"Bring The Noise"
Wow. My first non-lemonade diet post in quite some time. I'm glad that's over with simply because I can now write about something else.
When Stacey and I embarked on this venture of her working and me staying at home with Connor, the idea was that I'd continue my writing career — albeit in a drastically scaled back fashion, writing when Connor napped and at night. Sure, writing while he naps is a piece of cake, if I can tear myself away from YouTube. Scheduling phone interviews with sources who adhere to demands outside of the resting habits of my two-year-old, though, is another story entirely.
At my previous job, I preferred meeting my sources face to face because human contact always yields measurably better stories. Freelancing usually doesn't afford that luxury, so I have to use the telephone. To clue you in, I don't even like to talk to Stacey on the phone for more than a few seconds. Despite what a few of you perverts were hoping, I'm not a 13-year-old girl who likes chatting on the phone for hours.
So far, every interview I've had to conduct via the phone I've been lucky enough to schedule during Connor's naps. Today, though, I had to accept a call "after hours," when Connor was awake, since this particular source has been more elusive than pictures of Tom Cruise's new baby.
Knowing that I was expecting a call at any moment, I had the DVD player on standby with a Wiggles disc locked and loaded and my notepad stationed at the kitchen table where I could keep an eye on Connor while he rotted his brain on the floor in the den. The plan seemed foolproof. He never gives me the time of day when he's watching any of his shows (Sesame Street, Thomas the Tank Engine, Barney, Taxicab Confessions), so why should today be any different?
As soon as the phone rang, I mashed the "play" button on the DVD player, turned the TV on, parked Connor on the floor in front of the set and scrambled to the kitchen table to answer the phone. Two minutes into the interview, Connor waltzed over to see what I was doing. I directed him back to the TV with my eyes, impressed that it actually worked. A moment later, he started banging on his drum. After that, he pulled out his recorder and started playing it — badly. Thank God his lungs aren't strong enough to blow his train whistle yet.
I had to move into the kitchen and huddle in the corner, but it did little to guard against the aural barrage coming from the den. I'm sure the person I was talking to wondered where the hell I was. An elementary school music class? A day care?
Nope. It would definitely have been a bit more quiet.
When Stacey and I embarked on this venture of her working and me staying at home with Connor, the idea was that I'd continue my writing career — albeit in a drastically scaled back fashion, writing when Connor napped and at night. Sure, writing while he naps is a piece of cake, if I can tear myself away from YouTube. Scheduling phone interviews with sources who adhere to demands outside of the resting habits of my two-year-old, though, is another story entirely.
At my previous job, I preferred meeting my sources face to face because human contact always yields measurably better stories. Freelancing usually doesn't afford that luxury, so I have to use the telephone. To clue you in, I don't even like to talk to Stacey on the phone for more than a few seconds. Despite what a few of you perverts were hoping, I'm not a 13-year-old girl who likes chatting on the phone for hours.
So far, every interview I've had to conduct via the phone I've been lucky enough to schedule during Connor's naps. Today, though, I had to accept a call "after hours," when Connor was awake, since this particular source has been more elusive than pictures of Tom Cruise's new baby.
Knowing that I was expecting a call at any moment, I had the DVD player on standby with a Wiggles disc locked and loaded and my notepad stationed at the kitchen table where I could keep an eye on Connor while he rotted his brain on the floor in the den. The plan seemed foolproof. He never gives me the time of day when he's watching any of his shows (Sesame Street, Thomas the Tank Engine, Barney, Taxicab Confessions), so why should today be any different?
As soon as the phone rang, I mashed the "play" button on the DVD player, turned the TV on, parked Connor on the floor in front of the set and scrambled to the kitchen table to answer the phone. Two minutes into the interview, Connor waltzed over to see what I was doing. I directed him back to the TV with my eyes, impressed that it actually worked. A moment later, he started banging on his drum. After that, he pulled out his recorder and started playing it — badly. Thank God his lungs aren't strong enough to blow his train whistle yet.
I had to move into the kitchen and huddle in the corner, but it did little to guard against the aural barrage coming from the den. I'm sure the person I was talking to wondered where the hell I was. An elementary school music class? A day care?
Nope. It would definitely have been a bit more quiet.
posted by Carter at 10:39 PM
4 Comments:
That's ok, I'm sure Mr. Dylan understood. He's got a kid too, you know.
Connor has a drum? Is that a picture of him playing the traps? I'm jealous. P won't let me set-up a drum for our boy until... I dunno. No timeline was provided.
Lucky boy.
You need mothers i mean father's morning out and couponmom I mean coupondad.com - : )
Nah, that's not Connor. His mom is a bit uneasy with me posting pictures of him here, and no, he doesn't have a drumset YET. Just a lonely, battered-to-hell drum that's great for stress relief.
An actual set of skins isn't too far off, though.
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