September 08, 2010
The Occasional Max
.
Wow, 10 months. One of the biggest reasons that this blog has been idle for that long is my disdain for the obligation of regularly keeping up with it. That and a little thing called Facebook, which has, despite its shortcomings and sundry aggravations, become my latest Internet obsession. I’ll spare any non-FBers (we’re pretty sure you must exist somewhere) the details of my fancy except to say that it sort of streamlines the Internet social experience and gives you a tad bit more control as to who enters your world (and speaking only for myself, I do NOT mean that in the prison sense). There is also the fact that most people actually use their real name.
So I don’t know yet if MTIH will get the full Lazarus, but what else to start with after nearly a year but a recap? Many of my regular readers (haha) Innertubes pals are familiar with at least some of this, but I need the therapy.
As best I can recall the transition from ‘09 to ‘10 was fairly uneventful, but as our son Max’s third birthday approached we decided to take steps toward determining something that we had growing suspicions about. In early February we received an initial diagnosis that he is “mildly to moderately” autistic. For months Max had displayed some classic tell-tale signs of autism spectrum disorder (ASD), so the news, while disappointing, was not totally unexpected.
I spoke with my sister not long after the doctor’s appointment, and later she sent an e-mail with these words which moved me to tears with their heartfelt honesty, “You are parents to a beautiful, fun, adorable little boy who brings a lot of joy to a lot of people. Max is ‘special’ not only because he has different needs but because he is an amazing little boy, and I truly believe that he will thrive and flourish, and show us all what he can do.”
Indeed, on the plus side Max has shown improvement in some of the areas we were initially concerned with. And the developmental pediatrician who diagnosed him noted some strengths that, with the relatively early intervention we’ve been provided, indicate the strong possibility that he will lead a relatively normal life.
Of course Jen and I dove right into protective/pro-active parent mode, and after some therapy assessments we determined he would do well to have weekly speech and occupational therapy sessions. It’s interesting to weigh in our minds the differences and similarities between Max and “neurotypical” kids (pardon the jargon – I’ll try to be sparse with it). For example, when he has a meltdown, is it because of the sensory overload that his autism sometimes subjects him to or is it because he’s three?
Max is a bright little boy and very sweet (except of course when he’s not). His vocabulary is solid and he often talks up a storm. The ASD is apparent in the conversations though – the vast majority of his speech is echolalia, or repeating what he has heard; he doesn’t ask questions very often and sometimes has trouble answering even direct “yes” or “no” questions (though he is gaining excellence in the art of “NO!”). He also has trouble making eye contact with whomever he is speaking to. He is not particularly socially awkward, but he is deficient in the area of respecting, much less knowing about, personal space. Sometimes it’s cute how gregarious he is, but he is big for his age (nearly 40 inches and 45 lbs.) and has been known to knock other kids over, sometimes quite forcefully. There is some consolation in that it’s from excitement and not aggression. There is also consolation in knowing that it takes extended observation or a professional eye to even notice that Max is any different from the other kids on the playground. He plays enthusiastically, climbing like a monkey or riding his balance bike (a two-wheeler without pedals and drive train – he really moves on it!). He is usually very friendly and affectionate – he likes to snuggle and be tickled and to rough house and giggle and run around the house naked.
The diagnosis has not diminished our hopes for him, it has just made us aware that we need to be especially vigilant for his sake. There are struggles with the realization that many aspects of human nature that we take for granted will be an uphill battle for him, such as humor and romance and detecting dishonesty. But his literal and logically oriented thinking may often be a plus for him.
Max continues weekly therapy and is now enrolled in preschool full time (8 a.m. to 2 p.m. and then afternoon daycare until around 4:00). The initial transition from being home with momma all summer was difficult at times, but he seems to be improving weekly.
The transition for Jen and me was interesting. She got laid off from the school system she has worked in for the past 12 years, ostensibly a “reduction in force” due to funding. While that might be generally believable by way of the governor and his fellow party legislators gutting Georgia’s education system of billions of dollars over the past eight years, it was dubious in the local sense because the county Jen works for pink-slipped over 100 teachers while surrounding counties let NONE of their staff go. Insult was added to injury but then topped by opportunity when the school system then advertised hiring for positions that included Jen’s former job. Oops! To make a long story short, there was back and forth between Jen and her union lawyer and the administration, Bob’s yer uncle, Jen still has a job with no loss of tenure.
In the fear-wracked interim of looking at losing our primary income and family health insurance, I was compelled to seek full-time employment. I was fortunate to not have to look far, as my former employer was seeking a staff writer/reporter. I don’t know who was happier – me for avoiding the dreadful beating of the pavement (which might have involved my head if it had gone on as long as my last bout of unemployment) or the publisher who didn’t have to interview a dozen unqualified wannabes.
The relatively sudden acquisition of my position and resolution of Jen’s debacle presented a new challenge – finding fulltime daycare for a yet-to-be fully potty trained special needs three-year-old. Suffice it to say that the local school system (we live one county from where Jen works) came through with essentially aeronautically navigable hues, and we found a better-than-tolerable facility to watch him for a couple of hours each afternoon.
Max had nice visits this summer with family. First his Auntie Joogie (soft ‘g’) made her annual trip down south, and then, looking at the fact that my new job would not afford vacation time for a year, we decided to return the favor and took a road trip up to Chicago. Not wanting to risk the emergence of Mr. McCrabbypants, we took overnight stops each way, and a good boy named Max took it all in with exuberance.
And now, as regular occurrence is questionable, I present The Occasional Max (I Know What You’ve Done Since Last Christmas edition):
.
Wow, 10 months. One of the biggest reasons that this blog has been idle for that long is my disdain for the obligation of regularly keeping up with it. That and a little thing called Facebook, which has, despite its shortcomings and sundry aggravations, become my latest Internet obsession. I’ll spare any non-FBers (we’re pretty sure you must exist somewhere) the details of my fancy except to say that it sort of streamlines the Internet social experience and gives you a tad bit more control as to who enters your world (and speaking only for myself, I do NOT mean that in the prison sense). There is also the fact that most people actually use their real name.
So I don’t know yet if MTIH will get the full Lazarus, but what else to start with after nearly a year but a recap? Many of my regular readers (haha) Innertubes pals are familiar with at least some of this, but I need the therapy.
As best I can recall the transition from ‘09 to ‘10 was fairly uneventful, but as our son Max’s third birthday approached we decided to take steps toward determining something that we had growing suspicions about. In early February we received an initial diagnosis that he is “mildly to moderately” autistic. For months Max had displayed some classic tell-tale signs of autism spectrum disorder (ASD), so the news, while disappointing, was not totally unexpected.
I spoke with my sister not long after the doctor’s appointment, and later she sent an e-mail with these words which moved me to tears with their heartfelt honesty, “You are parents to a beautiful, fun, adorable little boy who brings a lot of joy to a lot of people. Max is ‘special’ not only because he has different needs but because he is an amazing little boy, and I truly believe that he will thrive and flourish, and show us all what he can do.”
Indeed, on the plus side Max has shown improvement in some of the areas we were initially concerned with. And the developmental pediatrician who diagnosed him noted some strengths that, with the relatively early intervention we’ve been provided, indicate the strong possibility that he will lead a relatively normal life.
Of course Jen and I dove right into protective/pro-active parent mode, and after some therapy assessments we determined he would do well to have weekly speech and occupational therapy sessions. It’s interesting to weigh in our minds the differences and similarities between Max and “neurotypical” kids (pardon the jargon – I’ll try to be sparse with it). For example, when he has a meltdown, is it because of the sensory overload that his autism sometimes subjects him to or is it because he’s three?
Max is a bright little boy and very sweet (except of course when he’s not). His vocabulary is solid and he often talks up a storm. The ASD is apparent in the conversations though – the vast majority of his speech is echolalia, or repeating what he has heard; he doesn’t ask questions very often and sometimes has trouble answering even direct “yes” or “no” questions (though he is gaining excellence in the art of “NO!”). He also has trouble making eye contact with whomever he is speaking to. He is not particularly socially awkward, but he is deficient in the area of respecting, much less knowing about, personal space. Sometimes it’s cute how gregarious he is, but he is big for his age (nearly 40 inches and 45 lbs.) and has been known to knock other kids over, sometimes quite forcefully. There is some consolation in that it’s from excitement and not aggression. There is also consolation in knowing that it takes extended observation or a professional eye to even notice that Max is any different from the other kids on the playground. He plays enthusiastically, climbing like a monkey or riding his balance bike (a two-wheeler without pedals and drive train – he really moves on it!). He is usually very friendly and affectionate – he likes to snuggle and be tickled and to rough house and giggle and run around the house naked.
The diagnosis has not diminished our hopes for him, it has just made us aware that we need to be especially vigilant for his sake. There are struggles with the realization that many aspects of human nature that we take for granted will be an uphill battle for him, such as humor and romance and detecting dishonesty. But his literal and logically oriented thinking may often be a plus for him.
Max continues weekly therapy and is now enrolled in preschool full time (8 a.m. to 2 p.m. and then afternoon daycare until around 4:00). The initial transition from being home with momma all summer was difficult at times, but he seems to be improving weekly.
The transition for Jen and me was interesting. She got laid off from the school system she has worked in for the past 12 years, ostensibly a “reduction in force” due to funding. While that might be generally believable by way of the governor and his fellow party legislators gutting Georgia’s education system of billions of dollars over the past eight years, it was dubious in the local sense because the county Jen works for pink-slipped over 100 teachers while surrounding counties let NONE of their staff go. Insult was added to injury but then topped by opportunity when the school system then advertised hiring for positions that included Jen’s former job. Oops! To make a long story short, there was back and forth between Jen and her union lawyer and the administration, Bob’s yer uncle, Jen still has a job with no loss of tenure.
In the fear-wracked interim of looking at losing our primary income and family health insurance, I was compelled to seek full-time employment. I was fortunate to not have to look far, as my former employer was seeking a staff writer/reporter. I don’t know who was happier – me for avoiding the dreadful beating of the pavement (which might have involved my head if it had gone on as long as my last bout of unemployment) or the publisher who didn’t have to interview a dozen unqualified wannabes.
The relatively sudden acquisition of my position and resolution of Jen’s debacle presented a new challenge – finding fulltime daycare for a yet-to-be fully potty trained special needs three-year-old. Suffice it to say that the local school system (we live one county from where Jen works) came through with essentially aeronautically navigable hues, and we found a better-than-tolerable facility to watch him for a couple of hours each afternoon.
Max had nice visits this summer with family. First his Auntie Joogie (soft ‘g’) made her annual trip down south, and then, looking at the fact that my new job would not afford vacation time for a year, we decided to return the favor and took a road trip up to Chicago. Not wanting to risk the emergence of Mr. McCrabbypants, we took overnight stops each way, and a good boy named Max took it all in with exuberance.
And now, as regular occurrence is questionable, I present The Occasional Max (I Know What You’ve Done Since Last Christmas edition):
Deck it out.
We enjoyed several good snowfalls this past season.
"Nice" I'd say.
This was the bungee-tramp thing at the Swedish Festival in Geneva, IL
Max has a frequent flyer card for the one at the mall near home.
I wanna live with the cinnamon dogs...
Lots of pride (and a bit of caution) that Max has entered
the "I can do it !" stage of toddlerdom
Awesome little helper that boy is. Stylin' too.
"I can do it!" Part Two
.
Labels: autism, family, life, Max, parenthood, photography
February 02, 2009
Don't let the dipshits bring you down
I am inspired by this recent post (and excellent comment thread) from the prolifically and charmingly anecdotal David Rochester. For you non link followers, The Synopsis: DR laments a recent experience at a movie theater, with much focus on some clueless patrons in his proximity and his hesitance to intervene on behalf of his sanity.
Over the years my qualms about public social policing have decreased. I used to be much more reserved when privy to public acts of exceptional ignorance, but I've noticed that since becoming a father I have taken on a much more "you kids get off my lawn" attitude toward dipshittery, especially if it could impact my child. Not long ago I gave an amplified "WTF?!" to a moron lighting up a cigarette as he stood gassing up his car. I had to continue with verbal instruction about what to do with the butt when he gave me look of non-absorption of the very potential hazard.
But I have witnessed with disappointment my wife's decline in rapier caustic chastisement of ignorant/disrespectful fools. She also used to be quite the thorn in the side of unsuspecting managers of restaurants with poor service. She reported that the other day while at the playground with our son, she held her tongue after a young father nearby blew a horrifyingly viscous snot rocket from his nose to the ground.
I told her that depending on said lubricious missile's proximity to my son, or had the offensive projectile landed on equipment surface, I would have been compelled to at most help the fellow recover it with a surface of his clothing opposite to the one I was holding (or possibly his tongue, which he could then hold) or at least said, "Christ on a pogo stick, have a clue, you disgrace to bumpkins everywhere."
And that's the truth. Pthhhhht!
Over the years my qualms about public social policing have decreased. I used to be much more reserved when privy to public acts of exceptional ignorance, but I've noticed that since becoming a father I have taken on a much more "you kids get off my lawn" attitude toward dipshittery, especially if it could impact my child. Not long ago I gave an amplified "WTF?!" to a moron lighting up a cigarette as he stood gassing up his car. I had to continue with verbal instruction about what to do with the butt when he gave me look of non-absorption of the very potential hazard.
But I have witnessed with disappointment my wife's decline in rapier caustic chastisement of ignorant/disrespectful fools. She also used to be quite the thorn in the side of unsuspecting managers of restaurants with poor service. She reported that the other day while at the playground with our son, she held her tongue after a young father nearby blew a horrifyingly viscous snot rocket from his nose to the ground.
I told her that depending on said lubricious missile's proximity to my son, or had the offensive projectile landed on equipment surface, I would have been compelled to at most help the fellow recover it with a surface of his clothing opposite to the one I was holding (or possibly his tongue, which he could then hold) or at least said, "Christ on a pogo stick, have a clue, you disgrace to bumpkins everywhere."
And that's the truth. Pthhhhht!
Labels: anecdotes, Assholery squared, curmudgeon, parenthood
May 25, 2008
The Monthly Max (very belated Mother's Day issue)
.
The amazing Monkey Boy!
Your tough guy look won't wash, son.
Yes, I'll put them back!
Pool season at last!
.
The amazing Monkey Boy!
Your tough guy look won't wash, son.
Yes, I'll put them back!
Pool season at last!.
Labels: Max, parenthood, photography
February 06, 2008
Oh, BS!
.
A recent Parenting magazine poll revealed 69 percent of respondents confessing to telling their children more than one little white lie a day.
The definition of "little white lie" is certainly open to interpretation, but this factoid has me a bit puzzled from both sides. First of all I'm taken aback by the sheer volume. Perhaps parents of older children can enlighten me as to why you'd have to be dishonest with your kid more than once a day. Am I naive to think I can avoid this as my son becomes more inquisitive with age? I'm of a mind that most white lies revolve around something akin to simplifying a complicated answer, but to me it seems that if your going to go that distance why not just give the kid the truth. If it happens to go over their head, well at least your integrity is intact. It seems that to take the easy way out fosters intellectual laziness, in both you and your child. Anyway, I'm not thinking I will never tell Max a white lie for convenience or to spare his feelings, etc. But exceeding one a day still strikes me as somewhat pathological. And while I realize kids can be an emotional and psychological handful at times, I certainly want to avoid making a habit of swaying him to my bidding through dishonesty.
One parent responding to the poll disagreed with propagating myths like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, citing her own childhood devastation as cause for her disdain. I'm kinda "gimme a break" on that one, for my own memory serves up that it was no big deal for me to learn that it was my parents. I feel that any parent who can semi-skillfully instill their child with basic logic should likely see similar results. It is with older children that I can see the benefits of honesty-as-best-policy reaping the most rewards. If you don't want your teen to drink, smoke or fuck, don't offer vague moralizations. I intend to tell Max why I don't think it's good, not why Jesus doesn't or that Satan takes delight in swaying him toward error (fortunately, there are also parental rules to provide enforcement capacity).
Another polled parent related that her daughter's friend told her she didn't like the food she prepared for the kids. "My daughter was taught to act grateful even if she doesn't like what's served to her," was this mother's take. I'm not sure where being tactful enough to eschew speaking your mind and be grateful would be a white lie (she did say "act" grateful though, didn't she?), but yeah, the lippy brat probably wouldn't get invited over to our house much.
I'm interested to hear from the commentariat on this, especially youse moms and dads out there.
.
A recent Parenting magazine poll revealed 69 percent of respondents confessing to telling their children more than one little white lie a day.
The definition of "little white lie" is certainly open to interpretation, but this factoid has me a bit puzzled from both sides. First of all I'm taken aback by the sheer volume. Perhaps parents of older children can enlighten me as to why you'd have to be dishonest with your kid more than once a day. Am I naive to think I can avoid this as my son becomes more inquisitive with age? I'm of a mind that most white lies revolve around something akin to simplifying a complicated answer, but to me it seems that if your going to go that distance why not just give the kid the truth. If it happens to go over their head, well at least your integrity is intact. It seems that to take the easy way out fosters intellectual laziness, in both you and your child. Anyway, I'm not thinking I will never tell Max a white lie for convenience or to spare his feelings, etc. But exceeding one a day still strikes me as somewhat pathological. And while I realize kids can be an emotional and psychological handful at times, I certainly want to avoid making a habit of swaying him to my bidding through dishonesty.
One parent responding to the poll disagreed with propagating myths like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, citing her own childhood devastation as cause for her disdain. I'm kinda "gimme a break" on that one, for my own memory serves up that it was no big deal for me to learn that it was my parents. I feel that any parent who can semi-skillfully instill their child with basic logic should likely see similar results. It is with older children that I can see the benefits of honesty-as-best-policy reaping the most rewards. If you don't want your teen to drink, smoke or fuck, don't offer vague moralizations. I intend to tell Max why I don't think it's good, not why Jesus doesn't or that Satan takes delight in swaying him toward error (fortunately, there are also parental rules to provide enforcement capacity).
Another polled parent related that her daughter's friend told her she didn't like the food she prepared for the kids. "My daughter was taught to act grateful even if she doesn't like what's served to her," was this mother's take. I'm not sure where being tactful enough to eschew speaking your mind and be grateful would be a white lie (she did say "act" grateful though, didn't she?), but yeah, the lippy brat probably wouldn't get invited over to our house much.
I'm interested to hear from the commentariat on this, especially youse moms and dads out there.
.
Labels: family, parenthood
August 17, 2007
Mr. Mom, vol. 1
.
Fear not dear readers, this will be an infrequent series.
As my first week of daddy day care comes to a close, I ruminate upon the experience with eyes and ears wide open. Wouldn’t you know it, Max just started cutting his first two little teeth, and to say it’s changing his sleeping/eating pattern, not to mention his disposition in general, would be an understatement. He’s still the lovable, adorable little sunshine boy, but man if the clouds don’t sometimes move in like thunderheads over a western mountain ridge. And from what I’ve heard and read, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
Still, we have a huge time every day. We’re working on solid foods and practicing with the sippy cup, and I have just about mastered both. Meanwhile Max has got holding and putting the cup to his mouth down pretty well but has yet to learn the concept of tilting the head back to facilitate drinkage. He is very curious about what the gr’ups are eating and drinking.
I expect he will be crawling before long, and when that time comes it’s literally “Katy bar the door!” We have many of the child-proofing accoutrements like cabinet stoppers and outlet covers left over from the folks who previously owned the house. We definitely need one of the super boffo top-of-the-stairs gates as it would be a treacherous tumble from the hall to the front door. What else? I’m curious how his ambulation will affect the dogs, who have been pretty stand-offish toward the little guy. Of course the 16-year old male is nearly blind and deaf, so he may just think we’ve got another pal for him to lick and sniff. And depending on baby's bath schedule and/or diaper contents, what a gustatory and olfactory delight that could be! But I’m not so sure about the usually needy baby girl, whose horrible love mileage often causes her to be incapable of getting close enough to you. We surmise that she thinks she is a cat. She has sneaked a precious lick or two of the boy's toes and has even tolerated a few posed pettings, so maybe she’s mellowing in her older age, though it could be a ruse for special treats since she is on a diet (sneaky little bitch).
Have I bored you to beers yet? There is a reason for my droning post – I’ve got a deadline! More on that later...
Fear not dear readers, this will be an infrequent series.
As my first week of daddy day care comes to a close, I ruminate upon the experience with eyes and ears wide open. Wouldn’t you know it, Max just started cutting his first two little teeth, and to say it’s changing his sleeping/eating pattern, not to mention his disposition in general, would be an understatement. He’s still the lovable, adorable little sunshine boy, but man if the clouds don’t sometimes move in like thunderheads over a western mountain ridge. And from what I’ve heard and read, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
Still, we have a huge time every day. We’re working on solid foods and practicing with the sippy cup, and I have just about mastered both. Meanwhile Max has got holding and putting the cup to his mouth down pretty well but has yet to learn the concept of tilting the head back to facilitate drinkage. He is very curious about what the gr’ups are eating and drinking.
I expect he will be crawling before long, and when that time comes it’s literally “Katy bar the door!” We have many of the child-proofing accoutrements like cabinet stoppers and outlet covers left over from the folks who previously owned the house. We definitely need one of the super boffo top-of-the-stairs gates as it would be a treacherous tumble from the hall to the front door. What else? I’m curious how his ambulation will affect the dogs, who have been pretty stand-offish toward the little guy. Of course the 16-year old male is nearly blind and deaf, so he may just think we’ve got another pal for him to lick and sniff. And depending on baby's bath schedule and/or diaper contents, what a gustatory and olfactory delight that could be! But I’m not so sure about the usually needy baby girl, whose horrible love mileage often causes her to be incapable of getting close enough to you. We surmise that she thinks she is a cat. She has sneaked a precious lick or two of the boy's toes and has even tolerated a few posed pettings, so maybe she’s mellowing in her older age, though it could be a ruse for special treats since she is on a diet (sneaky little bitch).
Have I bored you to beers yet? There is a reason for my droning post – I’ve got a deadline! More on that later...
Labels: doggies, Max, me, parenthood
August 02, 2007
The Monthly Max
.
There was a lot of shutter activity in the past 30 days. Max was really workin' it, baby! Let's start with some of the fashion shots:
Showing some Hungarian pride in solidarity with his cousins Payton & CJ. Obey the Vizslas!
That, my friends, is how you nail a back landing. Thanks for the shirt Uncle Joe!
And now the artsy stuff:
See you in September!
.
There was a lot of shutter activity in the past 30 days. Max was really workin' it, baby! Let's start with some of the fashion shots:
Showing some Hungarian pride in solidarity with his cousins Payton & CJ. Obey the Vizslas!
That, my friends, is how you nail a back landing. Thanks for the shirt Uncle Joe!
And now the artsy stuff:
See you in September!
.
Labels: Max, parenthood, photography
July 14, 2007
I turned in my notice
.
My last day will be the 10th of next month. Jen and I went over the budget, and although we’ll need to engage in some serious sacrifice, the decision for me to become Mr. Mom is in force. The drive behind this change is the fact that having waited until I was past 40 to become a father makes it eminently desirable to stay home and raise my son, rather than assign a large portion of my paycheck to someone else for doing that. Oh, speaking of paychecks, if it wasn’t already obvious, Jen’s is much larger than mine. She is regretting having to return to work next month, having spent all but about a week since February on maternity/summer break at home caring for the boy. She is jealous of me, and I can’t blame her. I hope she will temper that with her knowledge of how hard the stay-at-home parent job is.
As for work, I will miss two of three things - my duties and my co-workers. I will not miss the company. Their spectre of non-chalance toward our little cog in the machine has in fact brought me to the brink of burnout. Two and a half years is at least a year too long to be in the position I hold. I would likely and gladly have made it a career if it provided career-worthy compensation, but they prefer the turnover of an endless string of baby-step college grads. Miz UV once made a funny list of books she wished had been written, and I laughed hard at the one she dubbed “Don’t Forget To Plan For A Career, Dumbass!” I am thankful for getting hired by the best boss I’ve ever had, because this position affirmed that I am capable of doing something that I love as opposed to being resigned to toiling away my days in a visionless occupation (big bucks or no).
I’m not sure what will become of the relationships with some of my co-workers. This is the smallest workforce I’ve ever been a part of – less than a dozen people, and other than a very good friend I met three jobs ago, I’ve never been one to go beyond some occasional post-workday libation with the people I work with. But here about half of us took to hanging out successfully, though I’m not sure if the bonds have become permanent or even if they’re supposed to (if that makes any sense). I’m mindful that the success was pre-baby, with most of it in the admittedly shallow form of fun, so I suppose time will tell if there is to be continuance in the midst of infant parenthood, i.e. much less time for fun. Another aspect is that I was the newcomer among them, and interestingly enough the strongest bond for me has been with another guy who came after me, leaving me to wonder on occasion if there is some hierarchy yet unrealized. There has also been some upheaval and drama with the recent sudden breakup of one fellow and his wife. Their abode was kind of the social nerve center of our group, and it was gone in a virtual flash, leaving all of us in a bit of a flounder with the awkward social implications that are part of most every divorce. The re-group has been interesting, especially since I am the second among what is certain to be three persons leaving their position. Anyway, life will go on, and like so many other capsules of time in one’s life there will at the very least be some good memories. So thanks, folks (if any of them still read my highbrow blog).
.
My last day will be the 10th of next month. Jen and I went over the budget, and although we’ll need to engage in some serious sacrifice, the decision for me to become Mr. Mom is in force. The drive behind this change is the fact that having waited until I was past 40 to become a father makes it eminently desirable to stay home and raise my son, rather than assign a large portion of my paycheck to someone else for doing that. Oh, speaking of paychecks, if it wasn’t already obvious, Jen’s is much larger than mine. She is regretting having to return to work next month, having spent all but about a week since February on maternity/summer break at home caring for the boy. She is jealous of me, and I can’t blame her. I hope she will temper that with her knowledge of how hard the stay-at-home parent job is.
As for work, I will miss two of three things - my duties and my co-workers. I will not miss the company. Their spectre of non-chalance toward our little cog in the machine has in fact brought me to the brink of burnout. Two and a half years is at least a year too long to be in the position I hold. I would likely and gladly have made it a career if it provided career-worthy compensation, but they prefer the turnover of an endless string of baby-step college grads. Miz UV once made a funny list of books she wished had been written, and I laughed hard at the one she dubbed “Don’t Forget To Plan For A Career, Dumbass!” I am thankful for getting hired by the best boss I’ve ever had, because this position affirmed that I am capable of doing something that I love as opposed to being resigned to toiling away my days in a visionless occupation (big bucks or no).
I’m not sure what will become of the relationships with some of my co-workers. This is the smallest workforce I’ve ever been a part of – less than a dozen people, and other than a very good friend I met three jobs ago, I’ve never been one to go beyond some occasional post-workday libation with the people I work with. But here about half of us took to hanging out successfully, though I’m not sure if the bonds have become permanent or even if they’re supposed to (if that makes any sense). I’m mindful that the success was pre-baby, with most of it in the admittedly shallow form of fun, so I suppose time will tell if there is to be continuance in the midst of infant parenthood, i.e. much less time for fun. Another aspect is that I was the newcomer among them, and interestingly enough the strongest bond for me has been with another guy who came after me, leaving me to wonder on occasion if there is some hierarchy yet unrealized. There has also been some upheaval and drama with the recent sudden breakup of one fellow and his wife. Their abode was kind of the social nerve center of our group, and it was gone in a virtual flash, leaving all of us in a bit of a flounder with the awkward social implications that are part of most every divorce. The re-group has been interesting, especially since I am the second among what is certain to be three persons leaving their position. Anyway, life will go on, and like so many other capsules of time in one’s life there will at the very least be some good memories. So thanks, folks (if any of them still read my highbrow blog).
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Labels: friends, parenthood, work
June 17, 2007
Happy Father's Day!
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Today was a good day. My sister is down for a visit, and I began a week's vacation. We went to the Sunday market downtown, which is always reliably filled with fresh produce, crafts (more earrings than you can shake a stick at), music and people in that Sunday la-dee-da mode. We bought some yummy artisan bread - one loaf of asiago cheese and another of tomato basil. We made roast beef sandwiches with the latter when we got home. We bought the boy a couple of cute tie-dye onesies, and the lady who made them is hoping we will come back next week so he can model one for her. We called on some friends for grilling supper and a splash in the pool - so satisfying in this rainless summer heat!
Here is a photo of my Father's Day gift from Jen. It is chock-full of fabulous tales of history and MacGuyver-style information to "Recapture Sunday afternoons and long summer days."
I'm ready to get started.
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Today was a good day. My sister is down for a visit, and I began a week's vacation. We went to the Sunday market downtown, which is always reliably filled with fresh produce, crafts (more earrings than you can shake a stick at), music and people in that Sunday la-dee-da mode. We bought some yummy artisan bread - one loaf of asiago cheese and another of tomato basil. We made roast beef sandwiches with the latter when we got home. We bought the boy a couple of cute tie-dye onesies, and the lady who made them is hoping we will come back next week so he can model one for her. We called on some friends for grilling supper and a splash in the pool - so satisfying in this rainless summer heat!
Here is a photo of my Father's Day gift from Jen. It is chock-full of fabulous tales of history and MacGuyver-style information to "Recapture Sunday afternoons and long summer days."
I'm ready to get started.
"If anyone knows anything about anything, it's a father," said Pooh. "What a lot of things to know."
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Labels: Max, parenthood
May 03, 2007
Parental horror
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I can't think of another situation that messes with my emotions more than accidental parental neglect. Beyond the absolute horror of the ordeal I think the first reaction of most people to stories like this is utter contempt for the carelessness of a parent that makes such a fatal mistake. It boggles the mind to imagine how an infant could be left alone somewhere, much less that it was inside an automobile on a warm spring day and that it was for seven hours and that the father ignored the fancy motion alarm with which his car is equipped. It also boggles the mind that 29 American children died last year under similar circumstances. Consideration that incidents like these have been on the rise since the advent of front passenger airbags (necessitating rear seat child safety carriers) does little to clarify the senselessness.
The flipside is sympathy for the family. I can't comprehend what they are dealing with right now in the swirling mass of guilt, sorrow and public outrage, not to mention the criminal charges that will likely break this already broken family. Coping with the death of one's child would seem to be the ultimate despair, but imagine topping that with the fact that it was your fault and that it was very, very avoidable.
I can't think of another situation that messes with my emotions more than accidental parental neglect. Beyond the absolute horror of the ordeal I think the first reaction of most people to stories like this is utter contempt for the carelessness of a parent that makes such a fatal mistake. It boggles the mind to imagine how an infant could be left alone somewhere, much less that it was inside an automobile on a warm spring day and that it was for seven hours and that the father ignored the fancy motion alarm with which his car is equipped. It also boggles the mind that 29 American children died last year under similar circumstances. Consideration that incidents like these have been on the rise since the advent of front passenger airbags (necessitating rear seat child safety carriers) does little to clarify the senselessness.
The flipside is sympathy for the family. I can't comprehend what they are dealing with right now in the swirling mass of guilt, sorrow and public outrage, not to mention the criminal charges that will likely break this already broken family. Coping with the death of one's child would seem to be the ultimate despair, but imagine topping that with the fact that it was your fault and that it was very, very avoidable.
Labels: parenthood, tragedy
December 31, 2006
Of pending parenthood, vol. 1
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Many of you know that my wife and I are expecting our first child, a son, in March. Of course we are very excited and of course like all newly expectant parents we have a great deal of trepidation about the whole affair - after all we waited through 13 years of marriage before hopping off the fence.
A few years before our child-rearing future became apparent - about the time we bought our first house, I began noticing myself becoming the curmudgeonly man who complains about “kids these days.” Various incidents cropped up that put me in the unenviable position of being the keep-the-hell-off-my-grass kinda old fart, the guy who gives the Archie Bunker wave and exclaims that yute is wasted on the wrong people. Every time I caught myself doing this it gave me pause, thinking, “Man, that guy’s a dick!” Honestly, there are some other aspects of my personality that could have and do still lend to that assessment at times, but with regards to the kids I’m still thinking that I’m not that old, for crying out loud. Of course phrases like “for crying out loud” don’t help that perception – some in my circle use that mostly as a parody of our parents, but at times it seems closer to self-parody.
I am noticing myself standing at a distance from youths of today, and I take that mostly as a reassuring sign of progressive adulthood. But when my thoughts cross over into ones like “just look at who is going to be running our country in 20 years” well then I feel like I’ve been suckered into some evil status quo of adult muckedy-muck that I would’ve chortled at mightily in my youth. I was a smart kid who enjoyed engaging with adults if they would suffer their ear to listen, and now I want to be that adult. What I realize now is that it will take some effort, as (and I know this sounds grousy) finding the smart kids seems to be getting harder. I realize I am about to have my hands as full as I can handle, which I say so that when my wife reads this she doesn’t freak out and think I’m going to run off being a full-time mentor. But I'm ready to be father and a father-figure.
The other side of the coin is that I wonder and stress over what kind of parents we are going to be. I’m fairly lazy by nature (which surely has me headed for a rude awakening, in fact several), but so many other parents infuriate me with how lackadaisically they seem to be raising their kids. In the immediate sphere we have our neighbors on either side.
The first is a couple with a boy toddler. The dad is a self-employed redneck dude in his early twenties who is hardly ever home. He has a history of drug abuse (according to his wife), works 16-18 hour days, and his friends are teenagers who hang out at his house at all hours. They love to make noise at their pool and squeal the tires, for which I try and cut them some slack, although I admit to calling the sheriff once when they decided to light fireworks off at 2:30 a.m. His wife has next to no idea how to discipline their little boy, and the kid seems destined to become a redneck hellion. One day Jennifer was out in our yard and the boy called to her from his second story bedroom window, leaning precariously against the screen and repeating, “Ha’yew sahne mah mawmmy?” He has mastered the art of doing exactly the opposite of what his mawmmy tells him, like "come over here," "stay away from that," and "do NOT throw that rock." Yep, it’s a mess. My nightmare scenario is that this kid will be like the unstable tormentor from “Toy Story” right about the time my son is hyper-impressionable with regards to the joys of destruction and disobedience. I should have a little more faith, eh?
On the other side is a single mom with a fifteen-year-old daughter. Now the mom is really nice but is a bit of a hoochie, with a revolving door of boyfriends and frequent weekends leaving daughter on her own. The poor kid could use a good, stable father figure but first on the list would be a more attentive mother. Mom recently bought the girl a car. Mostly she sits in it with her friends and thumps the subwoofers enough to vibrate their inner ears and cop a free buzz. And although she only has a very restrictive learner’s permit, Jen and I have both witnessed her taking it out on occasion past the state’s teen driver curfew (set for kids who actually have a license) and likely without any qualified accompaniment. I’m a bit of a night owl, and the other night before I hit the sack at about 1:45 a.m. I poked out the back door to unplug our Christmas lights. Over on the back porch next door was a group of about eight or nine kids, not making much noise but standing out there smoking. I know it’s school vacation, but I realize now that for those kids to be out there at that hour, our neighbor must be “the cool mom.” For her part the mom has said she’d rather have them there than out making trouble, which has wisdom as long as she keeps her eye out against that trouble showing up at her house. The point is that while I scammed my folk’s car when I was underage and I stayed at the house of my friend with the permissive parents as much as I could, I think me and my friends turned out just fine. We were perhaps reckless but we weren’t rank stupid (a bit lucky I’d have to admit). So I hope the girl turns out OK – she’s a good kid though I am suspicious of some of her friends. They better stay the hell off my lawn.
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Many of you know that my wife and I are expecting our first child, a son, in March. Of course we are very excited and of course like all newly expectant parents we have a great deal of trepidation about the whole affair - after all we waited through 13 years of marriage before hopping off the fence.
A few years before our child-rearing future became apparent - about the time we bought our first house, I began noticing myself becoming the curmudgeonly man who complains about “kids these days.” Various incidents cropped up that put me in the unenviable position of being the keep-the-hell-off-my-grass kinda old fart, the guy who gives the Archie Bunker wave and exclaims that yute is wasted on the wrong people. Every time I caught myself doing this it gave me pause, thinking, “Man, that guy’s a dick!” Honestly, there are some other aspects of my personality that could have and do still lend to that assessment at times, but with regards to the kids I’m still thinking that I’m not that old, for crying out loud. Of course phrases like “for crying out loud” don’t help that perception – some in my circle use that mostly as a parody of our parents, but at times it seems closer to self-parody.
I am noticing myself standing at a distance from youths of today, and I take that mostly as a reassuring sign of progressive adulthood. But when my thoughts cross over into ones like “just look at who is going to be running our country in 20 years” well then I feel like I’ve been suckered into some evil status quo of adult muckedy-muck that I would’ve chortled at mightily in my youth. I was a smart kid who enjoyed engaging with adults if they would suffer their ear to listen, and now I want to be that adult. What I realize now is that it will take some effort, as (and I know this sounds grousy) finding the smart kids seems to be getting harder. I realize I am about to have my hands as full as I can handle, which I say so that when my wife reads this she doesn’t freak out and think I’m going to run off being a full-time mentor. But I'm ready to be father and a father-figure.
The other side of the coin is that I wonder and stress over what kind of parents we are going to be. I’m fairly lazy by nature (which surely has me headed for a rude awakening, in fact several), but so many other parents infuriate me with how lackadaisically they seem to be raising their kids. In the immediate sphere we have our neighbors on either side.
The first is a couple with a boy toddler. The dad is a self-employed redneck dude in his early twenties who is hardly ever home. He has a history of drug abuse (according to his wife), works 16-18 hour days, and his friends are teenagers who hang out at his house at all hours. They love to make noise at their pool and squeal the tires, for which I try and cut them some slack, although I admit to calling the sheriff once when they decided to light fireworks off at 2:30 a.m. His wife has next to no idea how to discipline their little boy, and the kid seems destined to become a redneck hellion. One day Jennifer was out in our yard and the boy called to her from his second story bedroom window, leaning precariously against the screen and repeating, “Ha’yew sahne mah mawmmy?” He has mastered the art of doing exactly the opposite of what his mawmmy tells him, like "come over here," "stay away from that," and "do NOT throw that rock." Yep, it’s a mess. My nightmare scenario is that this kid will be like the unstable tormentor from “Toy Story” right about the time my son is hyper-impressionable with regards to the joys of destruction and disobedience. I should have a little more faith, eh?
On the other side is a single mom with a fifteen-year-old daughter. Now the mom is really nice but is a bit of a hoochie, with a revolving door of boyfriends and frequent weekends leaving daughter on her own. The poor kid could use a good, stable father figure but first on the list would be a more attentive mother. Mom recently bought the girl a car. Mostly she sits in it with her friends and thumps the subwoofers enough to vibrate their inner ears and cop a free buzz. And although she only has a very restrictive learner’s permit, Jen and I have both witnessed her taking it out on occasion past the state’s teen driver curfew (set for kids who actually have a license) and likely without any qualified accompaniment. I’m a bit of a night owl, and the other night before I hit the sack at about 1:45 a.m. I poked out the back door to unplug our Christmas lights. Over on the back porch next door was a group of about eight or nine kids, not making much noise but standing out there smoking. I know it’s school vacation, but I realize now that for those kids to be out there at that hour, our neighbor must be “the cool mom.” For her part the mom has said she’d rather have them there than out making trouble, which has wisdom as long as she keeps her eye out against that trouble showing up at her house. The point is that while I scammed my folk’s car when I was underage and I stayed at the house of my friend with the permissive parents as much as I could, I think me and my friends turned out just fine. We were perhaps reckless but we weren’t rank stupid (a bit lucky I’d have to admit). So I hope the girl turns out OK – she’s a good kid though I am suspicious of some of her friends. They better stay the hell off my lawn.
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Labels: curmudgeon, neighbors, parenthood
