Sam Hayne

If you're reading this on Tuesday, happy Dia De Los Muertos (that's "Day of the Dead" in Spanish, Gringo). The coolest holiday of the year, though not celebrated in America, this day is — among other things — a time to truly celebrate, rather than mourn, the lives of dead loved ones. Plus, it comes along with some damn cool art to boot.

Today being Halloween, we figured we'd try to get in the spirit of things and we went to an old-fashioned, downtown Halloween carnival...apparently Stacey didn't like my idea of putting black lights up all over the house, turning the heat off and listening to Norwegian black metal really loud for a few hours. Sounds like a party to me.

Being that we live in the wilderness (gee, have I mentioned that before?) we had to drive about 25 minutes (40 if you count the slight detour we took when I went West instead of East on the interstate. I wish I could say I'd never done that before. You wouldn't believe how many times I got lost when I first got my driver's license.) Uhh, where was I?

Once we finally got to the carnival, the shindig was beginning to wind down — many parents were already trudging back to their cars with their sugar-crazed kids trying to drag them back for more— but there was still enough going on that Connor was plenty entertained...or scared, we're not sure which. We did overhear some teenagers talking about "hittin' up a rich neighborhood." I hope they were talking about candy but, either way, it means they weren't coming to our house later.

At the carnival, there were plenty of kids in costumes — Batmen, Spidermen, football players, ninjas, princesses, witches, and even a Power Ranger or two. There were also the obligatory I'm-really-too-old-for-this-but-I-just-can't-let-it-go teenagers in masks trolling for candy as well. But, what I noticed the most was the abundance of babies and toddlers dressed up, most sound asleep in their strollers or parents' arms. Connor was sporting his grey hoodie, but if we had a costume that he'd tolerate, I'm sure we would have suited him up in something ridiculous as well.

It struck me how odd it was that many of these parents with little ones didn't have other kids with them — just their sleepy babies. Science, and experience, tells us that the human brain doesn't begin to form permanent memories until somewhere near age five.

I guess the tweens and teens aren't the only ones not ready to let go of Halloween.

"Shut up, you bastard...who is fat!"

Growing up, I was always very self-conscious of how thin I was. "I'd love to be able to eat whatever I wanted and not gain a pound," girls always told me. "You're soooo lucky."

There's nothing like being constantly told by girls that they'd love to have your figure to really make a guy feel tuff.

I sure didn't feel very lucky, being the tall, gangly kid for most of my childhood. Although I'd always been an active kid (skateboarding/soccer/baseball/criminal enterprise), I was never particularly obsessed with exercise — meaning eating decently or keeping in shape. But, about eight years ago, I started running, usually late at night in bluejeans or whatever I already had on. As I got more into it — making afternoon trips to local parks to run, for example — I started to be less uncomfortable about being thin, and instead wore it as a badge of healthiness. Although I still wouldn't have minded toting around extra 20 pounds of thug muscle, I wasn't so uptight about being the skinny guy anymore.

It figures, then, that once I get to where I don't mind being thin, that my body starts to change.

Specifically, the change started nearly four years ago — the exact amount of time I've been married. Hmmm. Perhaps there's a connection to my weight gain and the extra time I spend with Italian in-laws that comfort someone by feeding them? (Not that I'm protesting too much.) It doesn't help either that I have gotten so far off of my exercise routine that I can't even touch my knees, let alone my toes. Now that we live in an area where the places that Connor and I can get some real exercise are at least 20 minutes away, it makes the prospect of getting back into a routine even more remote. Plus it's kind of hard to exercise with an independent toddler who insists on running everywhere himself. I can't imagine him doing very well in a seat on the back of my bike, either, but it wouldn't fit anyway since I have a dual suspension mountain bike...somewhere...though I haven't ridden in months. (I miss you, old friend.)

I guess I'll just have to wait until Connor is old enough to ride his own bike along with me while I huff and puff through a run like my brothers and I did to our dad. I wonder why he never let us do that very often? Was it the laughing and pointing? Perhaps the incessant circling and throwing rocks?

What I Know Fer Sure

Wow, two Oprah-themed titles in a row. One might think that since I've started staying home all day, I've developed a new favorite show. (Actually, the only show I try to watch regularly is The Batman...man, that's been a real productivity killer.)

Oprah may be the queen of daytime television, but she is a horrible interviewer. Case in point: her favorite question to ask people is, "what do you know for sure?"

"Uhhh, the sky is blue, puppies are cute, and you're a nincompoop?"

Anyway, I realized today that I've picked up a few nuggets of wisdom in the past few months, and I would be downright selfish if I didn't share a few of them. So, here are -ugh- a few things I know, like, for sure. Totally.

-Bathing before bed
When I was in elementary school, I developed a habit of taking a bath at night and sleeping in my clothes so I could spring forth from the bed at a moment's notice and be ready for action (after all, what would Batman do?). This recently revived practice has kept me from being too stinky all day when Connor wakes up before I have time to shower. Notice I said "too stinky," and not "not stinky." I am hanging out with a little kid. I'm bound to smell a little. (And don't act like you don't think you stink a little right now.)

-Cheerios addiction
I know this one isn't exactly a secret, but holy crap are Cheerios a godsend. I don't know what it is, but kids will instantly calm down if you give them a handful of tiny, baked oat circles. I've checked the ingredients...there's no addictive drugs that I can find.

-Copying my bad habits
Again, not exactly a secret, but I had no clue that kids mimicked behavior this early in life. Connor is now swearing (Oh, shit! is a favorite) and spitting quite regularly. I haven't caught him scratching "himself" or picking his nose in the car yet, but I'll be sure to let you know when those little milestones happen.

The "A-Ha" Moment

When I was in fifth grade, I decided (perhaps it was decided for me) that I should be in the school band. Trumpets were for suckers (read: my older brother) and drums didn't interest me for some reason. The only instruments left to choose from were flutes, clarinets, trombones and saxaphones. Duh. The Saxamaphone it was.

For the first few months, all we did was sit in a trailer (with the flutes and clarinets) and we'd all play weird little parts of some song I'd never heard of. It was okay, but it wasn't exactly my thing. But, eventually, we were told that we'd start practicing once a week with the rest of the band. At that practice, with the drums keeping time, and everyone playing a different section of the song "Aura Lee," everything made complete sense — albeit a herky-jerky, off-key kind of sense. At the sounding of the very first note, a huge smile erupted on my face and I couldn't have played a note if I wanted to. I was so elated to hear everything, the whole ensemble working in unison, that the frustration from the the months of practice melted away. I actually got in trouble for not playing at that practice, but I didn't really care.

Today, I got to see Connor have what I think was the very same moment. Last week I mentioned that we listen to a lot of Huey Lewis & The News. Connor knows the songs pretty well, but today, we watched a Huey Lewis concert DVD that I got a few weeks ago. The DVD starts with the same song ("Heart of Rock 'n' Roll") as the album Sports that we listen to the most. Connor stared at the screen, glanced at me a few times and then started to smile — a lot. He jumped up and started doing his little head-bob-dance but never lost sight of the TV screen. He "got" it, and I was probably enjoying it more than him.

Since he knows some Lamb of God music, too, maybe tomomrrow we'll watch Killadelphia?

"...a case of the Mondays!"

First of all, how kickass is this weather? Highs in the low 60s? We spent two hours playing in the yard today and didn't break a sweat once. If only there were a mini ramp nearby. Maybe I need a mountain board for the yard instead? Hot weather is for suckers.

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled program...

When I left my job a few months ago to stay at home with Connor, I sent out a long-winded, self-serving goodbye e-mail to my coworkers, all of whom I knew I would miss enormously. In addition to the great people, I was just as much in love with the job itself. Work never ever felt like "work" and I wanted to let these folks know that my goal in life had become to find a job I enjoyed equally, because I would never find one I'd enjoy more. I didn't realize how I had suceeded in that search until this morning.

People who consider themselves "stuck" in dead end 9-to-5 jobs dread Mondays. If you listen to any of those horrible morning radio shows (by that I mean that any of them...they're all horrible) you'll hear it every week. "Welcome to another work week. We'll help you get through it. Blah blah blah. If you're gonna kill yourself, do it on a commercial."

Just like with my previous job, I find myself looking forward to Monday mornings because Stacey — rightfully so — is an admitted Connor-hog on the weekends. Although I'm ready for a break once Friday comes, Monday is by far the best day of the week for us.

Besides, I don't look quite as silly playing with his toys with him rather than by myself.

Parents Just Don't Understand

I know why some people think having kids is akin to a death sentence. Have you seen the crap parents put up with? I'm not talking about the little tykes' bad behavior, either. I'm referring to the horrible products that parents will buy as they shift into child-rearing mode.


Although it surely didn't all start with the obnoxious item pictured above, this was my first indication that parents are indeed insane. These signs caught on in the mid-1980s, and they were everywhere. Did they do much to curb reckless driving? Nope. But, that didn't stop parents from sticking these signs up in their car.

Whether it's the hideous, but all-too-pervasive Mom Jeans, the tacky, day-glo window shades in the car, or the sports stickers on the SUVs tailgate — you know, the gigantic soccerball, football and baseball stickers that those parents put on their vehicles — dumb parent crap is everywhere. I didn't fully realize that when we officially entered the realm of parenthood, it meant navigating an alternate universe filled with mountains of cutesy crap that nobody needs.

All I'm saying is Connor better not come home with a "Honor Roll" sticker and expect me to stick it on my bumper. Besides being self-gratifyingly dumb, it might clash with my vanity plate.

Connor's CD Reviews, pt. 2

To recap, very quickly. Kiddie music=bad. We're on a quest to find "normal" music to listen to in the car and at home that doesn't involve a hokey or a pokey...well, maybe a pokey or two wouldn't hurt.

At long last, here is the most recent update of what music Connor has expressed some interest in. (He bobs his head, does the "white-man" shuffle and blasts a huge smile, in case you were wondering.)


Huey Lewis & The News: Sports
First of all, my apologies to our neighbors as we rock the shit out of this record several times a week, usually with the windows open and the volume way up. Forget Thriller, Sports is hands down, the best pop record to come out of the 1980s. Connor especially likes the heartbeat that opens the album ("Heart of Rock 'n' Roll," duh). That's all he has to hear and he's rocking out. Bar bands and baby boys. It's really an undeniable connection, don't you think?


A Tribe Called Quest: The Low End Theory
Can a toddler get more indie cred than liking this album? Don't think this little fact is lost on Connor, either. Ever since first hearing this album, he struts around the house like he owns the joint.

Hee Haw Gospel Quartet: The Best of the Hee Haw Gospel Quartet
Laugh if you want (I am), but this CD is one of my most favorite in the world. Everybody knows how campy Hee Haw was back in the day (well, 'cept Connor), but you'll be hard pressed to find a better recording of gospel tunes by anyone else. I actually put this on one day because I was in the mood to hear it, but figured Connor wouldn't be into it. Guess what? He's making sure there's no "Dust on the Bible" while waiting for the day "When the Roll is Called up Yonder." How could you not love a CD that uses the word "yonder?" Seriously.



Candiria: What Doesn't Kill You
Yet another successful experiment. There is something about metal that Connor digs. Candiria's brand of metal is a more groove-oriented approach than most bands, so that's probably the key there. Well, that and the horribly violent cover photo of a van crash the band barely survived.


Stay tuned. Don't be surprised if next time, there's an entry about how Connor is listening to Danzig or Ashlee Simpson...well, maybe not. I have a conscience, you know? I could never let him listen to Ashlee Simpson.

FALSE ALARM!

I may have jumped the gun with my self-diagnosis yesterday, but I really was feeling lousy. (I did say that I'm a total baby when I'm sick, right? Well, I'm a paranoid baby when I think I'm getting sick, or getting poison ivy — seriously.) About twenty minutes after I ingested the Airborne pill last night, all systems returned to normal. It was weird to be feeling better all of a sudden, but it certainly wasn't unwelcome.

Feeling not-sick, we spent the morning at a playground where Connor ate his weight in sand, got equally as much in his diaper, and stared blankly at an old man that walked by us several times wearing a pair of disgustingly tight jean shorts (a never nude?), too much (meaning: any) lady perfume, and sporting an I-can't-believe-you-think-that's-not-scaring-small-children combover. I guess even little kids can pick out the weirdo, huh?

Uh oh

I felt it coming on this morning — a slightly runny nose, a scratchy throat and a dull ache in my joints and muscles. "I'm getting sick," I thought. Not good. Mom was right. Sleeping with the window open will give you a cold! Eating like crap all weekend while Stacey was out of town probably didn't help either, but damn, those chocolate chip cookies her grandmother made were good. I've been inhaling V8 all day today, and I just slugged down an Airborne tablet. We'll see what happens.

I knew the time would come when I would have to watch Connor when I was sick, but I didn't think it would come so soon. It's not even really cold out yet. I feel worse now than I did this morning (never a good sign), so I'm terrified of how I'll feel when I wake up tomorrow. When I'm sick, I'm an inconsolable, self-centered baby. I want only to lay around all day, drinking Sprite, watching movies, and not be bothered with anyone else. It looks like that ritual is about to change.

I hope Connor is ready for a Lord of the Rings and Donnie Darko marathon.

Band Geeks

The Italian great-grandparents were in town again today, and in addition to the intestinal fortitude testing amount of food they always bring, today, they brought a little sumtin' sumtin' for Connor to get down with. Last week, while on vacation (no, being retired is not in and of itself a vacation) they bought him a handmade miniature guitar (a toy, but cool nonetheless) and a handcarved recorder while in Cancun on a timeshare trip.

Connor has made no secret of his love for my acoustic guitar (I can't keep a 5150 half-stack [that's a reeeeeeealllly loud guitar amp] in our den so we do it up James Taylor style around here, okay?). He has stuffed loose change, guitar picks, toys, very small rocks, and his tiny, but still damaging, fingers into the soundhole. I've had to resort to keeping the guitar in an area we've sectioned off with a baby gate, along with our computer printer, DSL modem, a filing cabinet and various other no-no stuff just to keep him from filling the guitar's hollow body with goldfish crackers.

Now, though, Connor has his very own six string. His mom can play a mean "Hot Cross Buns" on the recorder, so I think we're in business. I guess we need another kid to keep time on the drums now. [This has all been a very elaborate set up to announce that Stacey and I are not pregnant, and no, that's not Connor in the picture above. It's just some random kid with a guitar...sorry if he's yours. Enjoy your day.]

“The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love”

Out of my group of friends that I started hanging out with in high school, I am just about the only one, I believe, who didn’t go into blue-collar work as a career, though I did plenty of it growing up. Of this group, I am also one of a very small handful to go to college, not to mention graduate. Once I finally finished up with school — at the seasoned age of 26, thank you — I got a job as a writer. It wasn’t easy work, mind you, but it’s not like I was working on cars, carpentry or construction as my friends were and still are. While their hands were rough and worn from their long days of work that involved a lot of physical exertion, my hands were as calloused as they could get from mowing our postage stamp of a lawn twice a month.

But now, I think I’d like to compare battle scars, please.

After a few months at home with Connor, I am more banged up and bruised than I’ve been in the years since I quite skating (that’s skateboarding, not roller skating, in case you mistook me for a seven-year-old girl). My right knee is aching, I’ve got bite-shaped bruises on my shoulder, I’m limping a little bit, and I’ve got scabs in places where I didn’t know I had places.
But, I’m giving as good as I get. Connor has bruises up and down his spine, thighs and shins (uh, he fell down) and he’s got as many scrapes as I do. He’s a rough and tumble kid, though, so he doesn’t care. He’ll launch himself off of the couch face first, making for a holy-crap-I-think-he-broke-his-neck dismount, then get up laughing, and do it all over again.

Mark my words: one of us is going to be going to the emergency room soon. Place your bets now.

Missing in Action

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I begin this blog tonight. My longtime companion, my Swiss Army handyman knife is gone — it's somewhere in the land of lost items, along with the three other things I've lost in my lifetime (a pager, a pair of soccer shin guards and a hacky sack). [I don't lose much stuff, okay, so when I do, it leaves a lasting impression.]

Some might say that I brought this on myself by letting Connor run around with it — but, in my defense, we had already watched our quota of TV (usually the go-to calmer-downer) that day, and playing with my knife always calms him down. Who can blame him. There's nothing like the cold steel of a sharp blade. Am I right? Don't front.

Now, all I have to remember my old companion are his close pals the tweezer and toothpick that I so responsibly took out so Connor couldn't swallow them. They're nice, don't get me wrong, but I'd much rather have the main course than the appetizers — sorry, guys. Anyway, time's a wastin'. I've got some sofa cushions to disembowel and a metal detector to buy.

I miss ya, buddy.

Sweet Little Lies

The brainwashing starts in kindergarten. “When you get to first grade, things won’t be so easy.” Once you’re in first grade, though, all you hear about is how tough it’s going to be in second grade. This predictable pattern repeats itself every year, and it seems like most kids never catch on. For some reason, I figured out early that teachers, parents, and authority figures in general, are constantly trying to scare kids into behaving by letting them know how good they have it now and how bad they’ll have it later on if they don’t shape up.

I thought that once I finished school I’d seen the last of this nonsense. But, once you become a parent, it actually gets worse, not to mention all the similar “advice” offered when you get married.

What follows is a sample of actual comments I have heard from what I’m sure were well-meaning people in the last three years:

-Just wait until you guys get pregnant; then your life will really change.

-Believe me, the pregnancy was easy compared to taking care of an infant.

-Enjoy the first two weeks [of Connor’s life] because after that he’ll stop sleeping all the time, and life will get very interesting.

-Raising an infant is such a breeze compared to a toddler. Once they can get around on their own, you’re in trouble.

-Toddlers are tough, but wait until you have a two-year-old on your hands.


As Connor isn’t yet a-year-and-a-half, this is obviously where the warnings stop, but you can bet that we’ll continue to receive these half-assed, I’m-working-harder-than-you boasts for at least 30 more years. (Wait ‘til you have a teenager…wait ‘til you have a kid that can drive…wait ‘til he gets his seventh DUI…wait ‘til he moves back in at 28.)

Is there ever a point in life where people feel that someone really doesn’t need any more pointless warnings? Hey, you’re 80 years old, a military veteran, a father of nineteen, a full-time-job-holder since the age of 14, a great-grandfather of twelve, and you have an IQ of 185, but just wait until you turn 90. My great-grandfather just turned 90 and you wouldn’t believe….

Act your age! (redux)

A few years ago — I was 26 at the time, I think — I was in a casino in Atlantic City, and a security guard walked up to me with a smirk on his face just minutes after I had entered the facility.

"Okay, let's see your ID," he said, like a mother asking her son if he had eaten any cookies, when she could plainly see the crumbs on the child's face. "I'm sure this looks like fun, but you have to be 21 to be in here, ya know?"

Without saying a word, I calmly pulled out my driver's license and held it out for him to inspect.

"Oh, I, uh, I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "Enjoy your evening."

For whatever reason, I look young for my age. I didn't realize just how young until this specific incident. But, when I was 19, I didn't have any trouble getting into several different casinos in Las Vegas. But, then again, I when I was younger, I looked older. Are you following all of this? I am going somewhere here...bear with me.

This morning, my car still in the shop, we took a family trip to drop Stacey off at work since I would need the car during the day. After dropping her off, Connor and I killed some time in the school's student center as it was raining outside, putting playground time out of the picture.

Everything about the way I was dressed this morning probably screamed "college student:" Camo cargo shorts, vintage-looking T-shirt, tennis shoes, bookbag...except that the bookbag was filled with diapers, wipes, cookies and any other necessity a parent might need out on the front lines. Oh, and there was a 17-month-old blond whirlwind of a kid leading me around. I got a lot of second glances, but none as satisfying as that of a university employee who had been very conspicuously watching us for at least a few minutes — though she said nothing nor smiled, even though we tried to say hi. Connor ran up to a newspaper rack, curious about its contents, so I scooped him up and dropped him inside. I noticed the woman was still staring intently, so I said to her, "you know, looking for a good place to leave him. I think he can get out of here. Got any better ideas?"

She went back to pretending that she wasn't watching us. I went back to not caring that she was.

What's in a name?

Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me about Big Lots before? That place is a goldmine for us po‘ folks. I’m sure I’ve been in there a couple of times before — though what I bought, I can’t remember — but I had absolutely no recollection of how cheap stuff is in there. It’s as good as Dollar Tree (where everything is $1, duh!), but with way more stuff. It’s like a cheap Wal-Mart with less attitude.

Connor and I spent about 45 minutes inside Big Lots today, killing time, waiting for Stacey to get done with work and come pick us up. (I dropped my car off to have the windows tinted — for Connor…I swear.)

I have realized that I am a total sucker for cheap crap. Even if it’s an item I have no use for, it’s difficult for me to walk away from it if it can be had for a ridiculously small amount of cash.

“Uh, I don’t really need a gallon of cooking lard —actually as a vegetarian I shouldn’t even be considering this — but it’s only a dollar-fifty! What to do?”


When I first moved out on my own, I developed a real problem with the dollar store, and I now have to stick to a strict list when I’m in there. It looks like Big Lots will get the same treatment. But, I can say with confidence that I’ll not be purchasing the Speedo brand of bottled water that I saw. That’s wrong on so many levels, I don’t know where to start.

"He put the biscuit in the basket!"

Anyone who has stayed at home with a small child (or a large one, I guess...are they really this messy all their lives?) knows how quickly a kid can make a mess. Life at our house isn't quite like the scene in the film The Sixth Sense where the mother walks out of the kitchen for about three seconds and returns to find every single cabinet door open — even the high ones — and her son sitting exactly where she left him at the kitchen table, but when Connor digs into one of his many toy baskets, bags, shelves, cubbies, nooks, or crannies, the view from the rear is like that of a dog burrowing into the dirt: there is stuff flying everywhere and it probably isn't safe to get too close. You could put your eye out — cripes, look what I just wrote. I am a parent.

I've become quite adept at cleaning up the messes that this kid makes (see the last two entries for proof on a much grosser scale). I know exactly where everything goes, and you better believe everything goes where it's supposed to. (For those of you who don't know, I have obsessive compulsive disorder — a topic I'm sure I'll return to later on.) In my previous life, I was a writer for a couple of different publications (ah yes, another topic I'll surely be returning to one day soon), one of them a business monthy. For this paper, I wrote a story on lean manufacturing — the process of trimming as many unnecessary steps from the production cycle as possible. I dare any of these efficiency experts to come into my house and try and find some wasted energy on the job of cleaning up after my whirling dervish of a son.

Growing up, despite being comparatively tall for my age, I flat out stunk at basketball, even though we had a hoop in our driveway during most of my childhood. Now, though, after tossing toys, large and small, across the room into their respective containers, I've developed a weird sense of aim. Maybe it wouldn't translate well on on the blacktop, but as soon as a league starts up using Nerf balls, legos or stuffed dinosaurs, count me in.

More of the Same

Ack! He did it again.

I don't want to get in the habit of making this blog purely a document of Connor's bowel movements, and I certainly don't want to sound like a broken record-skzzt-a broken record-skzzt-a broken record-skzzt...sorry, had to be done. Anyway, after discovering that Connor had ripped off his diaper during his naptime and pooped in his crib on Thursday, he did it again on Friday. But, since my self-imposed blogging routine (Monday-Thursday evenings) is less flexible than our President's vacation schedule, I had to wait until today to post about it.

I realize now that the first incident was just a test run, as Friday's main event was much more dramatic. Sure, all the elements of Thursday's disaster were present — naked Connor, poop in the crib, Connor crying in the corner — but this time he got a little braver with the lumpy mess and dabbled in a little bit of expressionism.

"Stick it in my ears? Why not. Slather the crib rails with it? Sure. Give myself a handsome poop'stache? Most definitely."


After trying in vain to wash this crap — pun intended — off of him, I took one for the team, and we jumped in the shower together. Another disgusting load of laundry later and all was right again. But, when I put Connor down for his afternoon nap you better believe I put a pair of pants on that demon. There's only so much shit a man can take.