Wahoo!

This afternoon, Connor and I were sitting down at the kitchen table enjoying a nice lunch of veggie burgers and carrots (redundant, I know), and I couldn't help but notice that Connor was staring at me and giggling. After a few moments I realized that he wasn't looking me in the eye. His gaze was just a bit lower, but I couldn't tell what he was looking at. The treadmill behind me certainly didn't look all that amusing, and neither did the worn denim couch. Perhaps sensing that I was a big confused, Connor gave me a little more help and reached out to touch my shirt. On it, this paint-spattered, thrift store T-shirt, was the Cleveland Indians mascot, Chief Wahoo, that oh-so-culturally-sensitive caricature of those from whom we stole this fine country (while we "defiled" their women for good measure, thank you very much).
For whatever reason, he was really amused by this image and it kept him in a really good mood. Hey, whatever keeps him from tossing his food off of his tray willy-nilly is fine by me. Perhaps I'll wear it again tomorrow and see if it works again. But, I did run in it tonight so I'd either have to wash it or...yeah, that's not happening. Guess we'll figure something else out.

After lunch, we went down to the lake to go swimming again. My gas tank was nearly empty so we went to the access point at the end of our street since I didn't feel like paying out the nose for gas. Actually, since all the news of the hurricane that I'd seen involved the human side of things, I hadn't yet learned the current price of gas. The city worker emptying the trash cans in the parking lot asked me if I'd filled up today. When I said "no," he informed me that "gayse iz three dollas a gallon."

Although I'd been trying not to think too much about what's going on down on the Gulf Coast, talking to this guy about the price of "gayse" suddenly made me remember that there were so, so many people down there suffering through conditions that I can't even imagine. (We did hear from our friends, by the way, and they got out of the city late last night, though their house has probably been gutted by looters by now.) I couldn't help but think how inappropriate it was that Connor and I were seeking out water to play in, while these people were hoping desperately that the water would go away and that everything would just go back to normal.

So now, as I sit in my air-conditioned house, with way too many lights on and a full stomach, I can't help but feel incredibly greedy and incredibly ashamed to have so much while so many people have so little.

Sleeping Beauty

Everybody knows how frustrating it is to wait all day on the phone/cable/gas/delivery/etc guy? Sure, you have a tentative window of anytime between noon to a week from Sunday for them to show up, but do they care? Nooooooooo. It's frustrating and it seems impossible to get much of anything done, because you keep looking out the window, thinking that they'll be there any minute so you don't start any big projects...like bathing — uh, unless you're a phone/cable/gas/delivery/etc customer in a porn flick, and then you might want to bathe first.

Anyway, you're probably wondering just who it was that I had scheduled to come by today. Well, nobody actually, but this analogy can be applied to my son's sleeping schedule. Just who does this kid think he is anyway? I've got things to do. If he wants to sleep until 10:15 in the morning (which HE DID TODAY), I'd appreciate some advance notice. Does this child think that I base my entire day around his schedule? Well, actually I do, but it's the principality here, folks. Sure, I could have caught up on my e-mails, or cleaned up around the house, or done some laundry — whatever. But, since he's never ever slept this late before, I kept thinking that surely he'd be up at any moment. Actually, when I rolled my lazy butt out of bed at 8:30 this morning, I was surprised that he wasn't up then, hollering for me to come grab him. Had I known that I had two hours until he did get up, I could have done a ton of stuff. Hell, I could have run some errands. He wouldn't have known the difference.

By 9:30, though, I was starting to worry. I kept going over to the baby monitor and listening for any kind of noise. I thought I heard a rustle once or twice, but I wasn't completely sure. By 10:00, I was looking for mirrors that I could go and stick under his nose to make sure he was breathing. I don't want to sound grim, but I concocted several imaginary situations that kept making me want to run upstairs and make sure he was okay.

When he finally did wake up, he was just sitting in his crib (which he NEVER does if he's awake), hugging his favorite stuffed toy, Barkley, and smiling. That little turkey had planned the whole thing. I think he was awake the whole time, stifling giggles and waiting as long as he could, knowing that I was just a few feet away, worrying and getting absolutely nothing done.

"Oh, the places you'll [not] go"

As I mentioned in my previous post, I spent this past weekend in Atlanta. Even though I was returning back to the place where I've spent more time in my life than any other, there was still a little bit of culture shock to deal with — and I'm not ashamed to say I was driving around with lust in my eyes the entire time.

After searching for playgrounds near our house out here in countrytown and finding exactly two (thus far) that we can use on a regular basis (ie. not at a school or daycare) I was extremely envious of the multitude of playgrounds that I drove past while back in Georgia. There are parks all over the place, playgrounds in most neighborhoods and a huge park just across the street from my mom's neighborhood. My biggest gripe about living out here is definitely the lack of recreation for Connor, though we did go to a nearby beach and swim in the lake today, which was nice, especially considering that most of you working stiffs were probably punching the clock at that time.

While we're at it, gripe number two would have to be the overabundance of scary, reclusive white people. I think it was Chris Rock who said that nothing terrifies him more than a carload of white folks. I couldn't agree more. Maybe it's the "no tresspassing" signs plastered on the "driveways" of nearly every trailer on our street, or the many abandoned mobile homes (which have long since forfeited their claim to the term "mobile"), the scary-as-hell burned out school bus down in the woods, that I've not seen any representation of law enforcement anywhere in town since we moved here, or that everyone stares and no one waves. It's damn creepy. The last time I was this scared of white people was when I inadvertantly drove past a Klan rally deep in the woods of in Chapin, South Carolina while lost with some friends — and I'm WHITE. It's not an experience that I wish to repeat, though I wouldn't be surprised if I managed to repeat the events of that unforgettable evening out here. I have an odd feeling that we've either stumbled into Militiatown or MethlabvilleWelcome to the neighborhood!


As a side note, I hope none of you have family or friends in New Orleans right now. It's looking pretty rough. (Allyson and Karl, we're thinking about you. Please call us as soon as you can!)

Everybody's workin' for the weekend

Well, I reached another milestone this weekend... I hung out with non-family-member-adults. Well, "hung out" is probably the wrong term, since I was in Atlanta working, but it was nice to talk to some people that can talk back by saying more than "dowwwwwn," or "coooookkaaaaah."

But wait. Working? I thought you were a stay-at-home dad? Well, apparently Stacey hasn't quite gotten the hang of being the breadwinner and she can't pull down enough digits to keep us afloat. (Seriously, if you knew how much she was "making" you'd be sending me money to read this thing, and yes, I'm [mostly] kidding about the breadwinner thing...sort of).

So, being the MAN, I have to ride in on my white horse (or my green car) and totally save the day. As I did this weekend, throughout the next year I will occasionally be heading back to Atlanta to work a few days here and there for the pharmaceutical distribution warehouse where I have worked, in some capacity, for ten years now — jeez, that's sad. Also this weekend, I managed to insert myself into part of the proofing process for an upcoming issue of a very large music magazine based in Atlanta (use your imagination, there's only one, folks, and it ain't Stomp and Stammer — based in Athens, I know). I have a few "connections" at this magazine and I very sneakily implanted myself there over the weekend, pay-free of course (Apparently, I still haven't gotten the hang of the "save the day" stuff either, thank you very much), but had fun pointing out the mistakes made by others. It was nice, too, to be back in the middle of a (somewhat) productive editorial process. I have really missed my old job, lately, (the 24-hour press days were a bit much, though) but I'm digging my new employment just as much.

Connor's CD reviews, part one

I did a very difficult thing this week; I cleared space on my iPod for some emergency, in-the-car, baby-soothing kiddie tunes.

Whew, give me a moment...

I fought it for awhile, but since we are living about fifteen-plus minutes from anything, Connor's love/hate relationship with riding in the car is becoming problematic. Sometimes, he's digging the ride, pointing out every single car that we pass and smiling at me in the rear view mirror, and sometimes he's throwing as many things at the back of my head that he can get his hands on. I haven't had to use this secret weapon yet, but it's best to be prepared, don't you think?

Since most kiddie tunes are barely tolerable — especially to someone who knows what music actually is — I've been fighting it. I read somewhere that a couple who felt similarly used Beatles songs and their kids responded beautifully. No such luck, though Connor does like "Maxwell's Silver Hammer," but probably only because his mom pretends to bang him on the head (it's part of the song.) The point is that I hate listening to kiddie music and I'm sure that there are other parents equally desperate.

In my quest to find SOMETHING that Connor will listen to, I've found a few gems...and germs, but that's a different story. Uh, at any rate, I think we've got a burgeoning music critic on our hands, because he'll immediately let you know whether he likes what he's listening to or not.

Today, we listened to Prodigy's, "The Fat of the Land." Guess what? He digs it — a lot. Apparently, this kid is into abrasive, rock-inspired techno music with slightly disturbing lyrics. "Smack my bitch up?" Sure thing, daddy.

See, there you go, parents. You don't have to listen to those annoying brats singing about some lady "comin' 'round the mountain," when you can listen to Prodigy sing about starting fires. Cool, huh?

What kid wouldn't like this?

sssssssmokin'

As I promised (my sanity) yesterday, Connor and I did indeed trek out of the house today, and went to a nearby playground that's probably got indentions from Connor's buttcheeks in the swings by now. But, unlike every other time we've been there, there were other people using the playground. I saw them as we pulled into the park. 'No problem," I thought. 'Connor's played with other kids before.' Besides, it's fun to see him interacting with other kids anyway, as long as they aren't telling their younger siblings to hit him in Chinese, like a certain brat we met in Norcross this summer.

So, I parked the car and we walked over to the playground. As we got close, I noticed that it was an entire family, two children and both parents. But, there was something a little off about the scene. The kids were in the kiddie swings and the parents were off on the "big kid" swings. As soon as they saw me, they got off the swings, the mom returned to the kids and the dad walked away from the playground (toward nothing), looking back over his shoulder a few times like I was his probation officer and he was supposed to be somewhere else. Also, they were both smoking. How cool! I mean, I've seen it in the movies, but it's always fantastic to meet a smoker in real life — especially around little kids. It's so glamorous.

Once "jumpy dad" realized that I apparently meant no harm to him, he returned, lit another cigarette and made a noticeably half-assed attempt to play with his son. About five minutes later, he walked over to a picnic table and promptly fell asleep. Cool. Guess he'd had his fill of family time for the day.

At any rate, I was a little more than annoyed about the smoke, but instead of making a scene, which I very seriously considered, I kept Connor away from them until they were done. I hate to admit it, but I was totally judging these people. I was so angry (and rightly so) that their kids were being subjected to their brainless habit, but realized something and I stopped myself...eventually. These young parents (they looked no more than 22 years old) were probably products of the very same type of parenting themselves. They, like their kids now, probably had little or no chance to escape their parents' mistakes, and that scares the crap out of me. Sure, Stacey and I don't smoke, but I'm sure we have our own share of harmful lifestyle choices (although I'll continue to defend my right to eat four sticks of butter for breakfast until I die). That's probaly the scariest part of parenting to me. The bumps and bruises I can very easily get past. After all, I kept my folks a little busy with plenty of emergency room visits for stitches, casts and crutches (sometimes all in one trip). How do you keep your kids from doing the same dumb crap you do?

At the end of the day, though, I just hope Connor doesn't turn into this kid...

Or this kid, while we're at it...

Uh, or this guy...

Bad judgment?

When you're hot you're hot...you know the rest

Last night when I went to bed, one of the last thoughts that I remember, before I drifted off to sleep, was that I felt like I was finally getting the hang of this whole dad thing. When I woke up this morning, I think Connor somehow sensed my self-satisfaction because today was, by far, the hardest day so far. It probably didn't help that we didn't leave the house all day long, but the weatherman said it was going to rain a lot today. (How much rain did we get? That's right — none.)

No morning nap today, a way-too-short afternoon nap and a whole lot of attitude in between. To top it off, Stacey didn't get home until a little later than usual. I couldn't fathom being a single parent and not having someone to relieve me when I needed it, not to mention all the support we've gotten from our families.

So, to Regina, Elizabeth and all the other single moms I've ever known, I am completely in awe of all that you accomplished without out the support that so many of us take for granted.

How the hell do people do this alone? (We're definitely going somewhere tomorrow, by the way.)

When you're hot you're hot...you know the rest

Last night when I went to bed, one of the last thoughts that I remember, before I drifted off to sleep, was that I felt like I was finally getting the hang of this whole dad thing. When I woke up this morning, I think Connor somehow sensed my self-satisfaction because today was, by far, the hardest day so far. It probably didn't help that we didn't leave the house all day long, but the weatherman said it was going to rain a lot today. (How much rain did we get? That's right — none.)

No morning nap today, a way-too-short afternoon nap and a whole lot of attitude in between. To top it off, Stacey didn't get home until a little later than usual. I couldn't fathom being a single parent and not having someone to relieve me when I needed it, not to mention all the support we've gotten from our families.

So, to Regina, Elizabeth and all the other single moms I've ever known, I am completely in awe of all that you accomplished without out the support that so many of us take for granted.

How the hell do people do this alone? (We're definitely going somewhere tomorrow, by the way.)

It most certainly does not smell like teen spirit

So there we were — two adults, down on our knees, sniffing the bottom of the door.

"What do you think?"

"Well, I think I smell something, but I'm not sure. You?"

"I sort of smell something, but I'm not sure either. Sniff again."

"I"m still not sure. I mean, he might have, but I can't really tell."

"Crap. What should we do?"

Has it really come to this? Two parents, concerned that their child might have "filled" his diaper before he could fall asleep for his afternoon nap (thus resulting in an is-he-or-isn't-he-faking-it crying fit), were both hunched over, down on the floor, trying to determine if the air wafting through the quarter-inch gap beneath his bedroom door had a particularly nutty odor.

I don't have a ton to say on this topic at the moment; I'm just noticing how different things have become. Our bookshelves are overrun with Little Golden Books, our floorspace with more toys than this kid knows what to do with, and our multimedia shelves have become, shall we say, much more colorful. One day you're staying up late, watching movies or taking less than a carload of gear for a quick trip to the park. The next day, you're down on your hands and knees, trying to see if you can smell your child's poop. I'm not complaining, because I wouldn't trade this kid for the world, but do you wanna see how much things have changed?

Here's what was...



...and here's what is.

Scary, huh?

Opinions are like...uh, nevermind

After a few days pent up in the house, yesterday I decided that it was time for Connor and I to venture out again. I had to take a deposit to the bank, so, since we don't exactly have bank branches on every corner out here, we headed into "downtown" Seneca, which is about 15 minutes away. Before we left, though, I went online and tried to find out where the city's parks were, or if they even existed at all. Turns out, there is a very nice park, called the Shaver Recreation Complex, with mentions on several different webpages. But, nothing I could find actually listed the address or phone number of the place, which is supposed to be one of the community's "calling cards" so to speak. Nice. So, after quite a bit of searching I found a street address (though I wasn't sure if it was for this park or another one somewhere else) but none of the mapping software out there would recognize the address.

But, even with my absolutely horrid sense of direction, since Seneca's downtown isn't very big, it wasn't hard to find the park (the huge brown signs pointing the way didn't hurt either). Once we got there, Connor seemed thrilled to be somewhere that wasn't our den. After stepping onto the playground, though, I realized that there was some type of granule substance underfoot. It was slightly more coarse than sand but still every bit as annoying and invasive. Mmmm. Nothing starts a day off right like hot sand in your shoes.

The first thing I do when I take Connor to a playground is quickly assess the site and decide whether we'll come back often or avoid it like a railroad crossing at rush hour. So, I've devised a ratings system for all the playgrounds we visit this year. I hope there will be more than two, which is all we've found thus far. Here goes. (I'll post my findings for the other playground later.) The ratings system is super complex, so watch me for the changes, and try and keep up.



On a scale of 1-10:
Overall quality of playground: 8/10 — It's not about to fall apart or anything (I don't think), but it would have been nice to have a few more little-dude friendly stuff than just the kiddie swings.

Type of substance on the play surface: 1/10 — Sand? Seriously? Apparently the people that made this decision have never cleaned sand and poop out of a sweaty kid's buttcrack.

Amount of shade: 1/10 — Yo, us pale heliophobes don't like feeling like our skin is on fire just because we wanna play with our kids, alright? You don't gotta tear down ALL the trees to build a playground do ya?

Cleanliness: 9/10 — Except for a few discarded Juicy Juice boxes (which I know were totally empty 'cause Connor was super thirsty and we tried them all), there wasn't much trash about, not to mention the ever-positive absence of used needles. Always a plus.

Extras: 5/10 — Very few benches nearby for us lazy parents and the already-mentioned lack of stuff for our little man here weren't exactly selling this place for us. Connor seemed to like the spongy (in an almost creepy way) walking path better.

I think I'm sensing a new career path here — playground consultant. Forever the critic, right?

Misfit Toys, part 1

A good friend of the family recently gave Connor a really cool toy. It's a professional-grade duck puppet. It's got some different "levers" (for lack of a better, or more accurate, word) inside the head that I can't quite figure out how to operate (aside from the beak, which works just how you think it would), and it's got openings in its wings and feet for rods that can make the duck "move." It's not quite as cool as The Swedish Chef's hands, but a puppet with movable limbs is still pretty cool. It makes the marionette that I made in 3rd grade out of pantyhose and fishing line look pretty pathetic, by comparison.



See? Good stuff right?

But, even though Connor loves snuggling with the duck, there's just something about this toy that I can't get past. In order to operate the puppet, you have to —— you know — stick your hand and two-thirds of your arm up its butt. It just feels wrong. It doesn't help that, nine times out of ten, when Connor discards the puppet, it's lying face down in a corner somewhere with its, uh, butt-sleeve facing you.



I'm just waiting for the day that this kid discovers this particular feature of the puppet and starts carrying it around upside down, using its body cavity as a carrying bag, stuffing random toys inside it and dragging the puppet around by its feet. Maybe I've seen Toy Story too many times, but I just don't think that this duck enjoys having my arm (or Connor's toys) up its butt. Would you?

Chowers? We Don' Need No Steenkin' Chowers!

Ladies and gentlemen! I have a very important announcement:


On Sunday, for the first time since we moved to Seneca, more than three weeks ago, I WORE PANTS — actual past-the-knee, total-leg-covering pants. After leaving my job last May, in which I wore pants to work everyday (as most people who don't work at the Hot Dog On A Stick fast food chain are required to do), I could probably count on one hand the number of times that I wore pants during the entire summer. It was a little weird, and I'm starting to feel like I have way too many pairs of pants and not enough shorts — especially since my favorite pair of shorts got ruined this summer thanks to a freak accident involving some Boudreaux's Butt Paste. (Yes, it was from Connor's diaper and yes it is impossible to get out of clothing.)

A few years back, I had a few friends that decided that they didn't want to wear pants for an entire year (even during a trip to New Jersey, in which we encountered heavy snow). At the time, I thought it was more of a test of endurance. Now I see it as something entirely different. It says something about a person when they can wear shorts whenever they want. It means that their lives are structured so that they don't have to dress any particular way. These friends of mine were cooks, warehouse workers and mechanics. They weren't required to meet with customers/clients/etc, and their style of dress in no way affected perceptions about their work ethics. Now, I feel like I'm in a similar situation. Prior to this, I've only had one job (janitor) where it didn't matter how I dressed. Connor doesn't care whether I've got camo shorts on (which I do, most of the time) or whether I've got a shirt on at all. Actually, though, I can't not wear a shirt around him because he rams his finger so hard in my bellybutton, that it hurts...a lot.

Also, at present, I'm going on 48 hours with no shower (but I have shaved my facial hair, thank you very much). It's not that I'm falling apart, I just didn't have time to take a shower yesterday. Uh, okay, I did technically have time, but I kept putting it off. Jeez, I gotta to bathe before this kid wakes up.

Dear God, make it stop!

I discovered the very best way to keep Connor calm today. BARNEY!!




So what if he watched it 47 times in a row?

One week in...

"Can I watch yer kids fer awhile?"

So at 5 p.m. on Friday (two days ago, that is), my first week-long shift officially ended, although I did still end up watching Connor a little that evening while Stacey cooked dinner. (It's not enough that I watched him, like, ALL week? I've gotta watch him while she cooks MY meal? Huh?)

Monday went smoothly enough — two naps, each about two hours and few tantrums. Tuesday, though, is when my real initiation started. Connor slept for somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour THE ENTIRE DAY. Grumpy? Uh, yeah. Just a little. So, on Wednesday, I decided it was time to get out of the house and find some playgrounds. When looking for a playground, where is the first place you look? Churches, obvoiusly. But, apparently nobody told the folks 'round these parts that playgrounds are a helpful tool for restless children — idle hands are the devil's plaything, after all. We couldn't find a single one near the house and Connor was not happy about it. So, on our way home, I pulled into a state recreation area and stopped at the guard station. I rolled my window down and asked the guard if there were any playgrounds around. He looked at me with a really suspicious look on his face and gave me a little attitude. I had forgotten that I was driving Stacey's mom's car, which has tinted windows and that the guard couldn't see Connor in the back. Oh, and of course there's the super-sweet handlebar mustache I was rocking. The full sleeve of tattoos might not have helped either. Apparently dudes with mustaches, sunglasses and tattoos asking where little kids hang out raises some alarms. (This is going to be fun.)

He warmed up a little after I explained that we had just moved to town and was looking for a place for my son to play. I think he was still a little suspicious, especially since Connor didn't make a peep the whole time, despite crying for most of the rest of the excursion, but he was helpful, giving me a map of all the area parks with a listing of which ones had playgrounds. Too bad none of them are very close. Guess Mr. Connor is going to get used to the car seat pretty quickly.

Mr. Mom

So here we are.

After a couple years of stressing, and several months of really stressing, we've arrived in Clemson — or Seneca, to be more precise. The plan for the next 360-or-so days is for Stacey to complete her internship in clinical psychology at a nearby counseling center while I stay at home with our now-15-month old son. I'm not bothering to post anonymously, or change any names, because I don't plan on writing about anything that would get anyone in trouble. This is just going to be me writing about my journey from a steady job (and a paycheck) as a writer that I absolutely loved for a non-paying job, taking care of my son in an extremely rural setting.

I'm sure there will be way too many references to Mr. Mom, the very fine film starring Michael Keaton (did you catch the one at the very top of the page?), and I won't have the luxury of my old editor making everything I write sound coherent, ("Me fail English? That's unpossible!") but it will be fun — for me. If you want to have fun, start your own blog.