Day 4 of The Battle at Daycare
I'm wounded and slowly bleeding out. Though the medic says it's just a bad cold, it sure as hell feels like dying to me. I was warned about going into that place unprepared. Why didn't I listen? Was it pride or just sheer stupidity? I'll never know. If this is to be my last entry, then please, Dear Reader, tell my daughter that I love her and tell Scarlett that I do give a damn.
I've long suspected that daycares are where the government tests its new diseases. Playdough could very well just be anthrax mixed with water. I don't know. I do know that the one where my daughter goes is like a holding pen for Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead. As far as I can surmise, I was bitten on Monday. Little Timmy or whatever his name used to be before the change came up to me that morning. I didn't think anything of it. So caught up in the emotion of my daughter's first day, I let my guard down.
Rule Number One: Don't Get Personal
Timmy came up to me and he looked at me with those big watery globes and said, "Hi!" When in Rome... I spoke back. "Hi, child I don't know." He continued, "Hi!" Timmy is a man of few words. That went on for about a minute and as I turned to walk away, I heard him cough. He must have bitten me sometime during our initial exchange. I didn't feel it. The best poisons go unnoticed. I was a dead man before I walked out of that place.
Tuesday I felt a little sick. Yesterday I felt like hell. Today, I realize that yesterday was a walk through heaven on my way to today's hell. Symptoms? Everything except my left knee, third toe on my right foot and the vein that runs down the inside of my left arm near my thumb hurts. I've been trying to squint because the force of my eyelids blinking sends a shock wave through my head.
There's so much more to say, but the vertebra directly next to bottommost rib is starting to hurt worse than the others. I slept 12 hours last night then woke up for two this morning, before sleeping another three. I've been up for an hour and feel like I need another eight hour nap. I'm down somewhere in Ward 3. Send Gatorade!
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Movin' On Up
Well, Black History Month is drawing to a close. What did you do to celebrate it? Me? I integrated an apartment complex. Sure, it's not a lunch counter at Woolworth, but all of the good ones are taken.
It all started back at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in my old apartment wondering what I'd been doing with my life, when the idea hit me:
It all started back at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in my old apartment wondering what I'd been doing with my life, when the idea hit me:
"I want to get my face on an elementary school wall every February!"
I knew what I had to do. I moved out. My old place was nice, but there was probably one black person on every floor. I wasn't gonna make history there. No, I had to move somewhere else. Somewhere where my hue was needed. Now, traditional logic would assume that moving three blocks down the street wouldn't really make much of a difference, but DC defies all logic.
I signed a lease on Saturday and moved in right away. That following Monday I learned that we had a doorman who worked on the weekdays. Talk about "We Shall Overcome." I'm still coming to terms with having central air, and now I have someone to open the door for me? Soon there will be rose bearers. But I ran into a little snag. I walked up to the door and the doorman didn't open it. Somehow I figured out how to transition from inside the lobby to outside the lobby without his assistance, but the whole experience was disappointing. Maybe his mind was somewhere else and he didn't see me.
Then, I came back home. This time I was carrying groceries and walking about 50 feet behind a random white lady. He opened the door for her and when I got to the door...nothing. I used my key fob and let myself in. Interesting. So later that evening I went out and came back to find the doorman gone for the evening. The concierge was at the front desk, but instead of being buzzed in like she'd done all of the people who walked up before me, I heard a pop. "Can I help you?"
Now part of me wanted to say, "Didn't you just see me leave? I'm standing in front of a locked door. You're sitting in front of a button that opens said locked door. What do you think you could do in this situation to help me? Huh?" I didn't say that though. Dr. King didn't get anywhere by being sarcastic, but I was fresh out of speeches. I let myself in, walked over to the desk and gave her the "Michael Jackson at the Super Bowl" long stare. Like Mike, I didn't say a word. I just stood there and stared.
She blinked first. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you lived here." I introduced myself, told her it was okay and went on about my business. The next day I introduced myself to the doorman and shook his hand. I haven't had a problem since. Now, I'm waiting for my rose bearers.
[Editor's Note: I've been here a month. Still haven't seen another black person yet. My Black History Postage Stamp is just one integration away."
Monday, February 25, 2013
I'm Just A Poor Boy, Nobody Loves Me
So yesterday was D-Day. We stormed the beach at daycare. The events of the day fall into two categories: What I expected and What Happened.
I ask how things went. Did she cry a lot? "She didn't cry at all, actually." Did she have a hard time adjusting to you taking her to the bathroom? "Not at all. She told me when she had to go and she went by herself." That's...good. "Yeah, she seemed to have a lot of fun here and was running around pretty much all day, except for that nap earlier."
Scene One: Drop-off
What I Expected
Walk in to find all of the kids singing a song or something. My daughter would be nervous at first, probably clinging to me for protection. We would stay there for about an hour to ease her into the daycare process. She would scream and holler as we tried to leave. I'd muster up the will to leave her there.
What Happened
Walked in to find the kids eating breakfast. All of them looked like hobbits next to my human growth hormone-sponsored daughter. She went straight to playing with the toys and ignored the presence of all of the children. She cried only when I tried to get her to eat. The teacher suggested we just let her play. I took off my coat in preparation for the long haul. Three minutes later, I picked it back up to leave at the teacher's subtle suggestion. Attempts to tell my daughter goodbye were met with indifference as she played with the toys and other "not-hungry" children.
Scene Two: Midday Check-In
What I Expected
A call around noon to the daycare would reveal my daughter's immediate sadness at the realization that mommy and daddy were gone. Guilt would creep in because I didn't say goodbye. The teacher would tell us things she planned to do to keep her calm throughout the day. I might possibly be able to hear my daughter crying inconsolably in the background.
What Happened
"She's asleep. We went out to play and she came back and said that she wanted to take a nap. It was about 30 minutes earlier than we usually put them down, but since it's her first day, we let her take a nap."
Scene Three: Pick Up
What I Expected
I was going to pick her up early. Surely, being left in new surroundings for seven hours has taken its toll. She's sitting in a corner somewhere wondering if we've abandoned her. She hasn't played much all day. The teachers will tell me things to do tomorrow to make it easier on her. They'll tell me that she cried a few times, but if I'm lucky they will say that they were able to distract her most of the time. She'll run into my arms the minute that she sees me come through the door. She won't let go. My heart will break at the thought of her having to go through all of it again tomorrow.
What Happened
I walk in and see her, but her back is to me. I speak to the teacher, but my daughter doesn't immediately recognize my voice. I call out to her and brace myself for the impact of her 37 lb, 3 foot 2 inch frame running full speed into me. I wait for it. She looks at me... and turns back around to resume playing with a toy grasshopper. The teacher frowns at me and tells me that it's okay. Her pity hurts.
I ask how things went. Did she cry a lot? "She didn't cry at all, actually." Did she have a hard time adjusting to you taking her to the bathroom? "Not at all. She told me when she had to go and she went by herself." That's...good. "Yeah, she seemed to have a lot of fun here and was running around pretty much all day, except for that nap earlier."
It is in this moment that I look down to see my daughter standing beside me with a giant magnifying glass and peering through it at my hand a la Sherlock Holmes as if she's examining me. "Time to go sweetheart." She runs away. "We'll be back tomorrow." She puts up a fight. The teacher (you know, the woman she just met today) says, "You'll be back tomorrow. Don't worry." My daughter just calms down like her word is bond.
As we're leaving, my daughter (the one who hardly ever talks to strangers...or family members...or even me) says, "Okay, bye guys. See you later. Goodbye!" and waves! She looks at me and says, "Okay, let's go."
In my head, I hear Stewie Griffin..."Who the hell do you think you are?"
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Congratulations! Today Is Your Day
It is 5:45 in the morning. This is my sixth time waking up since going to bed at midnight. Yeah, I'm nervous. My daughter starts daycare today. My most recent dream had her teacher turning around to pick up something off the desk and my daughter running over to a closet that turned out to be an old bank vault that closed and my daughter got trapped inside. They called me in because I used to work at a bank, and apparently I was more qualified to get her out than any of the billions of other people in my dream world.
Before that dream, they were taking them all on their daily walk, but the teachers thought it'd be faster to cut through a dimly lit underground parking garage. You can use your imagination to guess how that turned out. Yep, I'm nervous. I'll just do my best to conceal it when we leave in an hour. I suppose this is payback for the person that I used to be.
Long before this whole Daddy Daycare thing, I was the type who figured people needed to cut the cord. My grandmother first sent me to the liquor store to buy her a pack of cigarettes when I was about five. The first time I spoke to someone who told me they had a babysitter for their twelve year old...let's just say I wasn't very sympathetic. I find myself trying to strike a balance between my childhood and paranoia. It's an uphill battle.
Interestingly enough, I remember my first day of school. The night before it rained, which meant my mother and I slept in the living room (Our ceiling leaked in the bedroom). I remember that right before I went to bed she said, "Guess what, you're going to school tomorrow." I was so excited. Not sure why, because the fact that I pictured myself flying in an Elroy Jetson capsule to a school above the clouds proves that I knew nothing about DC Public Schools or Head Start.
The next day my grandmother walked me down to the school and I was so excited. My father had pumped the idea into my head at an early age that I was a genius. That was his explanation for my being able to read so many different books. Unbeknownst to him, they were books on record that I'd memorized right along with the chime that signaled when to turn the page. Anyway, I remember getting to school and being super excited to learn. Then disaster struck.
"I'll see you later, Ordale."
You'll do what! Where the hell are you going?
At no point did anyone explain that school was a personal adventure. I was thinking more Fellowship of the Ring and they were on some lonely traveler thing. I screamed and hollered to high hell. I was a male version of Nettie from The Color Purple. WHYYYY? Only death can keep me from her!!! My grandmother told me that she'd stay. Then about an hour later she said she had to use the bathroom and told me to finish singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" with the other kids.
It took her six hours to come back from the bathroom. The next day she forgot her coffee and would be right back. Six hours later, she came back. Eventually I caught on, but it took a while. I'll skip the formalities and just tell my daughter the truth...I just got an urgent call from Elmo and he needs me to come feed Dorothy. I'll be right back!
Before that dream, they were taking them all on their daily walk, but the teachers thought it'd be faster to cut through a dimly lit underground parking garage. You can use your imagination to guess how that turned out. Yep, I'm nervous. I'll just do my best to conceal it when we leave in an hour. I suppose this is payback for the person that I used to be.
Long before this whole Daddy Daycare thing, I was the type who figured people needed to cut the cord. My grandmother first sent me to the liquor store to buy her a pack of cigarettes when I was about five. The first time I spoke to someone who told me they had a babysitter for their twelve year old...let's just say I wasn't very sympathetic. I find myself trying to strike a balance between my childhood and paranoia. It's an uphill battle.
Interestingly enough, I remember my first day of school. The night before it rained, which meant my mother and I slept in the living room (Our ceiling leaked in the bedroom). I remember that right before I went to bed she said, "Guess what, you're going to school tomorrow." I was so excited. Not sure why, because the fact that I pictured myself flying in an Elroy Jetson capsule to a school above the clouds proves that I knew nothing about DC Public Schools or Head Start.
The next day my grandmother walked me down to the school and I was so excited. My father had pumped the idea into my head at an early age that I was a genius. That was his explanation for my being able to read so many different books. Unbeknownst to him, they were books on record that I'd memorized right along with the chime that signaled when to turn the page. Anyway, I remember getting to school and being super excited to learn. Then disaster struck.
"I'll see you later, Ordale."
You'll do what! Where the hell are you going?
At no point did anyone explain that school was a personal adventure. I was thinking more Fellowship of the Ring and they were on some lonely traveler thing. I screamed and hollered to high hell. I was a male version of Nettie from The Color Purple. WHYYYY? Only death can keep me from her!!! My grandmother told me that she'd stay. Then about an hour later she said she had to use the bathroom and told me to finish singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" with the other kids.
It took her six hours to come back from the bathroom. The next day she forgot her coffee and would be right back. Six hours later, she came back. Eventually I caught on, but it took a while. I'll skip the formalities and just tell my daughter the truth...I just got an urgent call from Elmo and he needs me to come feed Dorothy. I'll be right back!
Friday, February 22, 2013
Pump Your Brakes
Have you ever borrowed someone's car only to realize that they failed to disclose critical details about the vehicle, e.g., "If you don't do this one thing this exact way then you're going to die." Either that or they completely glossed over certain details like, I don't know, "I need new brakes."
I borrowed someone's car one day to go to the store and upon leaving they made a simple offhand comment, "Don't worry about putting in more gas, I'm good. Oh yeah, I need new brakes." Now perhaps I just heard what I wanted to hear or maybe I'm just out of touch with my ghetto origins, but "I need new brakes" translates inside my head as, "My breaks are going to squeak, but the car will still come to a stop when you press the brake pedal."
So I'm riding down the street, and this is out in Maryland where there's a long stretch of straight road. Technically, it's not a highway, but it's far enough that the speed limit on the three lane road is like 55 mph. I'm about a half mile from a red light (and a major intersection where there are shopping centers on each side of the road) and there is one car stopped ahead at the light. As I get closer to the car, I push the brake pedal to slow down.
The funny thing about the human brain is that it has a hard time getting over things that it doesn't understand. In this particular case, I pressed the brake pedal, but the car wasn't really slowing down like my brain expected it to. I didn't have high expectations. This wasn't a sports car. It was an old Dodge, but there was still a small expectation that when I pushed the pedal that the car would go from 55 to about 51 and then maybe 45 and so on. No, I had the pedal pushed about halfway and the car was still cruising at about 54.
Since pushing the brake pedal like a gentleman wasn't working, I decided to slam on the brakes like a maniac. Another funny thing about the human brain (or maybe life itself) is that when you realize that you're about to die, all of a sudden you have Spiderman reflexes. Time just slows down. I like to think that it's life's way of letting you capture the moment and say your goodbyes.
All of this was happening over the span of about three seconds, but with my new Spider Sense, I was able to live about five minutes of life in just those three seconds. First came the realization that I was about to slam into the car in front of me. Second, I realized that only two of the brakes were working (the ones on the left side of the car). Now, I figured that part out because the car was now spinning counter clockwise toward the car in front of me. Thanks to video games, I learned how to get out of a drift and I turned into the swerve. That's another realization... video games aren't that bad.
Because I turned into the swerve, I was now straightening out. That meant that instead of slamming into the car ahead of me sideways, I'd now have a full on frontal crash. I'd just saved myself two hours of a slow painful death in the ICU. Now I'd die right away. So then I had one more flash of brilliance. I started blowing the horn.
I lie to you not, I locked eyes with the guy ahead of me in his rear view mirror. He saw me screaming for life and I saw him mouth "Oh Shit!" Lucky for me he was out of his mind. He actually sped off through a red light to avoid being rear ended by me. Now, keep in mind that this was a major intersection so he actually darted out into traffic and through a red light. By doing so, all of the cars coming from the sides slammed on their brakes. This acted kinda like a lead blocker in football and left a hole "up the middle" for my car to screech right on through.
I eventually came to a stop at a 45 degree angle in the middle of the intersection. I didn't hit anything and neither did the car that was ahead of me. Because this was PG County, not a single soul got out to see if I was okay or lent assistance. That meant that I was free to just keep going without drawing any attention from the police. That's another added bonus, because I later realized that I left my wallet (and my license) at home. And we all know how kindly the good folks of the Prince George's County Police Department take to young black men driving cars through red lights without a license and with a name not matching the registration of the vehicle.
I borrowed someone's car one day to go to the store and upon leaving they made a simple offhand comment, "Don't worry about putting in more gas, I'm good. Oh yeah, I need new brakes." Now perhaps I just heard what I wanted to hear or maybe I'm just out of touch with my ghetto origins, but "I need new brakes" translates inside my head as, "My breaks are going to squeak, but the car will still come to a stop when you press the brake pedal."
So I'm riding down the street, and this is out in Maryland where there's a long stretch of straight road. Technically, it's not a highway, but it's far enough that the speed limit on the three lane road is like 55 mph. I'm about a half mile from a red light (and a major intersection where there are shopping centers on each side of the road) and there is one car stopped ahead at the light. As I get closer to the car, I push the brake pedal to slow down.
The funny thing about the human brain is that it has a hard time getting over things that it doesn't understand. In this particular case, I pressed the brake pedal, but the car wasn't really slowing down like my brain expected it to. I didn't have high expectations. This wasn't a sports car. It was an old Dodge, but there was still a small expectation that when I pushed the pedal that the car would go from 55 to about 51 and then maybe 45 and so on. No, I had the pedal pushed about halfway and the car was still cruising at about 54.
Since pushing the brake pedal like a gentleman wasn't working, I decided to slam on the brakes like a maniac. Another funny thing about the human brain (or maybe life itself) is that when you realize that you're about to die, all of a sudden you have Spiderman reflexes. Time just slows down. I like to think that it's life's way of letting you capture the moment and say your goodbyes.
All of this was happening over the span of about three seconds, but with my new Spider Sense, I was able to live about five minutes of life in just those three seconds. First came the realization that I was about to slam into the car in front of me. Second, I realized that only two of the brakes were working (the ones on the left side of the car). Now, I figured that part out because the car was now spinning counter clockwise toward the car in front of me. Thanks to video games, I learned how to get out of a drift and I turned into the swerve. That's another realization... video games aren't that bad.
Because I turned into the swerve, I was now straightening out. That meant that instead of slamming into the car ahead of me sideways, I'd now have a full on frontal crash. I'd just saved myself two hours of a slow painful death in the ICU. Now I'd die right away. So then I had one more flash of brilliance. I started blowing the horn.
I lie to you not, I locked eyes with the guy ahead of me in his rear view mirror. He saw me screaming for life and I saw him mouth "Oh Shit!" Lucky for me he was out of his mind. He actually sped off through a red light to avoid being rear ended by me. Now, keep in mind that this was a major intersection so he actually darted out into traffic and through a red light. By doing so, all of the cars coming from the sides slammed on their brakes. This acted kinda like a lead blocker in football and left a hole "up the middle" for my car to screech right on through.
I eventually came to a stop at a 45 degree angle in the middle of the intersection. I didn't hit anything and neither did the car that was ahead of me. Because this was PG County, not a single soul got out to see if I was okay or lent assistance. That meant that I was free to just keep going without drawing any attention from the police. That's another added bonus, because I later realized that I left my wallet (and my license) at home. And we all know how kindly the good folks of the Prince George's County Police Department take to young black men driving cars through red lights without a license and with a name not matching the registration of the vehicle.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Mahogany...Do You Know
I've spent the last ten minutes staring at this blank screen trying to figure out what to write. I remember my freshman year of high school when I felt like nobody really liked me. I was always funny, so I could make people laugh, but I just kinda felt alone. I don't know if it was the depression that I was going through or a genuine observation, but that's how I felt. Then one day around the end of the year everyone started passing around their yearbooks for others to sign. I didn't have money to buy one, so I bought a black composition book for a dollar from CVS and I passed it around.
I remember riding the bus home from school that day and being completely caught off guard by how many people signed it. What was more surprising was the sincere things that people wrote. Everyone thought I was funny, but a lot of people wrote about how they saw my humor as a way of coping with whatever they were going through. One girl wrote that I made her laugh at the expense of exposing my own vulnerability. It was a concept that I didn't really understand until years later when I read Richard Pryor's book, Pryor Confessions. It was a sentiment echoed by both Bernie Mac and Tracy Morgan in their autobiographies as well.
I think the best comedy comes from pain. Some of us go through shit and find a way to help others deal with it, and that's great by itself. But there's a special group of people who can ingest life, process and filter it through a very special lens and then pass it on to you in a way that you laugh about. I'm not presumptuous enough to call myself a comedian. I just think that some things that I say are funny, and usually it's the stuff that is most honest and rooted in some type of painful life experience.
I'm having a hard time right now, as I've written (probably too much at this point) before. Right now, it's difficult to make any of this funny. Hell, it's hard to see humor in anything nowadays and that's why I'm not really posting anything. I don't know why I'm writing this, and I don't know who has actually stuck around this long to read it, but when I think about high school and the other three years that I passed around a composition book, I remember all of the people who told me that they appreciated me sharing my story and not being afraid to be vulnerable.
So maybe that's why I feel compelled to write this, even though I haven't really said anything. I highly doubt any of you were looking at me as a bastion of strength, but maybe it helps someone else to hear me say, "Hey, I'm fucked up right now." I'm the guy who has a plan for everything. My backup plans have backup plans. But right now, I have no clue what I'm doing or where I'm going. It doesn't get more vulnerable than that.
I remember riding the bus home from school that day and being completely caught off guard by how many people signed it. What was more surprising was the sincere things that people wrote. Everyone thought I was funny, but a lot of people wrote about how they saw my humor as a way of coping with whatever they were going through. One girl wrote that I made her laugh at the expense of exposing my own vulnerability. It was a concept that I didn't really understand until years later when I read Richard Pryor's book, Pryor Confessions. It was a sentiment echoed by both Bernie Mac and Tracy Morgan in their autobiographies as well.
I think the best comedy comes from pain. Some of us go through shit and find a way to help others deal with it, and that's great by itself. But there's a special group of people who can ingest life, process and filter it through a very special lens and then pass it on to you in a way that you laugh about. I'm not presumptuous enough to call myself a comedian. I just think that some things that I say are funny, and usually it's the stuff that is most honest and rooted in some type of painful life experience.
I'm having a hard time right now, as I've written (probably too much at this point) before. Right now, it's difficult to make any of this funny. Hell, it's hard to see humor in anything nowadays and that's why I'm not really posting anything. I don't know why I'm writing this, and I don't know who has actually stuck around this long to read it, but when I think about high school and the other three years that I passed around a composition book, I remember all of the people who told me that they appreciated me sharing my story and not being afraid to be vulnerable.
So maybe that's why I feel compelled to write this, even though I haven't really said anything. I highly doubt any of you were looking at me as a bastion of strength, but maybe it helps someone else to hear me say, "Hey, I'm fucked up right now." I'm the guy who has a plan for everything. My backup plans have backup plans. But right now, I have no clue what I'm doing or where I'm going. It doesn't get more vulnerable than that.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Expedited Delivery
I used to think that stay at home parents sat around watching television and eating Cap'n Crunch all day. It wasn't that I didn't understand how demanding children can be. Hell, I was the family babysitter from about age seven to fourteen. I guess I failed to realize that at seven I didn't really care about my cousin's cognitive development. Back then I did sit around watching television and eating the snacks in his diaper bag. My interpretation of the role changed instantly when my wife walked out the door that first day after maternity leave.
I once heard somewhere that the reality of prison doesn't sink in until you get in your cell and they close the door for the first time. It was the same for me. She left and (all teary-eyed) told me a hundred times to call her throughout the day to let her know how things were going. The door closed and I remember looking over at the six week old sprawled out on the couch and thought to myself, "What in the hell am I doing here?" I had my first meltdown two days later. Ten hours is a long stretch with a newborn, especially when you're anatomically incompatible. My wife could just pop her on a boob to keep her quiet. I gave her a pacifier and she "Rick Wild Thing Vaughned" it right back at my head.
I got the hang of it after a while and even learned to find humor in it. I started this blog originally as "Daddy's Log--The War Journal of a First Time Father" and chronicled my exploits on Facebook to the amusement of my friends. Being home allowed me to not only witness every milestone, but to have a direct involvement in them. There was no daycare worker to tell me, "Hey, she took her first steps today. Guess what? She said a word today." It's amazing how something so small can more than compensate for the lost wages, career growth and social interaction that I would've gotten from going to work each day. Don't get me wrong, I missed those things desperately, but she made it all worth it.
A while ago I wrote a post about how hard it is to watch her face as we walk by a school playground. Her eyes light up not just because of the sight of the playground, but because of the other children. She craves the social interaction. She needs to be around her own kind. I have a hard time accepting that there are some things that I just can't give her. I think that's the theme of parenting. There will come a time...Actually, there will be hundreds of times when your kids will need something you can't give them.
It's so hard because in the beginning you were more than enough. You were an abundance of resources for them and that exchange of resources (be it wealth, patience, time, experience, knowledge, whatever) flowed freely and easily. Then one day that exchange is difficult because you honestly don't have the thing that they need in that moment and (gasp) you have to send them out into the world to go get it. The same world that you sheltered and protected them from in the infant days--The one with all the germs, pedophiles, kidnappers and just all around bad people--is the same one you now have to direct them to and that is a scary feeling.
So what's all of this about? I knew that the day would come when she'd go to school. I was banking on August or September of this year. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed and it's a combination of things that have now forced me to move that date up to "soon." She has to go to daycare and that decision pains me even though I know it's the right one. There are parents reading this right now who are probably thinking, "Been there done that." I acknowledge that I'm late to the party on this one, but just let me have my moment.
For the last two and a half years I've had a routine and enjoyed the company of just one person from 8AM to 6PM each day. I was planning a big "going away party" this spring and summer. We were gonna go on picnics and bike rides and just run ourselves ragged. I guess I wanted to cram as many "just the two of us" moments as I could. Instead, I have a week and it's the dead of winter. With everything else that's been going on, I was kinda looking forward to that. Where's the truth-in-advertising for this whole "grown up" thing? It was supposed to be just a bunch of money and freedom. I want a refund.
[youtube=http://youtu.be/dcnd55tLCv8]
I once heard somewhere that the reality of prison doesn't sink in until you get in your cell and they close the door for the first time. It was the same for me. She left and (all teary-eyed) told me a hundred times to call her throughout the day to let her know how things were going. The door closed and I remember looking over at the six week old sprawled out on the couch and thought to myself, "What in the hell am I doing here?" I had my first meltdown two days later. Ten hours is a long stretch with a newborn, especially when you're anatomically incompatible. My wife could just pop her on a boob to keep her quiet. I gave her a pacifier and she "Rick Wild Thing Vaughned" it right back at my head.
I got the hang of it after a while and even learned to find humor in it. I started this blog originally as "Daddy's Log--The War Journal of a First Time Father" and chronicled my exploits on Facebook to the amusement of my friends. Being home allowed me to not only witness every milestone, but to have a direct involvement in them. There was no daycare worker to tell me, "Hey, she took her first steps today. Guess what? She said a word today." It's amazing how something so small can more than compensate for the lost wages, career growth and social interaction that I would've gotten from going to work each day. Don't get me wrong, I missed those things desperately, but she made it all worth it.
A while ago I wrote a post about how hard it is to watch her face as we walk by a school playground. Her eyes light up not just because of the sight of the playground, but because of the other children. She craves the social interaction. She needs to be around her own kind. I have a hard time accepting that there are some things that I just can't give her. I think that's the theme of parenting. There will come a time...Actually, there will be hundreds of times when your kids will need something you can't give them.
It's so hard because in the beginning you were more than enough. You were an abundance of resources for them and that exchange of resources (be it wealth, patience, time, experience, knowledge, whatever) flowed freely and easily. Then one day that exchange is difficult because you honestly don't have the thing that they need in that moment and (gasp) you have to send them out into the world to go get it. The same world that you sheltered and protected them from in the infant days--The one with all the germs, pedophiles, kidnappers and just all around bad people--is the same one you now have to direct them to and that is a scary feeling.
So what's all of this about? I knew that the day would come when she'd go to school. I was banking on August or September of this year. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed and it's a combination of things that have now forced me to move that date up to "soon." She has to go to daycare and that decision pains me even though I know it's the right one. There are parents reading this right now who are probably thinking, "Been there done that." I acknowledge that I'm late to the party on this one, but just let me have my moment.
For the last two and a half years I've had a routine and enjoyed the company of just one person from 8AM to 6PM each day. I was planning a big "going away party" this spring and summer. We were gonna go on picnics and bike rides and just run ourselves ragged. I guess I wanted to cram as many "just the two of us" moments as I could. Instead, I have a week and it's the dead of winter. With everything else that's been going on, I was kinda looking forward to that. Where's the truth-in-advertising for this whole "grown up" thing? It was supposed to be just a bunch of money and freedom. I want a refund.
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Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Happy Valentine's Day!
When I was in elementary school, my self esteem hinged on Valentine's Day. I had already decided that marriage was in my future by the time I was eight, so I looked to V-day as a barometer of my attractiveness. (I really needed to get out and play more, lol) There was always a girl whose card meant more than others. The girl changed from year to year, but if I didn't get one from her then I saw it as my being destined to be alone forever.
Oddly enough, I can't remember what my batting average was on that. Perhaps it just goes to show how silly the notion was, but when you're a kid a lot of things are tied to your self image that shouldn't be. I do remember times when I didn't get hardly any, but I really cherished and appreciated the few that I got. I want to believe that I wouldn't have turned out any different had I gotten none, but I can't say that with complete certainty.
As I've written many times before, my little nerd high school afforded me the opportunity to be popular, which I have no doubt I wouldn't have had elsewhere. I was always aware of that fact and tried to do some good with it even if it was just speaking to the socially inept who sat by themselves at their lockers during lunch. It was one particular February when this girl who I didn't know very well made a offhand remark about how she never got a Valentine's Day card in her life. Her friend said that she hadn't gotten one before either.
On February 13th I took what little money that I had and I bought a few packs of blank cards from CVS because they were cheaper than printed ones. I waited for "the rose man" outside of the subway to get ready to close up shop before I approached him and made him a deal to give me a 18 roses for ten dollars. I went home and I wrote a personalized message in every card. The next day I put on a suit and tie and went to school where I handed them out to all the girls who I thought were beautiful, but maybe just didn't know it. The ones who I thought were more special than others, like the two who said they'd never gotten a card before, got a rose as well.
I don't remember whether or not I got a valentine that year or not. I think I did, but it didn't really matter at that point and I hope that for those girls, wherever they are now, it doesn't matter now either.
Oddly enough, I can't remember what my batting average was on that. Perhaps it just goes to show how silly the notion was, but when you're a kid a lot of things are tied to your self image that shouldn't be. I do remember times when I didn't get hardly any, but I really cherished and appreciated the few that I got. I want to believe that I wouldn't have turned out any different had I gotten none, but I can't say that with complete certainty.
As I've written many times before, my little nerd high school afforded me the opportunity to be popular, which I have no doubt I wouldn't have had elsewhere. I was always aware of that fact and tried to do some good with it even if it was just speaking to the socially inept who sat by themselves at their lockers during lunch. It was one particular February when this girl who I didn't know very well made a offhand remark about how she never got a Valentine's Day card in her life. Her friend said that she hadn't gotten one before either.
On February 13th I took what little money that I had and I bought a few packs of blank cards from CVS because they were cheaper than printed ones. I waited for "the rose man" outside of the subway to get ready to close up shop before I approached him and made him a deal to give me a 18 roses for ten dollars. I went home and I wrote a personalized message in every card. The next day I put on a suit and tie and went to school where I handed them out to all the girls who I thought were beautiful, but maybe just didn't know it. The ones who I thought were more special than others, like the two who said they'd never gotten a card before, got a rose as well.
I don't remember whether or not I got a valentine that year or not. I think I did, but it didn't really matter at that point and I hope that for those girls, wherever they are now, it doesn't matter now either.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
4:15 and Awake.
It is currently 4:15 in the morning. My daughter and I are sitting on the couch watching our third episode of Sesame Street on Netflix.This is me giving up. She woke up at 9 this morning, which I'll admit is late for a kid. Considering that she didn't fall asleep until 1:30 in the morning last night, it makes sense. My goal was to get her back on track today. No nap and run her ragged...that was the plan.
We walked around downtown, we went to the playground and I even let her run wild in the apartment more than usual. She started looking sleepy around 7, but I kept her up. I could've let her sleep around 8, but I've fallen for that before. If she sleeps at eight then it'll be a nap and she'll wake up around ten.
By 9:45 she basically put herself to sleep. Victory!!! and then DEFEAT. At exactly 2:11, I woke up to find her staring at me from the side of the bed. I tried everything in my power to get her back to sleep, but it was no use. After 25 minutes, I gave up. We started looking at Sesame Street...and here we are.
She'll probably fall back to sleep around 6 or 7. Hell, she may stay up all day. I don't know. I just keep thinking back to that night in the hospital after she was born. They offered to take her to the nursery and we said no. The lady said, "This might be the last time you get a good night's sleep for a long time." I wish she had been more specific and said just how long "a long time" really is.
We walked around downtown, we went to the playground and I even let her run wild in the apartment more than usual. She started looking sleepy around 7, but I kept her up. I could've let her sleep around 8, but I've fallen for that before. If she sleeps at eight then it'll be a nap and she'll wake up around ten.
By 9:45 she basically put herself to sleep. Victory!!! and then DEFEAT. At exactly 2:11, I woke up to find her staring at me from the side of the bed. I tried everything in my power to get her back to sleep, but it was no use. After 25 minutes, I gave up. We started looking at Sesame Street...and here we are.
She'll probably fall back to sleep around 6 or 7. Hell, she may stay up all day. I don't know. I just keep thinking back to that night in the hospital after she was born. They offered to take her to the nursery and we said no. The lady said, "This might be the last time you get a good night's sleep for a long time." I wish she had been more specific and said just how long "a long time" really is.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Pick Up The Pieces
Okay, I can wiggle my big toe now. The hard part is over. I truly think that writing about it would be very therapeutic, but some things should just remain private. It's hard to "watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop and build em up with worn out tools." Even harder is the process of starting again at your beginnings and never breathing a word about your loss. I want to believe that there's dignity in that. There's gotta be something empowering about having the ability (and the right) to call people out on their mess and choosing not to do so.
Whatever the situation is, I'm taking it one day at a time. If there's one thing that I've learned over the years, it's that situations like these prove just how strong you are. Life threw something at me that broke things that I thought were indestructible...things that I thought were far stronger than me, yet here I am standing amongst the rubble intact. I'm stronger than I thought, and I know what I'm worth. Now I just have to pick up the pieces. (Cue Hustleman from Martin with the kazoo taped to the saxophone...Pick up the pieces!)
Whatever the situation is, I'm taking it one day at a time. If there's one thing that I've learned over the years, it's that situations like these prove just how strong you are. Life threw something at me that broke things that I thought were indestructible...things that I thought were far stronger than me, yet here I am standing amongst the rubble intact. I'm stronger than I thought, and I know what I'm worth. Now I just have to pick up the pieces. (Cue Hustleman from Martin with the kazoo taped to the saxophone...Pick up the pieces!)