressure for Maggie, though, because right then she was.....yelling, "Whoo, whoa, whoa, uh-ohhh, whoa!" Laughing and enjoying.

I told her it was like a roller-coaster ride, and she said she liked roller-coasters (though she's never been on one). She made it better for me, and I stopped imagining myself covering her with my body as we went down, in a futile but necessary attempt to trade my life for hers.

No drinks were spilled and it finally calmed long enough for us to make beaded jewelry for her cousins Lilo and Maggie on our tray tops. I got a great shot of Maggie in the pilot's seat on the way out.

The way home was much less eventful--we flew on a new and beautiful 777; aisle seats; headphones (hers: kids' music; mine: air-traffic channel); seat-back TVs (some Disney Channel show; Tim Gunn's show), shortbread cookies, cranapple juice, and not one bump.

More on what happened between flights later. Hint--it was very cool.

Jim Croce

2009-10-03T19:31:00.000-07:00

Gavin wanted a box down from a shelf in the playroom today, and was emphatic on his choice. Not that one, that one, uh-huh.

It had the spy gear in it; cell phones, walkie talkies, science-fiction-style squirt guns. A little later, Darcy got hold of the guns, and as I was changing her diaper, grabbed for them and told me "I like guns."

Now, she also tells me occasionally, out of the blue, "I love you Daddy," so she's hardly flighty, choosing every word carefully. So, what to do? I mean, we have to encourage the young ones when they have interests, right?

I kid because I care. Darcy hasn't gotten her due yet in this space, but she is the main ingredient in one of my favorite sounds. Her giggle is so sweet, and it's guaranteed when I nuzzle her neck and say "yumyumyumyum."

She's got this crazy curly hair, like Cindy-Lou Who, and neither Carrie nor I have it. So curly you don't even think about combing or brushing it when it's dry. People say she looks just like Maggie, except that she's as fair as Maggie is dark, and I see that. Funny thing is, Darcy means "dark one," in some Irish language, and because of Maggie, I thought we'd be safe choosing that name. When we pin back the hair and let that little cherub face shine, she's adorable. And when she's upset, what a bottom lip!

The contrast from her days of infancy is remarkable. She hardly ever smiled and not only that, she would stare at you as if you'd just said that up was down. A lawyer we predicted she'd be; no humor, all business. Now?

What a goof, making faces, noises, smiles, laughs, a smile to a frown in a flash, and of course, that giggle. And when she cries a little too much and I show exasperation, she'll sob, "I'm sorry, Daddy," which worries me because I don't want her to feel like everything's her fault, especially when she's been the victim of a Gavin crime. When we implore him to apologize to her (he's 80% of the reason she cries)--"Say you're sorry"--half the time she'll be the one who says it. "No, not you, him."

I'm still amazed, because of her rosy cheeks, that she's a skinny minny, too; I sometimes have a mental image of her as a little chubster, but she's all ribs and spidery blue veins (thanks to the pale skin).

We love her boldness, but just like Connor had with a security blanket, named Bee Bee, Darcy has Bunny. It's white, and she has to have it to sleep with or when she's really upset. She gnaws on it occasionally, and when she was still in a crib, one of her favorite games was to push it through the bars toward me to have me take a bite. I would pretend to taste and pretend it was disgusting, and she would laugh and laugh and push it to me again.

Our house is always on Bunny Alert, when she's crabby-tired, and we panic when we can't find her. Yes, her; we asked Darcy, and she says Bunny is a her. That thing gets yucky, like a canine chew toy, and gets periodic washing-machine baths, which have to be timed correctly so she's ready for the next bedtime. I'm sure it's the next Typhoid Mary.

In summary, Darcy is pretty much game for anything, and I think will be the girl from Indiana Jones who drinks the yak-master under the table in her Tibetan tavern, dirty-old-man laughing all the while, strapped with a 44-gun in her pocketful of fun.

John Cougar Mellencamp

2009-09-25T20:01:00.000-07:00

Of all the things little ones do--little ones meaning between 2 and 5--let's you and I consider the ones we could imagine ourselves doing as adults, at least on a semi-regular basis.

I got this idea while watching Maggie and the twins get around; they run everywhere, on the balls of their feet, whether they've just been told to go to the kitchen to get candy or to go tell Mommy "Good morning," or to put a shirt in the hamper.

Why don't we, their parents, run everywhere? It's not even a full sprint, more like a skip/jog. Is it because our bodies are too big and our work and living spaces too small? We would crash into each other at the office, spilling the Anderson report or bruising the boss?

At home, well, I'm unemployed, so instead of an important project with many loose pieces of paper, I might run into Carrie and drop a bunch of dishes with sauce on them. I know the kids would love it. I believe this is one I can try, insulated by the lack of a boss or tight cubicle-centric layouts. I will skip/jog around the house, doing the daily chores, and will let you know how it goes.

Back to the premise: Let's use the process of elimination. I'll bring up a handful of preschooler pecadillos, then let's imagine us doing them as modus operandi.

1. Picking nose un-self-consciously when not alone.
I won't do it, but we've all seen grown-ups dig away and have been amazed at their public display. Let's say No.
2. Making noises and gesturing instead of using words when they want something.
I do it, but only with my wife. I'm sure most of us do (but not with my wife). So, Yes.
3. Kicking, hitting, biting others.
Again, only with my wife, and probably with others in self-defense. No.
4. Running around naked, regardless of company. Not walking. Running.
I never streaked, and I guess at 43, never will. I have no regrets. Though the body is a beautiful thang, what a wonder is man, and all that, it's a social restraint that is probably never going to be loosened. No.
5. Contorting body while watching TV/movies.
You laughed at this one, didn't you? Upside down; ass in the air; shoulders on the couch while bridging with feet on the floor; writhing into all the above in one 15-minute cartoon. I go from sitting up to laying down or vice versa. I used to do push-ups and sit-ups during commercials, but that was 30 years ago. No.
6. Taking baths together.
Yes.

Please add your own in the comments because this is fun. Happy Autumn.

Johnny Cash

2009-09-21T20:55:00.000-07:00

So, what is a good parent?

We've all wondered if we are or were. If we've turned out mildly successful in our careers, and humane and of course very attractive, we don't wonder if our parents were good at raising us because it doesn't matter now. If things have gone horribly wrong, then we can blame our upbringing.

Since we are parents, we can question ourselves, however, while we're parenting. I think it might be easier for me to start with the basics, or what does NOT qualify as good parenting. Don't pat yourselves on the back if you are:

Feeding it/them.

Making sure it/they are not wounded each day.

Buying it/them things.

Not losing it/them.

Having it/them get things for you from the kitchen as a way of teaching them selflessness.

Any of the above or combinations--even all of them on the same day--are essential, but should in no way be considered good parenting.

I worry, because we may not turn out to be the couple that can completely pay for the kids' education or leave them an estate; we may be the couple who heads for the Peace Corps right after the twins' high-school graduation party. We can sour-grape it with tales of how we ourselves worked through college or took out loans or both, and by cracky, our kids will learn the value of hard work, too.

Yeah, well, I can tell you that if we have the money in 14 years, we will pay for their education (Connor's all set, because his dad is a veteran of a foreign war). Will we buy them new cars, pay their insurance, fill their tanks?-Ha! Not even if we don't have the money will we do that.....um.

You get the point. We know that being good parents has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the quality of time spent, the lessons taught, the experiences shared, the options broadened. The devil as always is in the details:

How much TV?

Does the punishment fit the crime?

Let them fail or shield them from disappointment? (That's easy).

Spring Break 2023: Angola, or Burma?

How hard to push--what's the line between fun and striving for improvement?

Will that get infected?

Chicken nuggets again, or healthier, like fish sticks?

Let them entertain themselves, using their imagination, or provide the entertainment?

Is letting them play at the park quality time between me and them? Or do I have to interact?

I suppose that all-encompassing saying, "Everything in moderation" covers a lot of this, and makes you sound wise at parties. But dammit, these kids are our future (income)! Easy old proverbs are not good enough!

Here's the bottom line: if you ask yourself these questions, you're a good parent. If you answer them, you're a good parent with a little too much time on your hands. And if you are reading this, you're well-informed, make things move and shake, the who's who reading the what's what, and of course, very attractive.

Be fun, have safe.

Elvin Bishop

2009-09-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

Things I stopped doing once I got married:

*Dating women I wasn't married to.

Things I stopped doing when Maggie was born:

*Wondering if I was sterile.

*Wondering what it felt like to be a Dad.

Things I stopped doing once I got a full-time job:

*Watching Maggie and Connor (when he got home at noon from kindergarten).

Things I stopped doing once the twins came along:

*Sleeping all night.

*Wanting to go on business trips (poor Carrie had all four 24/7 while I was gone; sometimes the trip was so cool [snorkeling, spa, great dinners] I tried not to talk about it).

*Wanting more kids.

*Wanting fewer kids.

*Taking my time while changing a baby (Gavin got me good with his attachment once. Once.).

Things I stopped doing when I got laid off and became a Senyor Madre:

*Keeping up with The New Yorker (I am now three months behind; business trips and lunchtimes kept me at a month behind).

*Earning money.

*Wondering why my wife would call me every day around 4 p.m. exasperated, and be mad at me for getting to drive to work and back all alone.

*Wishing I had more time with the cuties and to play catch with the Conman.

*Worrying about my weight and gut (getting to gym 5 times a week now).

*Sitting on my ass five days a week.

*Listening to internet radio.

*Wearing pants.

*Wishing I could start a blog.

Ok, gotta go continue the job hunt. This time I think I'll scare one out of the tall grass right into the waiting pack.

On the advice of a teacher friend, I have begun applying to ESL jobs even though I am five classes short of the ESL certification, and will not have completed them until next summer. There is that much of a shortage, he says, as if that wasn't apparent by the fact that National Louis U. is offering ESL classes at two-thirds less than regular courses.

You can tell I'm excited.

Lord Tracy

2009-09-13T18:33:00.000-07:00

You know that movie "I Love You, Man"?

A guy about to get married realizes he doesn't have enough good guy friends to stand up for him, so he starts searching, going on man-dates. Hilarity ensues.

If Carrie and I don't run an intervention soon, that guy will be Gavin. Believe me, I know, I was the same when I was single (I still don't have many close friends, but I have four kids, so it doesn't matter). Not sure why, maybe being raised by a single Mom, and not having the influence of a man/Dad after the age of 7, but I have always felt more comfortable and confident with women.

It caused me some concern, feeling like an outsider in terms of groups of guys, but I don't think much pain or damage. I was naturally a loner and so it was wash. However, because I spent much of my free time as an adult pursuing and obtaining women, I caused plenty of pain, so I think it's fair to Gavin to perhaps guide him from his preference for the company of boobs and ponytails.

I get it--he has a twin sister and another 15 months older, and spends a lot of time with them. So, at home he's with them, and when we go to play- and park-dates, he's used to playing with them, and they are then playing with other girls. He likes to snuggle up to any grown-up bosom that will have him. No mystery or cause for alarm there, right?

We've been in situations though when a new girl or gaggle of girls makes the scene, he turns into Austin Powers. He nearly had a girl five or six years older bugged out at one park because of his persistence. At another park, two or three third-grade classes from a nearby school swarmed the playground, and damned if he didn't find a harem to wander into the middle of.

Today, he was the only boy (besides Connor) at a little get-together at a good friend's house. So to be fair, he had no choice, but yet the image of him one-on-one with a slightly older girl he had never met, lounging in a sun-dappled spot like an old-time picnic date, took on extra significance due to his reputation.

There's nothing else for it, then. We must create more opportunities for him to play with me and Connor and other boys. If it has to be one of those boys' groups involving drums and tree bark soup and screaming, well, it won't be that much different than every day for Gavin. If we need to start a "Mine, No, Mine" boys-only, toy-tug-o-war playgroup, so be it.

I know Gavin has the raw materials--all I have to do is lay down near him and he's on me for some bashin' about (as my English ancestors would say). He and I and Connor went at it today. And one of my favorite sequences was at one of Connor's preseason football games, when older boys let him in their sideline grab-ass group.

The youngest kid was 5, next-youngest maybe 7, the elders were 10-ish. Somehow related to players or coaches on Connor's team, they did the usual--threw a ball, tackled each other with and without the ball, sat around. Gavin wanted to play with them, and waded right in. He was so young that they couldn't be mean, so cute they just wanted to treat him like a teddy bear.

They let him tackle them, and do chokeholds, and at one point, Gavin wanted to give them a chance at chokeholding him. So he sat in a boy's lap, just like he used to do when it was reading time. Yes, I was a proud papa; partly for his fearlessness, partly for his desire to do guy things.

He'll be alright. He has a brother. His sisters get tired of his bullying and exclude him from time to time. And, I'm here for the long haul, too.

Terence Trent D'Arby

2009-09-10T19:45:00.000-07:00

I renewed my teaching certificate last night, mainly because I owe it to my family to do whatever it takes to get a job.

I left my first full-time teaching gig in 2004 after three months; I was miserable--not used to so much planning, dealing with kids who took joy out of educating kids who did care, personal life unsettled, sleeping on the floor of my sublet apartment in Oswego, with a U-Haul moving blanket as a cover and having to wake each day at 5:30 or 6.

I was unmarried, no one else depended on my paycheck, so I quit. The principal thought it was the damndest thing he'd seen in all his years, and even mentioned it at a year-end faculty meeting.

I pursued teaching high-school kids because I wanted to teach them how to write journalistically. I envisioned being the school-paper coach/sponsor and teaching a journalism class. Those jobs are out there, but unless you can wait for one to come open, you have to take a job as an English teacher. I may have been a good writer/sportswriter, but it was not because I could diagram sentences, identify clauses and participles or had read any classic pieces of literature.

I got a summer-school job in Deerfield/Highland Park teaching journalism--perfect, but only a summer job. The full-time job I took that fall had block scheduling and my duties were a couple Olde English classes (Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, etc.), and a class for below-grade-level sophomores.

The sophomores were kids who had rough backgrounds or just didn't care and were used to being treated as reputations rather than people. Though they were potentially the most challenging, they were of course the most interesting and lively; at least it was all out in the open with them, unlike snotty, intelligent kids who were more interested in socializing or sleeping than learning. The exhausting part of those kids is that you have to bring all the effort--they don't meet you halfway. You have to stay on them about paying attention, as well as teach them.

I suppose the caveat is that I don't really remember what it was like to be a high-school student. I got good grades, but I don't remember if I was a handful behaviorally. I don't think so, but off the field, so to speak, I certainly was, totaling two cars. I could have applied myself instead of coasting, but I got an ACT score of 29, so I'm not sure what better grades could have gotten me.

Would have been nice to know I was Hispanic, for scholarships and such, but it didn't occur to either me or my Mom. Just didn't have an early ambition from myself or Mom to get after an Ivy League education and didn't have a clue about a major until spring of my senior year. I just always knew I would go to college and needed good-enough grades. Wanted to play some football, too.

So, we tell our kids all the things we know they should do to maximize their time in school and opportunities available, knowing full well that we didn't always follow any of that advice (if it was given). Part of knowing yourself is knowing your weaknesses, and part of wanting your children to succeed is turning them from the mistakes or oversights of your own youth.

This is not hypocrisy, more like do as I say not as I do/did. We're not discussing smoking here. I am after Connor all the time about doing an assignment right the first time or spending more time correcting it; or to be more and better organized; or to care more, which will show itself by remembering to bring things home and take things back to school.

The anger comes from fear, fear that you might not figure out how to impart a love of reading or how to relax for test-taking or make them see the common sense of being prepared and studying; fear that if study habits don't start early they might never, and with three more kids behind him, there will be a day in five or six years that all four kids will have homework, projects, papers, and extracurriculars.

We need self-sufficiency and responsibility from them, and unfortunately for Connor, we're learning how to establish that with him. In the end, maybe we're learning nothing, because every kid is different. Perhaps we will tell all of them what we tell Connor--we don't demand you be the smartest, but we will demand that you do your best. Plenty of gifted kids are left in the chalkdust by kids who work harder.

I know that my brief experience as a high-school teacher makes me place a high priority at least on making sure he/they respect teachers, pay attention, participate, be courteous. How to make them love to learn, that is the intangible.

So, I'm approaching the possibility of teaching again, but from circumstances that couldn't be more different. Married, four kids, mortgage on a house in a great place to raise a family. I'm finally settled, just not career-wise, so I'm ahead of where I was in 2004. Way ahead, as you can see by the pics to the left.

When I was interviewing for the job I was just laid off from, I was also in the running, and quite promisingly, I thought, for a local high school that needed someone to revive the school paper and teach a journalism class and some English classes. Pay would have been almost 20K more than the job I quit. But the horror of teaching English was too fresh and when the magazine job offered me, I took it.

I may take the classes necessary to teach English as a Second Language, perhaps get some Hispanic Scholarship Fund money to help pay for it. I'd like that, maybe in middle school, like sixth grade. When I substitute-taught, I'd try to choose elementary assignments as much as possible, but when it came time to pick a level in which to teach I picked high school because of what I wanted to teach. It would be too many classes to switch my certificate to elementary, so that's out, but ESL in middle school. I could do that.

I mean well, I really do. I have a great track record of doing what I need to get what I want--being a sportswriter at a good-sized daily (never spent a day at a weekly); getting a teaching certificate and job--so gumption is not the problem. The main obstacle to employment is that my skill set is ancient in today's technologically-charged society, and the openings for what I do best are not plentiful and are thus set upon by a herd of those either perfect for the job or willing to accept lower pay.

The last severance check comes next week, and my healthcare ends at the end of the month. I admit I'm still excited by the unknown, and against all logic, not worried.

Jeff Healey Band

2009-09-07T20:17:00.000-07:00

Hey, I forgot to celebrate my 20th post!

I think one of these days I'm going to leave in all the typos. I never learned to type the right way--took one class at U. of Idaho, and five years later started a career in writing really fast and accurately. One of those things where you get good at doing something the wrong way, like folks who couldn't find anything if they cleaned their desks. Since I've been blogging and commenting on FB and my favorite sports blog, The Big Lead, I can't accurately keep up with my thoughts.

But not tonight. No, tonight I want you to focus on something serious without being distracted by missplelings and impoprer usage or contractions that aren;t done good.

Of course, I'm referring to Things Parents Say or Do When They're Trying to Fake Being Interested in What Their Kid(s) are Saying/Doing.

You may not feel comfortable admitting it, but you've got me to admit it for you, and better, to analyze and take it deep.

You love your computer and TV time; you work long hours and want to zone out or catch up when you get home. Or you're job-hunting and don't want to wait until 9 pm, when it's quiet and you are free.

But those little ones have an eager wish to play with you or have you read to them or show you what they're building/drawing or fascinate you with something SpongeBob said/did. What to do (in case you're a newbie)?

Here are some of my sayings and actions, which buy time or make them think you woke up or came home feeling refreshed and ready for many hours of quality time (works best with 3-and-under):

"And what do you think of that?"

"And then what happened?"

"Oh yeah?"

"No way"

Get on floor and wrestle and tickle for a minute, then get back to your PC/book/show.

"Stop it!"

"No hitting!"

"That's the trigger guard."

"Wow, what is that, a spaceship?"

"Oh, a doggie. That is the best doggie I've seen in the past two minutes."

"What is that guy doing?"

"Oh, what is that girl doing?"

You see, not so hard. And one day it occurs to you that these are things that you do with grown-ups all day at work, anyway.

Get out there and give it a go. I'll be here if you need me.

Elvis Presley

2009-09-05T05:56:00.000-07:00

Well, the quest for a pet is ongoing. Kids and wife want a dog, I want a cat and a dog or a dog.

The problem with cats is that Carrie is allergic; we'd have to add to the pet expense a daily supply of Claritin, plus I'd have to vacuum at least once a week. I have no problem with those requirements, especially for the joy that is a mini-tiger.

I know the cliche is that guys dislike cats, but I think it's like having the savannah right in your home. They do everything their larger cousins do, without the fear of them eating you. I had two cats when I was single, and we tried to make that work when I moved in with Carrie, but I wasn't willing to clean as much as Carrie needed me to, and we gave them to the county shelter, where they were probably euthanized because people don't want eight-year-old cats who grew up together.

I cried that day, and Carrie will tell you that far from being a sign of my humanity and soft center, that only proved that I'll cry about animals and not people.

But I digress.

I decided against a cat right now because of the kitty-litter situation: we have no good place to put the box, and I'm just not going to leap over tall buildings to make this work. Let's face it, unless you have a great out-of-the-way place for the box, you can't subject people to a carton of sand-covered lumps of poop and pee.

We go back and forth on the dog issue. We have a townhouse with only a slight backyard, not fenced in. We have three kids easily knocked over. We have one person pulling in income, so dollar-priority should go to humans. We have one Senyor Madre watching all the kids, and if we get a puppy, which everyone wants because they're oh-so-cute (as they chew furniture and pee and poop everywhere), it will be similar to having another toddler. As has been recorded on this here blog, just three days ago, SM has yet to potty-train the 2-year-old twins.

Hey, what's one more?

Not exactly. So we won't mind getting an older dog. Thus, with our options expanded, Carrie took Maggie and Connor to the county shelter a couple weeks ago and was over the moon about a 1-year-old Shepard mix. The ideal dog for us will be no larger than medium, short-haired, quiet, friendly and laid-back. The shelter requires a family to all meet the animal before adopting, so I went, fearing that this Shepard would be a German black and brown monster with a Luger and cross-eyes.

In fact, Kirby was the kind of dog you see riding in the back of a single, unshaved guy's 1963 Bronco, as they head out for an adventure in the canyons during a jeans or deodorant commercial. He was beautiful, handsome, smart-looking, friendly.....and oh-so-energetic. No one but me would be able to walk it, and the lady at the shelter said she had a feeling that without a fenced-in yard and 4 kids, Kirby would be hell, bursting through the door as soon as there was a crack, and heading for the, well, the canyon.

It was hard to do, but I had to say no. He would knock down all of the kids in his amiable glee, and it wouldn't be fair to him to spend more than 15 minutes straight indoors. Plus, at 70-80 pounds, he would eat more than the twins combined. Next. Thankfully, only one of the kids is old enough to care much--in fact the twins never even knew about Kirby or the pet search.

I'd love an old hound dog, the kind from the movie Best in Show; it will have a southern accent and say funny things like "I'm gonna trade you for a dog and shoot the dog," and "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock." It will move only when hungry or needing to go outside to do his biz. We will call him the name reserved for whatever pet, which is Maggie's favorite word: Bamboo.

Soundgarden

2009-09-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

"The Devil's comin' to breakfast, and there's bacon in your pants."

Not sure where I heard that, but it describes my situation. Now that I am home full-time and the twinny twin twins are not yet potty-trained, that chore falls to me. There will be no way to hide failure and success is to be expected, not lauded. I think a plausible goal is by their 3rd birthday; that's four months off.

Here's the status update, by twin:

Gavin is much closer than Darcy. We thought he was well on his skinny-ass way a few months ago, peeing and pooping in the portable potties, but it was a false start. We decided to get after it again, with both of them, just the other day. Carrie's idea was to bribe them with M&Ms--you go 1 or 2, you get a handful.

The boy is happy to sit and dribble the minimum, and I can't say "Not enough" or the whole idea will break down. So, he's gotten five or six batches of candy-coated chocolate, but has not yet told us that he has to go. I say "Peepee, poopie, potty?" at least 1003 times a day, or just grab and place them.

Darcy watches all this, and even thinks she should get M&Ms when the others do (we let Maggie have them as an example--she's happy to demonstrate on one of the portajohns that she used back in the day). Darcy Parcy Puddin and Pie simply is not interested.

I'll ask her, and place her, but she can't even manage a drop just for the goodies. Today, I put her on the Diego potty and instead of giving her a book, I put her within reach of the blackboard. She cleaned the board and drew on it, but didn't emit waste. I may have a pic of this later--very excited to be able to send Carrie all my phone-camera pics because she just got a Blackberry, making e-mailing the pics to our PC much easier. Some of the best pics of the kids from the past couple years are on my phone.

But I digress.

Anyway, I can argue about how much housework I (don't) get done because I would rather play with the kids, or cruise Facebook or a sports blog, or go to the gym, but I can find no way to slough off responsibility for potty-training. Connor just one day did it, after months of hand-wringing from myself and Carrie, and I'm sure that's what will happen here.

Carrie says Maggie was very good about it, and I just don't remember, though I'm sure she was. Plus, Carrie was the one home when Maggie was at this stage, so whether Maggie was special or Carrie has the touch and attentiveness, or both, I have the Diaper Dandies, and only one is playing ball(s).

So, the M&M thing is probably going to be shelved, with no foreseeable replacement incentive. Darcy doesn't care right now about being "a big girl" or wearing panties. Gavin is just excited to see his schlong and please his dad, so he doesn't need the candy. I can't be mad at them....I wouldn't take a dump for M&Ms, either, to be honest with you.

If I could get them interested in bourbon, though, we could really bond...

Off Broadway

2009-08-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

Let me just say off the top, learning that my PC has headphone jacks is boss. Sunny Day Real Estate, now Zero 7, shuffle off to Buffalo, can I get a witness?

We're on the verge of football season, and I'm on the fence about whether to go all Mr. Marinovich on Gavin, the 2-year-old twin. For those of you unfamiliar with the Marinovich tale (I really only know the generalities), the elder Marinovich began shaping his son Todd to be a big-time QB when the boy was 2. Fitness regimen, special nutrition, wouldn't be surprised if there was film study.

The kid won a full ride to USC, was the Trojans' starter, and made it to the NFL, where he flopped. Smoked a lot of marijuana, might have been arrested. Became someone I had to explain to you.

That's not the plan for Gavvy Gav, as we call him around here. Pronounced like it's spelled. Protect this House!

It all began when I suspected he was a bit of a rockhead--seemed unfazed by the same collisions that have his sisters in tears and in need of a hug and a booboo kiss. Plus, he doesn't fall down as much as his twin, Darcy, and has got one heck of an open-mouthed stare that athlete-students get in Geometry class.

Then one day last week, Maggie calls me from upstairs after I hear one of the three cry....OK, scream. She says that Gavin's bleeding. I ask what color. No, seriously, she says she bonked his nose with her head. I run upstairs and he's on the stuffy chair, bare-chested, blood smeared across his face and hands, eating the fruit snacks I had given him minutes before.

Right then, I knew he'd be No. 56. That's right, linebackers wear that number.

There will still be reading and writing and math-ing, and for now we'll keep it to sprints, plyometrics, and yelling 'Strong Right!' 10 random times per day. But come Jan. 6 (or 7th?), his third birthday, the backpedaling, tip drills and supplements begin. He will be thereafter described as having a "high motor", good "awareness in space" and "blood in his eye".

On Jan. 10, we'll add (I use "we" referring to the organ-eye-zation, not so much my wife) the raising and lowering of a running-back pinata over a tree limb. The key to this will be that when he finally rips it to shreds there will be no candy inside. He'll never forget that moment, and we believe his trademark sack dance could involve whacking an unseen target with an imaginary stick, then weeping.

He will be known as Bushwhacker, and the troubled past that will make him a Sunday Conversation on Thursdays will be his relationship with his father, a former sportswriter who wanted one last scoop to get him back to the bigtime.

As Gavin progresses, there will be Jeep-pulling playdates, strength-training advisers, bike-helmet stickers for random acts of aggression, surprise challenges by the old man: "Is he keeping or pitching?" or "Race you to the last protein shake," or "What if the ref isn't looking?" I can picture the slow-motion montage of this period in the movie of his life, "Tackling Dummy."

In seventh grade, he can learn to read from playbooks, learn to write with pretend appeals of league suspensions and learn his numbers from a book I found called Fun With Incentive Clauses. He won't be anybody's fool.....until age 48, when he will mumble orders (like Ozzy Osbourne--he's so funny!) to his butler, maid and the person who will hold up his lower lip up so he can swallow soup.

There will be no money from speaking engagements, but wow, his memories of his career will fade in and out. I will say in interviews that I had little to do with his brutality, that he deserves all the credit. His name will live on in the social-services camps he will found.

Bushwhacker Academy for Troubled Youth Who are Good at Football.

That's all I've got for tonight. Bobby Womack's seeing a yawning me to the door....

Led Zeppelin

2009-08-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

I put away the baby monitors a couple weeks ago, and could have done it a few months ago, really. The one we still used was in Darcy's and Maggie's room, and for a long time now if one of them has a late-night issue, she will just come downstairs. No crying, just all of a sudden one, usually Darcy, would be at our bedside.

It was a milestone I believe gets overshadowed by the biggies--potty training, walking, self-feeding, talking. I did a lot of thinking about that thing, though. While it was in use, it could be a way to stay remotely connected to the wee ones, and when we played soothing music all through the night, we were soothed as well.

We heard them play together and say funny things, and I couldn't wait for Carrie to forget I could hear her as she made a comment about me to the sidekicks--but I only ever heard what was meant to be heard. I also had plenty of chilling imaginations about it, and if I were more driven, ambitious, less lazy, would have written a story or perhaps a play or screenplay.

Because we around here are into ghost pictures and the aural equivalent known as EVPs (less so than pics--those sounds are hard to stomach alone), it was easy to conjure the monitor as the basis for a horror tale.

You know, Young family, full of love and child-centered fun, with early examples of the monitor in the daily routine, hearing some regular mundane stuff over the monitor, complete with some of the family hearing another member fart over the monitor and cracking up together. That's the good vibe before the devil comes to breakfast.

Then it gets good: we see the bedroom with the couple asleep, as soothing music wafts over the monitor. La la la la la la grunt growl warped voice snort..but not loud enough for the couple to wake. Yes, there's something uncuddly in the baby's room.

I actually just paused to get up to turn on the light, as I blog on the computer that is up in our loft, right next to the playroom, which is darker than the loft lit only by Sportscenter. You guessed it, I scared myself.

Not sure if it gets all standard-horror formula from there, but that's the beginning. Could probably get a half-hour of a movie just from that. Probably progress to conversations between the kids/babies and the Terrible Teddy, a la the pig from Amityville Horror.

The point is, sounds of horror are as scary or scarier than the sights. One of the most frightening scenes to me from the Exorcist is when the young priest is playing and rewinding recordings of Regan (and her guest) alone. Could not have done it. The garbled, twisted, demonic voice....

The baby monitor was interesting because I remember it picking up people's cell phones comversations as well, just like a pair of wireless headphones I thought I just had to have and used three times. I once listened to a pair of high-school girls having a high-school-girl phone chat for a good 10-15 minutes. They swore like, oh my God, twice.

So, to recap, no more monitors to eavesdrop on the kids or my wife or neighbors, and I am certain that I will see in 6 months a blockbuster horror flick involving a baby monitor and I will have no legal recourse to capture any of the proceeds.

But you will know, and that will be enough for me.

N.W.A.

2009-08-23T18:53:00.000-07:00

Putting Maggie and Darcy to bed tonight, I was creeped out by Darcy's eyes rolling back in her head as she fell asleep while I read Little Bear's Visit. Sort of like when you see a boxer or a QB knocked unconscious--that noone's-there stare that is so scary.

Tangent alert!

This makes me think of all the drinking incidents when I was very much younger, when there was a period you don't remember, a blackout, yet you are told the next day things you did and said. It boggled my mind that a person could do and say but not remember.

Tangent alert!

That calls to mind the terror we've all known imagining a kind of sleepwalking during which we commit heinous crimes and are imprisoned for them. I'm not cut out for a stretch in the pokey.

When I lived in Naperville in my early years at the Daily Herald, I bought a bunch of hockey-goalie equipment on my credit card. At the time I had a part-time job at a Naperville coffee shop, from which some checks had been stolen. Apparently I was a suspect, and when I attained that status courtesy of the shop's owners, the police checked my recent consumer activity, and noticed the chunk I had charged for the sporting gear. Ding ding!

Two detectives came to my apartment, asked me to come in for questioning and fingerprints and and a handwriting sample, and flat-out told me they thought I did it.

That was one of those moments people describe as the ground shifting beneath them, complete with a swirling room. It felt unreal to be told a detective was certain I was guilty of a crime I knew I hadn't committed, to the point that I started wondering and fretting that indeed I had stolen checks and cashed them in a horror-novel case of Jekyll and Hyde. What if?

I never heard from the police after that, causing me to almost call them and rage in vain at how they could incite so much grief and then not let the accused know the coast was clear. I did let the shop's owners know how I felt, though. That was a good job, once you figured out how to make lattes and cappuccinos, getting the foam just right. I must have gained 10 pounds drinking cafe mochas (hot chocolate made with coffee instead of water and topped with whip cream).

Back to original thought alert!

It wasn't the first time I had watched a kids' eyes roll up, but I didn't have a blog the other times. It's not so creepy that I don't enjoy it, because it signals a worn-out child and a soon-to-be-free adult. It makes you want to capture that moment when you yourself fall asleep, the time right after the last thing you remember. I had a knee surgery once, the only time I've been put under. That was weird, and you think about the terror some people undergoing serious surgeries experience, as their anesthesia-countdown backwards from 100 could be their last action in this realm.

Everyone's eyes roll up, not just kid's, and it's jolting on those occasions when you are falling asleep in public to think what you must look like to others. You think that staying awake is all you have to do, but barely remaining conscious has a facial expression all its own and it ain't pretty: almost-closed eyes, a head that snaps up for all to see when you nearly doze off, and if you're really unlucky, drool is involved. There's a word that sounds like its meaning, drool. Like squat. Ugliest word in the English language.

Retroactive tangent alerts!

The Sundays

2009-08-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

If you hang on each Senyor Madre post, I apologize--I was finishing some freelance work the past couple days. I will however stop doing such things if you'd be willing to send $100 each month (times 13 followers, even my wife) to the address I will provide when you agree and contact me.

Otherwise, I need to contribute something more than keeping the kids alive, the house and furniture intact and spreading domestic tales of joy with this here blog.

Back to business, then.

I have confidence that Darcy will be smart, and I'll tell you why. The other day at a park, I asked her if she wanted to play catch with me. I bring along a football to park outings involving Connor in case the ConMan wants to chuck it around. She is very game, and put her arms in the basket position we have drilled each morning at 4:30.

I tossed it and hit her in the face. After I comforted her--hug, some words--she went to play with the equipment and her siblings. Later, I asked her if she wanted to play catch. She said "No."

So, she's all set for a life of enlightenment, trial and error, risk and reward, living and learning. Her twin, um........I believe that if Gavin touched an oven in use that he would not repeat it...once he let it go. He has a high pain thresh-hold is the point I'm trying to make. He's my Goon-in-training.

I'll leave fourth-grade Connor out of this, restricting it to the toddlers. The ConMan gets good grades and is sociable and sensitive and funny--a completed work if you will. Maggie, though, not sure what to do.

She's reading already, has been since she turned 3, though a lot better as she nears 4. She has since about then been doing things on her own on the PC as well--finding her sites, clicking on them, playing games, etc.

I'll type this once--this is not bragging on my kid. I know plenty of kids can read at this age, and use a PC, but I have only one of them, and we have to worry about how to handle precociousness. Add fertilizer or let it grow organically?

No, I haven't researched anything. I'm afraid because child development is the kind of field with five different theories. I'm sure I will push--maybe find a group her age that also reads, maybe start one (yeah, right). I'm trying to get her to work on writing now, but she's resisting, and that'll be cute for another day or so, then the food-rationing will begin.

She starts preschool again next Monday, and it is a good one, focused on education, not just play and crafts. We've been messing around with Spanish since she was walking--"Cuidado!"--but not in a get-after-it way. She gave my heart a skip today though when she said "Fresa."

It's fun just letting her be a 3-year-old girl, so that is the other part of the tug-of-war. Just would hate to let a good thing fade away.

Her progress is no mystery--we had time and space to focus on her before the twinny twin twins, and like most folks, we prioritized book time. I am sure that the time spent on Starfall.com made the key difference (besides the genetic aspect of superior intellect of course), however. Sounding out letters in words is real.

Excuse me if I'm stating the obvious, but I don't remember doing this with Connor, so this seems like my first toddler educational venture. He fooled me one time, when he was 3 or 4. We were playing Cariboo, and he pointed at the word "airplane" and said "airplane." I screamed, "Carrie, he just read a word!" Then I noticed that a picture of an airplane was right under the word.

So, I don't think we'll turn into the Rick Moranis character from "Parenthood"--I so much enjoy a child who beats his bucket-covered head against the wall that I could not in good conscience over-manage any of them. We'll see.

As for the twins, they have had less attention paid to their phonetics and such, but they'll have each other to cheat off. Not playing favorites, you understand, just trying to keep all my shit in one sock, as my old friends used to say.

Love

2009-08-15T20:49:00.000-07:00

Not sure I have one theme tonight, so as reporters sometimes refer to a column with brief vignettes, I'll empty the notebook.....

**I cut Gavin's nails tonight, while he slept. It's the only way I could, and from the combination of negligence, being too tired and forgetting, and his belligerence, they had grown into some weapons which ever other member of the family had felt; some sported scratches.

I don't know, now that I think of it, if we should have gotten some kind of shots, or put him down. Anyway, once he was snoring (or purring, really) I picked up the hand that was closest to me and hacked away. It's nerve-racking, because you can't feel what you're cutting, like when you do your own.

Got that hand done, and figured I'd be happy with that and get the rest later. Carrie asked me to check to make sure I left his closet light on a couple hours later, so I got my chance to finish and sure enough his other hand was available.

Mission accomplished. The family is safer than it was.

**Carrie and I got over the Battlestar Galactica hump we'd been climbing lately. We've had such fun with Blockbuster.com and watching TV series. Deadwood, Rome, Carnivale, Weeds, Dexter, Big Love, Tell Me You Love Me, Sopranos--all great experiences and windows into our murky souls.

Co-workers at my last job highly recommended BG and one of them had the first season, so we bit, and really enjoyed it. We're on the last season now; it had started to lag, we felt, but there was no way we were going to quit this far along. Tonight we saw enough to restore the faith and inject the adrenaline needed for the remaining three episodes.

So say we all. Frackin' skinjobs. Godsdammit.

Wow. Imagine if I was writing about Deadwood.

**Carrie, with the three small ones draped on her for their daily feeding, dropped a piece of chip with hummus on it. I picked it up and stuck it on her right arm, because hummus is sticky. Gavin looked at it and said, "What's happening?" I told him it was a festering sore, and to eat it. So he picked it off her arm and ate it.

If we ever have any infected scabs around here, we might have to rein in the sense of humor.

**I'm very excited to update the iPod today. First off, Carrie showed me how, so I don't have to ask her to do it anymore. Second, I now have most of my favorite Beatles and Elvis songs on there. I'm all for taking chances on music and being Obscure Band guy (Comet Gain, Cat Power, Battles, and Mew also made their Joe's iPod debut) but those two influenced much of what we all know and love and it's damn fine sing-along music.

A year or so ago, I made a video of Maggie (on our youtube channel, vezina11) singing the Beatles' "All My Lovin'," which she knew so well because I would sing it to her at bedtime each night. I started singing it because once you say "Close your eyes" to a child, the rest of the song surfaces, so I went with it.

I found when singing to her in the hospital days after she was born that the lyrics to love songs can work really well with newborns. "Reminiscing" by the Little River Band has always been a schlocky surprise favorite to myself, sort of like "At This Moment" by Can't Think of His Name Right Now.

I sang Reminiscing to her over and over, and who among you parents can argue with words like "I wanna build my world around you," and "I wanna make you understand I'm talking about a lifetime plan," and "On the way back home I promised you'd never be alone."

Fifteen months later, the twins helped us make good on that promise.

The Detroit Cobras

2009-08-13T20:57:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite quotes was/is "Ships are safe in the harbor, but that's not what ships are made for."

It is less a guiding principle the past five years than it used to be, when I had much more freedom (to charge cool trips on the Visa) and little purpose. I reactivated it again today, though, and not in a small way.

I got out the Play-doh.

I thought Carrie would be impressed, and I was right. Actually, between you and me, I think she was a little aroused by her beloved getting all crafty. I've told her before I'm just not going to glue, stick, cut, fold, draw, paint, shake, bend, tape, or mutilate quite the way she did when she was Mrs. Mom. Not gonna do it.

I'll take the kids to the park, with none of her girlfriends to help out, and have no problem getting them in and out of the gym and the pool; I've started bathing them; diapers?--please, I've been changing those for years; I'll whip up some cereal, with milk, and cut up an apple, too. Been known to do a little laundry.

But I hate messes, and crafting=unnecessary cleaning. So, coloring books and crayons have been about it since Daddy took over field ops. Occasionally, I'll draw some lines on a piece of paper and harangue Maggie into improving her fine motor skills with scissors. Nothing wet, though, no way, uh-uh.

Tinker Toys, multi-colored blocks, Lincoln Logs, movie after movie, yes; finger paint, Elmer's, creativity, no.

Carrie pleaded with me a couple times, saying the kids need stimulation, what are you going to do in the winter (um, go outside, sled, make snowballs, push each other down), yadda yadda....but honesty is the bedrock of some relationships, I mean our relationship, and I said, "Sorry, it's probably not going to happen."

A couple of weeks ago, Carrie accidentally bought a pack of 24 cans of Play-doh while grocery shopping with Maggie. I don't like Play-doh, mainly because of its smell. And once you get all the spaghetti-making machines and hamburger-grinders going, that crap gets everywhere.

But, I did it. After all, technically, it's not even moist, right? So, down went the plastic tablecloth, and Gavin, Maggie and Darcy each got two or three colors (Connor was with a same-aged buddy blowing shit up in the loft). Once I showed the darlings how to squoosh it, they were naturals. I helped them along by showing them you could tear off pieces and make multiple lumps, or you could flatten the main lump with your hand for a pancake--but don't eat it! Ha ha ha.

The craziness picked up when I couldn't find Carrie's cookie-cutter shapes collection, so I started handing out things that were definitely not sharp knives. And when I gave them the mashed-potato implement, the one with the flat surface and multiple holes, the shrieking commenced.

The only break in the fun was when one of them would drop a chunk on the floor, and I would get in their face and yell until they picked it up. In this way, there was hardly any mess at the end, and I think we'll do it again in October.

The Cult

2009-08-10T18:29:00.000-07:00

One of the aspects of being a father of and to four kids--by now, I have spent more time with Connor than has his Dad--is watching the whole brother-sister dynamic.

I grew up an only child, raised by a single Mom, who had to work late quite a bit when she waitressed, and stopped hiring babysitters to save money as soon as she felt it safe. Let's say I was 9 or 10 when that bridge was crossed.

Not to go on about this, but that situation builds independence, comfort with oneself, selfishness, self-confidence to a sometimes-arrogant degree, and lots of masturbation opportunities. I can only say that I'm curious as to a different existence--two parents, siblings--but not unhappy with how things turned out. I'm sure everyone can say the same because you'll never know.

I played catch with myself, tossing a football and running under it outside; being tackled by the couch inside, and turned out to be a pretty good wide receiver. Had an All-Star Baseball board game for which I invented leagues and kept stats (Ron Guidry threw the only no-hitter in the thousands of games I staged), and an electric football game.

Yes, I had friends, but by the age of 11 (when I read Helter Skelter, twice), I had no problem choosing my company over others', and that holds true today. I would rather be alone than with anyone but family and good friends, or at a party. As my followers are aware, "You know, parties are fun."

Carrie has a sister, but I can't type about her experiences and thoughts on this matter, except to say that one sister is not four kids, so she has to marvel as well.

At times I imagine being a child psychologist, behind the one-way mirror, the main difference is they have no emotional connection. We've all done it--watched a child or two while they're distracted, eating an apple and watching a cartoon. I usually feel honored (the agnostic equivalent of feeling blessed) to be able to see them hug without being prompted because of an indiscretion or injury, or grab one another for a dance, or the nirvana of seeing them make each other laugh.

Of course, the fighting is a given for those who spend so much time together. I'm referring to the kids. I remember doing many stories on wrestlers, and invariably one had started in the sport because of an older brother's involvement, and usually accomplished more due to his learning and beatings suffered at the hands of the mentor. Cliches included grappling in the house escalating to some sort of unplanned remodeling, and gruff affection and awkward acknowledgement of the others' skill and success.

That was the extent of my sibling understanding before Connor-Maggie, then Connor-Maggie-Darcy-Gavin. At its most basic, they always have playmates and chew toys and venting targets and dance partners and will be the ones who taught each other to share and empathize and sympathize and compete, manipulate and defend, listen and collaborate.

Just today Carrie and I were laughing because Gavin has started to come between us when we kiss or cuddle up. They all have for awhile, but it's usually to join in when it takes place in the kitchen, standing--lift and snuggle.

Lately, Gavin is not sharing his Mom, and today I remarked that he should watch it because I'll be bigger than him for another 15 years maybe. Carrie said by then she won't be his target as much as his sisters' friends. Oh, to be Gavin, when Maggie and Darcy's BFFs are around.

We don't put Darcy and Gavin near each other at mealtimes; if it isn't their play, it's their battles, that hinder their feeding. Maggie sometimes seems 5 years older than them, not 15 months--she is the "teacher" on the computer, as they do an educational website, and of course has much more to say about what she wears. Still, the other night, I put Gavin to bed and when I came out of his room, the girls were having a pajama party on Maggie's bed, with a book involved. Contented sigh.

As for Connor, he's all about being the much older brother. They love him and miss him, and vice versa. I hope he shows Gavin how to build Legos and Bionicles, like Connor's Dad showed him. Connor rolls around with them, and helps us parent whether or not we ask him to, and corrals them and laughs at what they say and do. It's got to be good for his soul, I would think.

I am on the lookout and hearout for any special language or hand signals that the twins are supposed to have. All I can detect is this weird thing they do with their middle fingers, followed by laughter and shaking their heads dismissively. Otherwise, they just play together and whale on each other with all of their natural weapons.

Gavin has worn dresses and has put hair things in his hair, perhaps had his nails painted. It's cool.

I said, it's cool. OK?

Soul Asylum

2009-08-08T17:31:00.000-07:00

"And so it begins," Carrie said, and so it does.

I asked Maggie who took the foam letters out of the mat we have, strewing them across the floor, and she said Darcy. We asked Darcy, and she said, "Maggie did it." Only 15 years to go....

To pick up on a path I didn't take the other night, when I twisted the legend of Barbie, some of my favorite movies are ones I would never have seen without children in my life. The list includes:

*Shrek (only the first);
*Monsters Inc.;
*Finding Nemo;
*Nightmare Before Christmas;
*Robots;
*Iron Giant
*Scary Godmother (only the first);
*Aladdin;
*Lion King;
*Emperor's New Groove
*Toy Story (the first)
*Bug's Life

In the interest of space and time--I'm starting to conquer both--I'll stop there. My standards are only that there are memorable lines (meaning I repeat them around the house) and/or characters. I don't need to like the whole movie; some of them I lose interest in after a rock-em, sock-em first hour, like Robots or Shrek or Lion King, even. In order, here are why I picked some of the above, most of which you know, a couple of which I hope you try.

Shrek's strength is its fearless embrace of the gross--his opening bath and evening meal are rife with yukky detail, and some dialogue is similar. Describing the goo inside eyeballs, Shrek says, "It's quite good on toast." Bonus: I like to try to imagine Cameron Diaz once the princess enters the tale.

Monsters Inc. is probably my favorite, overall. There are stretches of the others that I must see, but MI lasts for me usually until they are banished to the snowy area. The oft-repeated lines and exchanges are too many to mention, but off the top:

--"I'm watching you Wiesowski, always watching."
--"Hi Sully Wully." "Uh, Hi, Celia...Weelia."
--"You and me, me and you, both of us together (sung)"
--"Kitty!"
--"Chalooby, baby."
--"Googly Bear!"

Finding Nemo I was just quoting today: "You know, parties are fun," as only Albert Brooks could say it. The sharks scene is chock full: "I never knew my father!" "What's a couple of bites like you doing in a place like this?" Dory brings a lot, as almost everything she says related to her short-term memory loss is funny. In the fish tank, the initiation is good--"Shark Bait hoo ha ha." "Shark Bait, newcomer of orange and white." The old man halibut chasing the kids in a circle, because of his unique eye arrangement. The dentist comes through with "Gotta see a man about a wallaby."

I can't say enough about Nightmare Before Christmas. It won't scare your kids as much as you think. The songs are awesome, the freaky animation and design and characters are a treat. So many fantastic lines are from the songs, several of which stick in your head like brain paste. Spoken lines: the wheelchair inventor/doctor's "Sally? Oh, gone agayne!" "Frog's Breath? Nothing's more suspicious than frog's breath." "You're mine you know, I made you." His words are striking as much for what they say as their cadence. The Mayor: "Jack, Jack? I can't make decisions, I'm only an elected official." The whole scene when Jack gets the town together to explain Christmas is so tasty--when he explains stockings, and a Halloween character asks if there are feet in them still.

Robots I hardly remember any lines from, but it's so fun to watch. The animation and drawing is so cool, and the scene when Rodney travels to the big city in a crazy contraption with I think the Robin Williams character is amazing. Memorable action and lines come from the parents putting Rodney together, meshing baby routines with assembling a machine and the scene where the gatekeeper rudely mocks and dismisses an eager and naive Rodney is great. "Come back five years ago."

We've had an Iron Giant revival around here in the past month--the twins love it. Brad Bird is a genius. Highlights include the government agent's various nicknames for Hogarth--Slugger, Chief, Scout, Buddy, Pal--shown in a montage. When Hogarth says grace while trying to shoo the robot's hand you'll chuckle mightily. Same when Hogarth drinks espresso for the first time. His ultra-Twinkies are very cool, too. Bonus is the Cold War history lesson. Highly recommended.

Scary Godmother may be the most obscure here, but it's a hoot. A younger girl is thrown into a supposedly haunted house so she will want to go home so the older kids can trick or treat faster. As she cries, her Scary Godmother appears and whisks the girl to the godmother's house in an alternate reality. There is about to be a party, and the guests are a foppish, self-important, always hungry and verbose werewolf; a flamingly gay skeleton; a vampire family; a many-eyed monster named Bugaboo. The skeleton alone makes this well worth the rental--his gayness is never explained, even in the bonus features with the cast and crew, but there is no other description for his voice and the things he says. I'm guilty of stereotyping, but there are stereotypes for a reason. There are memorable lines every other minute. Highly recommended.

Aladdin and Lion King might not be here except they share awesome villains--Skar and Jafar. So professionally evil. The exchange between Jafar and Princess Jasmine after Aladdin's arrest makes me swoon every time. His long face, cheshire-cat grin, skeletal fingers. "Your father has charged me with keeping the peace in Agraba." "What was the charge?" Why, kidnapping the prin-cess, of course." "I was running away!" "Oh, how dreadfully upsetting, had I but known." When he puts his hands on Jasmine, finger by finger, like a spider's walk, to comfort her, it's delicious. Skar's exhanges with Simba and his dad, especially preying on Simba's innocence and trust--stylish and wicked.

Emperor's New Groove is good for the dumb guy who serves the evil queen. Funny portrait of a big-hearted musclehead.

The first Toy Story has a couple great songs, and the opening hour is golden. "Last Tuesday's Plastic Awareness meeting was, I think, a big success." "You're mocking me, aren't you?" "Please be a Mrs. Potatohead, please be a Mrs. Potatohead."

Maybe someday I'll do the same with cartoons of the last seven or so years that I wouldn;t have enjoyed without kids. I'm a better man for all of it, and more fun at parties, too, because, "You know, parties are fun."

Judas Priest

2009-08-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

Happy 50th Birthday, Barbie!

Connor and I and the twins took Maggie to the library this morning to celebrate Barbie's half-century of perpetual readiness for anything. There were 29 other girls signed up so Bad Daddy couldn't get Darcy in at the last minute--thank Schenker she's 2 and easily distracted.

I didn't see what went on in the party room, for some reason shades were drawn on my side of the library, and watching a pair of 2-year-olds and a 9-year-old made it unlikely that I would go around to where the view was clear. Of course, I forgot to bring a camera, so there was no photo op with cardboard Barbie princess at the end.

We left with as many as we came with, narrowly averting an extra half-hour as the twins raced into the labyrinth as I was checking out some research documents--Star Wars comic book, two Goosebumps videos, Sky High (pretty good if I may interject in my own blog) and the second Narnia flick. Me and Connor caught up before they went opposite ways, but not before making a spectacle of ourselves for the millionth time.

Later, Connor said something like, "It's weird how she's 50 but is still slim and beautiful." His dad was there to take him to football, so we had a laugh about Barbie's probable use of surgery and chemicals to maintain her plastic playfulness. Still, what if the makers of Barbie had made Barbie in stages......

--At 18, Barbie heads to college in fabulous outfits, including sweatpants for 8 a.m. classes, oversized t-shirts given her by Ken sometime around 4 a.m.. Comes with a gift certificate to buy new, larger-sized pants at the end of the first semester.

--At 24, Barbie sets out to show the boys in the boardroom that she's blond and thin, and has many changes of clothes for every occasion, including texting and receiving texts. LO Elle!

--At 27, Barbie leaves behind the rat race to concentrate on her attempts to have Barbie Babies with, who else, GI Joe! All that ticking was distracting her from breaking the glass ceiling, so it's time to break out of the work world and join a genetic-customization and fertility support group. So difficult to reproduce with no bits and pieces. Jeans and ponytails and a smile we see right through!

--Now 34, with two nappy-headed blond boys with Kung-Fu Grip and camoflauge wardrobes for every day of the week, Barbie is frightened. She sports pastel body-armor and has started a Family Scrap club in her women's group. Cute night-vision goggles and concealed meat tenderizer mark her as a suburban MIBNMW--Mother I'd Better Not Mess With.

--At 41, Barbie knows peace, and has the scars to show it. Comes with tan vials, dark sunglasses, very-raised eyebrows, wrinkle-free skin (as always) and pink corkscrew.

--Now 50, and still vital, with a nod to her "I've still got it" cameo on Toy Story 2, Barbie looks forward to 50 more years of trials and tribulations, joy and happiness, lace and velcro. The latest generation of girlie-girls pays homage, and Barbie feels young again.

I've got to go, before I erase all that and start over with something that is a way better idea. Carrie awaits downstairs, I believe in a mood similar to liking me a lot. See you Saturday

George Thorogood

2009-08-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

Unemployment is not counter-intuitively desirable, like obesity or burping--it's not a sign of wealth or appreciated in some cultures. It's just never been all that cool, unless you are the offspring of wealthy parents. So, I'm trying to find full-time work.

An executive of the company that laid me off told me I'd have to work as hard at finding a job as I did when I had a job. He knew from experience...and never checking to see how hard I worked when I had a job. Awww, that's just some fun I threw in there to keep investigative prospective employers sharp for red flags. Did you catch it?

Anytime this out-of-work subject comes up, I think about the scene from Dudley Moore's "Arthur" (my middle name, BTW). Not sure this is verbatim, but when the interviewer tells our slurring hero that the company is looking for someone who is punctual, hard-working, and a team player, Arthur enthusiastically replies, "Well, hire me and I'll help you find him."

I'm looking for that job, too. I've noticed that there are a lot of jobs available for things I have no clue about--software engineers, associate professors, HVAC technicians. I just know if someone took a chance on me, I could be their CFO or CIO or ER surgeon, with a little paid training, ya know? But, this job market is unfriendly to inexperienced folks with lots of self-confidence, so what are you gonna do?

At least I'll never tell an interviewer, "I like people." Why is that such a sought-after trait? What about, "I don't harm people I don't like"? Or, even, "I let people talk to me, if it's about the job"?

We're all still getting used to the role reversal around here; I stay home and Carrie, who had not had a full-time job at a workplace since 2006, is now oot and aboot. The twins bawled for many minutes when she left in the morning the first couple of weeks, and now occasionally ask, "Where's that lady who sleeps here?"

I take all the credit for their adaptation, but I don't recommend to everyone in a similar situation my tough-love regimen of duct-tape, Sportscenter and ice cream for breakfast. Our kids are just special, I guess, and please don't assume it's easy being respected and adored.

My spirits are still high, but it's not even two months since the change--still getting severance, landed a freelance gig, got the secret e-mail address for upcoming football gambling, etc. I sent an idea to T-Shirt Hell a couple weeks ago and can't believe I haven't won 10 free shirts and 200 bucks yet. "I Just Got Laid" it would say in big letters. "Off" would be underneath, in tiny letters.

A portion of the sales proceeds would go to my charity, The Hire Me and I'll Help You Find Him Foundation. In lieu of sales, please send letters of recommendation to the comments section below.

The Descendents

2009-08-02T19:48:00.001-07:00

Well, sorry to all my 10 followers that I haven't blogged for two straight days. It's been abnormally exciting around Casa de Senyor Madre.

Thursday I had to help chaperone Connor and five of his mates on a birthday trip to the Field Museum--train, bus, museum (walk walk walk walk walk), bus, train. That was also the real birthday of Senyor Madre's Senyora, Carrie, who had to work all day. She got presents and cards from me and the kids in the morning, then a cake and champagne at night.

Friday was a regular day, and Saturday she worked and we went to a party at night. Sunday, hung over, Connor's real birthday (cake and presents in the morn). Connor's Dad took him to the Sox game, where he paid to have Connor's birthday wishes announced over the P.A. and put on the scoreboard. Then, I took the little ones to the gym, while Carrie slept and then I took Maggie and Gavin to Morton Arboretum for a couple hours of wet and climby shenanigans.

It was our date night for her birthday, which was attended--surprise!--by five of her closest friends at a local joint. They let me in on their sex talk and gossip, and I held my own (as I usually do; it is mine after all).

Determined to blog, even though I still am hung over and very sleepy, so it's all for you, Damien.

Carrie thought I should blog tonight about the seemingly-hilarious take I have on farting, and couples who make sport of it. Bottom line--I don't fart in her presence, and I don't understand tolerance of it, let alone bonding over it. As I at-my-wit's-end explained to the group of ladies--IT IS GAS FROM YOUR ASS AND IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! How can that be in any way fun to share?

Instead I want to blog about a guilty pleasure I have that may be harming my children long-term. Of course, I'm referring to getting the toddlers to repeat phrases they say incorrectly but sound so cute. Parents, you know what I'm talking about, turn yourselves in. (That's not the same as me wanting you to share your experiences in the comments section; if you want to do that, start a blog--our kids' cutenesses are never as cute to others).

Connor was really into Thomas the Tank Engine for a long time. I met Connor when he was 2.5 years old, just as the Island of Sodor began to weave its magic spell on him. The mayor or don or burgermeister of the isle was, and still may be, Sir Topham Hat.

Connor would always exclaim, not say, the guy's name without the Sir, and end the Topham with an 'n'. So, "Top-an hat!" I would prod him to say it many times a day.

I don't remember what Maggie would say that would make me manipulate her in the same manner, but I would listen over and over to a voicemail I saved on which Carrie called me during jury duty and made Maggie gigglesnort to the Bananas Split theme song, so much so that at the end of the message, Carrie says, "Oh, I'm exhausted." Smiling, like blinking and the beating of the heart, is involuntary.

Gavin calls Mr. Potato Head "Tooty Head." When I say that to him, he will respond by saying "No Tooty Head" mainly because he doesn't know why I would bring up that toy out of nowhere. Still, the victory is mine.

Darcy is just past this now, but for a couple months recently, would ask me (and probably anyone else) "What doing, Daddy?" or "Daddy, what doing?" Can't get enough of that, so I ask her the same thing, "Darcy, what doing?" It's a bonus when they play along and say it back because they know you're playing.

The little goblins do and say a lot of other funny and endearing and sweet things, but you knew that, and I want to go find something cold to drink.

I'll be doing the blog thingy every other day from now on, so, see ya Tuesday. I have a freelance assignment I'm working on (90 cents a word, baby) and a business meeting at White Chocolate Cafe Wednesday, so, as you can see, I'm moving and shaking when I'm not coercing toddlers and blogging and collecting unemployment money.

The JB's

2009-07-30T19:39:00.000-07:00

I have this little sister Ana Carolina. She's warm and very busy.

For those who have picked up on the Charlie and Lola start, give yourself 20 dollars.

I do, though, have a little sister named Ana Carolina Espinoza. She lives in Denver with her husband and just had her third child July 21, Nicolas. Now there is Margarita, 8, and Lilo, 5 and Nicolas, 10 days. Not only do I have a little sister, but two little brothers, Jose and get ready, Jose. My birth certificate name is Jose Arturo. My father, Jose, had children by three women--my mom, Ana's and one Jose's mom, named Margarita, and another woman.

Joe, Joe, Joe and Joe, ya know?

I watch my children (including Connor) interact as siblings without any knowledge of their experience. I believe already they will be close as grown-ups, because Gavin and Darcy shared a womb, Maggie likes to be a girl with Darcy, with whom she will always share clothes, and Connor truly likes to be their big brother. As parents we will only play favorites when one of them shows promise in some area, thus cutting down on any "Dad always liked you better," nuisance talk. They will have to earn it.

I met Ana when I was 11 and she was maybe 3 or 4, in El Salvador. I have only a fleeting memory of her. I had heard rumours that there was a brother as well. I have never been very good about keeping ties with frinds or family.

Even though I've had many questions about my Dad, who died when I was 22, and who has been that phantom presence all my life as here-and-there fathers are known to be, it wasn't enough apparently to lead a search for his side of the family, even a sister of mine. Can't explain it, not sure it matters, because I left a message on an Ancestry.com board in 2004 with some explanation of my father, and two years later had it answered by the daughter of a cousin--my father's brother's daughter, whose wedding I nearly caused a brawl at in the late 1980s.

Background on my father--he was the largest Salvadoran in history, I believe, at 6-foot-1 or 6-foot-2, leading me to believe my birth certificate was correct when it lists father's country of origin as Venezuela. Not so says Ana, so now I believe her, because she knew him better. He and my mother were together at least eight or nine years, didn't marry, had me and split for good when I was 7.

I visited him in El Salvador in 1974, that summer they split, and again in 1978. I want to get back there, talk to those I knew back then, see the places I went, the coffee plantation he supervised (or something--one of the questions I have), eat some pupusas, get mango pieces in a plastic bag.

I saw Dad shoot warning shots at troublemakers on a winding dirt road up to the plantation, I fired a gun there, had my first French kiss from a very aggressive neighbor, sang You Light Up My Life to her family, played soccer on cobblestone streets, feared a place that had police in full battle gear, watched him as he went about his daily business, learned enough Spanish to get B's in school Spanish without trying, loved his Toyota Land Cruiser, became a fan of UltraMan (Japanese folks with Spanish voices!) and I can still feel his scrapy cheek as I kissed it before bed each night.

The cousin's daughter gave my address to a cousin of my father's, and he sent me a Christmas card with his phone number. I finally called, in April or May. I think there's some fear of success in me--why the hell wait so long, when contacting them and learning so much was now at my doorstep?

Rene is/was great and a nice surprise--he's worked in government and is lending his economic prowess to human rights/charity work in Africa. I talked to his new bride, he got the message and e-mailed me Ana's info, along with an invitation to visit him near D.C. and stay anytime I want in his house in El Salvador.

Now that I am in touch with Ana, who has been genuinely excited for the electronic reunion, I will be taking Maggie, who is brown like me and my father's other children, to Denver to visit Ana and her family in late August or September. Bonus--Jose moved to Denver for work, and so I will be seeing him and his family as well.

One day we'll all re-visit El Salvador together, hopefully with Carrie and the twins and Connor, too. This would be one of the few dreams I've had, and most I have had have come true. I have a good record of getting what I want, and whereas I used to focus on getting there, now that goal can be a reality in the company of my brother and sister and nieces and nephews, which was not part of the original fantasy. A whole family to speak Spanish to. Yay! (If I may).

I can now add the title brother and uncle to husband and father and son. And type of the devil, what does appear in the corner of my eye, but a little buttnutt named Gavin, awake when he ought not to be.

He came out to where I was typing this, crawled up on a cushy chair and is trying to get back to sleep. I have to go scrape his cheek with mine and put him back to bed.

The Beatles

2009-07-30T02:48:00.000-07:00

I love you, Carrie. Happy birthday to an amazing wife, mother, marketer, person.

Sugarcubes

2009-07-27T20:38:00.001-07:00

This Thursday is Carrie's birthday, and it's the big 30-somethingth, so I have planned and bought and lined up a babysitter. I learned a long time ago last year, that just because birthdays and Father's Days are not terribly important to me, birthdays and Mother's Days are highlights of each year for grown-up folks who have to live with me the other 363 days.

People have feelings and emotions, I have to keep reminding myself, and my beloved has what I would consider plenty. These are the times when I can shine and prove that I understand that kind of trivia, and that I can listen to and register wishes and needs and then take action. So it's a work in progress.

Me, I like a day at the track for either or both of those days. I enjoy gambling, that feeling of "You never know," that before the trumpet and the tip and the first pitch and the kickoff and puck drop, all is possible, and that history has no clout here.

Since I don't have the brain for card games, and don't like games of pure chance, like roulette, I have dabbled in sports gambling. By dabbled I mean I have some fun stories of weird ways I have won and lost, um, "things". I have not endangered any family members or bill deadlines or commited my children to indentured servitude, thus, I have no problem.

I have won "things" when a horse race outcome was changed by a rules violation, and lost "things" when a coach got two technicals at the end of the game and the opposing team made all its technical free throws to change my winning point-spread position to a less favorable standing.

Won on the Music City Miracle, lost on meaningless last-second 3-pointers by cretins who could have dribbled out the clock. I understand the joy of Not Losing, as opposed to Winning, and that the excitement of actually winning is at least half fueled by simply being right rather than any "things" accumulated by victory.

In all, I have lost more "things" than I have won, but they're just "things," not like love and other special types of human fun, so in the end I'm a winner in that way. Sharing, that's another one, and holding doors for strangers so that you can silently curse those who don't return the favor.

Back to Carrie's birthday. We're going on Sunday to the XcgKspik for some ajvor, and maybe a little ;';mjm, followed by the presentation of gifts--the ashpye and the apoh7 she asked for just days ago. Then, if all goes well, back to the Married Pad, for a little Jh1i'ihnshw.

It's all a surprise, so if you know her and see her before Sunday, shhhhh.

Mark Eitzel

2009-07-26T21:44:00.001-07:00

Almost-9-year-old stepson Connor got back froma week;s vacation with his dad, Jeff, today. They went to Mackinac Island and now we have fudge, some shirts for the little ones, new toy guns and away we go to another week of summer camp, piano lessons and next Monday, football. Then, fourth grade.

I know there are horror stories about these custodial relationships, but any rough periods we had seem to be behind us, and everyone benefits when tension is low. Jeff spoils the small Bushes, and they love him, too. Anytime one more adult cares about your kids you have to be grateful.

I think Con-man can be a QB, and I'll tell you why. He's going to be tall, already is--last season, his first in Rams, he was the youngest on his team because it's by weight class. I imagine that will continue. He has a great arm, and is starting to hit me in stride, with spirals.

The nice thing about youth ball is, they don't throw much, so he's got time to play something else while we work on throwing. Decision-making is probably the toughest part of that position, and I'm not sure he's physically or aggressively ready to be a running/option QB.

Excited to see what his second year will be like; I think any hesitation he had last year will be gone. I told him 1,000 times last season to think of himself as an Exploding Frog when coming out of his d-line stance. Seemed to be the best way to put it to a 7-year-old. Lord knows how I would have been as a football player at his age.

Like most guys my age, I didn't play organized football until freshman year in high school. When I was 7, we played in the street in San Francisco--Clinton Park Blvd., with a Look candy bar factory across the street. I remember a Corvette Stingray with retractable headlights, my 49ers helmet, wearing wristbands, sayin the F-word for the first time and having to write it 500 times when Mom found out, and watching my first dog get hit by a car going double the speed limit.

Carrie and I took a vacation to S.F. in 2004 or so, and it was beyond wild going back to that street and my old school, Mission Dolores. We even got to go inside and roam the school because teachers were getting their rooms ready and it was open. Mission Dolores is one of the most beautiful of the old missions, and I was lucky enough to attend first and second grade there, as well as Mass. First communion, the host stuck to the roof of my mouth and I recall sticking a mittened hand up there to scrape it off. That was a harbinger of things to come, as I have been indifferent to religion since at least middle school.

I'm fascinated by it, but have trouble overcoming scientific explanations. I was a freak, though, and can remember thinking that if I even thought of the Devil, I'd be sinning, and worrying about Communist invasions complete with re-education programs that included Viet Cong-style chopsticks in the ears for what I had heard in Catholic school. And how would I handle any possible Judas moments, when the evil foreigners asked me point-blank if I believed in God?

From that bundle of neuroses, I've emerged to now own a shirt from T-Shirt Hell that shows a praying mantis with its arms folded over the word Atheist. Now, I like it because of its humor and only that, but did I feel like neon when I wore it to the Morton Arboretum last spring.

The Bushes in full force tend to stand out anyway, and there's no mistaking a person reading your shirt instead of looking at your face. I have to admit it, it sounds silly, but I was very self-conscious. I have worn it again, to a family-friendly cookout in Wheaton, Billy Graham's backyard. Once again, I looked good in black.

So, circling back to our trip to S.F., we had a great great time. We sat and drank for a couple hours in a bar on the corner of Market and Castro, watching a crowd celebrating a California ruling just that day to further same-sex rights. Talked to a couple old queens, then had dinner at a Peruvian place. Ceviche, ceviche, ooh, aah.

We had a terrifying experience sea-kayaking at sunset, stirred up some neon plankton or algae, and almost capsized doing so, then fell way behind and had to self-therapy ourselves back to safety with 1-2-3 chanting and rowing. Got some stellar and sentimental pictures as you can imagine....then lost nearly all of them to a PC crash.

Trying to think of a better way to end this, but I've already gone on too long on a day I swore I would not post. Thanks for reading.

(Alternate ending) Thank you for reading.

Stevie Wonder

2009-07-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Saw Eastern Promises Saturday night, and quite glad I did. Plenty o'violence, but no backward arm or leg fractures, which make me cringe. I still haven't seen the Joe Thiesmann nastiness, and never will.

Last sick real-life injury I saw was the one on a Thursday ESPN college football game, Marshall and maybe East Carolina, not sure. Marshall receiver ran full stride into a cart that was just out of bounds behind the end zone. I happened to look up from working at just the 'right' time. It was shin-credible, and much easier seeing it that way than knowing what's coming. Like pulling off that band-aid nice and quick.

The movie featured prominently a baby, and got me wondering about having another. There's always an undercurrent of 'one more' around here, because Carrie loves babies and I still have some names I want to use. Spencer, Sebastian, Cameron, Trevor, Oliver, Duncan, Preston, Olivia, Hazel, Noelle.

Babies are alright, but they really come into their own when you can wrestle with them--their limbs are long enough for some quality moves, and they're old enough to enjoy being tossed around. This goes for both genders, though Maggie at almost-4 has reached the age that we both think a hug and an eskimo kiss is more natural and befitting a princess-intern. Darcy, though, she's all about piling on and Gramby rolls. Gavin still thinks his pin the other day was skill, but I was doggin' it.

As for Connor, there's not enough open, non-hardwood room for he and I, unfortunately, anymore. Occasionally, I'll get him to tap out, but it's usually an ambush, and I have to use my 1-2 best quick-strike tactics or we'll knock someone else or something over. He's going to hit 6-foot-2, 6-3 I think--his dad is 6-1, and his brother Zack, an Air Force air-traffic controller, is 6-5.

Anyway, about the time a baby can be shown who's the boss around here, competitively, is also when they're really hitting their cute zone. Babbling, laughing, easy to carry by the hair--you parent readers will know what I mean.

Twenty times a day I think I'd love to have the characteristics of this age--2, 3, maybe 4--last longer. Nineteen times a day is the number of screams and buzz-kills because of a cracker given to a sibling without me following protocol or because some folks still settle their differences with their teeth.

I kid because I care, about the length of my marriage. If they didn't take up space or cost money, then yeah, let's have 10 more, you know? They are the future and reflection of ourselves and, um, help me out here...

Yo La Tengo

2009-07-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

I don't remember what old Joe (meaning: hooker with a heart of gold) thought 'married with children' would be like, but I know he wanted it so much he looked foolish by talking all the time about going on great adventures--working on Alaskan fishing boat, for instance--but never going on them because he thought it would take him further from his domestic dream.

I satisfied myself with smaller jaunts, pursued on vacations, rather than upheavals. Had I not chosen that path, I would not be where I am--enjoying at least one daily excursion into the dark heart and giggly chewy center of wife and kids. There I was, there I was, there I was.....in the Congo!

I'm haunted by the likelihood that I will never again absorb the all-senses, hammer-on-the-funnybone rush of playing goaltender during quality late-night pick-up games of ice hockey at Center Ice, Seven Bridges, All Seasons (even outside, once, in Elmhurst!) in the 1990s. However, solo-supervising three darlings whose ages add up to 7 at a playground that has big- and little-kids' equipment easily and partly fills that aching void. Oh, the bruises a puck can cause on the inside of a thigh....sigh.

It's entirely understandable if those who knew me before 2002, when I met Carrie, would be surprised that I'm happily hitched and had a part in creating rather than ruining a life. I caused a lot of pain in the process of stopping and starting the wedding march, that tug-o-war between the repetitive thrill of the unknown and the monogamy I knew held such promise. Someone stop me before I go again.

All I can say is that Carrie did and has, and if I was ever scared of leaving after marriage rather than just before, I shouldn't have been. The switch from selfish to unselfish is not what I'm referring to; maybe I will never write about that, at least in the first person. No, it's the seamless, joyous transition--in my view--from having one person to look out for to having five others.

Perhaps it was the baby-steps, so to speak.
*First, Carrie and Connor--he was my first diaper change and kid on my shoulders.
*Two years later, add Maggie--she was my first Finger Terrifyingly Caught in Wipes Container, You Know The Upright Ones That Have Teeth, That Are Only Sold Abroad, Bought By Your Mother And Sent In The Mail.
*Fifteen months on, the twinny twin twins--Gavin was my first reason to buy something called a Whiz Kid; Darcy remains my last baby (by three minutes).

I'm not implying it's rare, or that I have earned commendation, but I'm proud that the old Joe (meaning: number of dependents--two cats) wanted this so much that when it happened, he evolved overnight--well, I did drop Maggie down some stairs when she was six months--has come through and always will. I am so happy to be so confident.

A memory stays with me of times in bleachers at wrestling meets or basketball games (not many of the latter--to paraphrase a wrestling t-shirt: The best use for a basketball court is to hold up wrestling mats) when a toddler going up or coming down would use me and other adults for footholds or handholds.

It was amusing, their assumption that that was what grown-ups are for, but it was also endearing as hell, like you were in their club. I had no idea then the difference in feeling between someone else's and mine, and my favorite spot is now no longer in the stands, but on the mat, losing a tag team.

Comets on Fire

2009-07-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

....so, I should be job-searching instead of blogging and eating another pint of ice cream. Or I should be sleeping, saving energy for the twins and almost-4-year-old and 34-year-old wife and almost-9-year-old stepson.

If I'd known I'd feel this good physically and I guess mentally at 42 two decades ago, I'd have had kids then. Empty-nesting would be nigh. Now, my kids will head to college or work sites or hostel tours or incarceration when I'm damn near 60. Retirement will become requirement.

I know, if I don't get a job, I won't have to retire. Ok, new plan. Blogging and ice-cream-eating by night, kidcare and fitness by day. I have a Lotto subscription after all, and best yet, my vivacious wife Carrie has a fabulous job at Whole Foods.

That's right, I'm frying the bacon she's bringing home, and the kids are begging for more, because Daddy knows his way around the kitchen finally after a month of unemployment. I'm pre-heating ovens, microwaving frozen vegetables, sudsing up and rinsing down. Then, I'm putting out my hand so Gavin and Darcy, aforementioned twins, can once again confirm that whole burgers do not fit into 30-month-old mouths.

So cute. But enough about me.

I'll try to do this every day, drawing from the notepad I'll keep handy for capturing the sweet and the sour of my time as a stay-at-home-Dad who will one day say these were the best days of my life. Thanks to Marcy, a photog friend from my time at the Daily Herald, I'm hip to writing down funny moments in a special place--she and others she knew used to keep notebooks of quotes from friends and co-workers. The things people say, I tell ya. Snort, snort, snort.

So, I'll type about them, me versus them, sports (used to be a sportswriter), food, me, current events, and any old goodie I snag from the grab-bag of child-rearing (no priest jokes, please) and marriage (four years and going strong).

Please be four years