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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sugarcubes
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.
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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Mark Eitzel
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.
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Stevie Wonder
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...
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...
Friday, July 24, 2009
Yo La Tengo
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.
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Comets on Fire
....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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
.JPG)
