"Less Talk, More Rock"

Before last night's finale, I couldn't have cared less for American Idol.

I'm sorry, were you expecting more?

There are many things about this show I don't like, but I will admit to watching only the first two or three episodes of the show each season, due purely to the scads of horrendous singers that continue to try out, invariably to be rejected via increasingly demeaning methods — although this season, the teasing crossed a few too many homophobic, sexist and racist lines for me to tune in again at the outset of next year's competition.

Well...maybe. Those poor ignorant fools who have no clue they can't sing are just too entertaining to pass up.

But, today while Connor and I were getting tore up from the floor up at the playground, I suddenly discovered a positive side to the otherwise banal television show: it gives parents something to talk about at gatherings.

While Connor and I sat digging in the dirt, several other parents with children arrived at the playground. While their children played, almost all of these parents huddled in the shade at a picnic table, waiting for their children to tire out so they could leave (a subject worth of a separate entry, for sure). They all sat stonefaced until someone mentioned American Idol. You would have thought that these people knew each other their whole lives the way they were prattling on about who should have won, who is secretly gay, who should wind up sleeping with the fishes, and so on.

Since few people seem to keep up with world events anymore (more people cast a vote for an "American Idol" last night than for any American president), and many of those who do are getting their "news" from a biased source (cough-Fox News-cough) so we need something in common, right?

I guess we could talk about the weather.


--
By the way, since this blog has become something of a job, I am taking a well-deserved, two-week vacation to remodel the basement, stain the deck and maybe make another baby.

Deal with that image for two weeks.

See you back here on June 12.

"Ain't Nobody Playin"

When you live in a remote area — as do we — you learn to appreciate the convenience of having necessary resources nearby. At no time has that been more apparent to me than today.

With Connor acting a bit stir crazy from being cooped up last week while sick, I've been trying to get us out of the house as much as possible. Today we headed to a nearby (relatively speaking) town to hit up the ginormous playground and adjacent duck pond that seems to fascinate Connor even more than Wal-Mart and the dump combined — I'm sure you are having trouble picturing such a magical place, huh?

There was just one teensy weensy problem: THE PLAYGROUND WAS CLOSED! (Can you sense the frustration?!) If we lived just around the corner, it'd be no problem, but since we'd made a 30 minute trip, it was a little inconvenient. What really bothered me, though, is that the playground was closed for no good reason. It seems this particular park has a large Memorial Day weekend festival, and to make sure that no one can do anything at the park but participate they close anything not directly related to the celebration. It didn't seem to matter that the shindig doesn't start until Friday, either. The playground is closed all week. Go figure.

Even though the reasoning behind the closure was beyond me, I made my peace with it. Connor was a bit more difficult to console.

Talk about a long ride home.

"Nightmares By The Sea"

As I've mentioned before, I married into a family of Italians — some of them very old school. Along with the proud heritage, fabulous food and questionable customs (squid for Christmas Eve dinner, anyone?) comes a finely cultivated sixth sense. Even my otherwise sane wife — who, as a psychologist, is involved with a profession that is based largely on scientific study — occasionally claims to possess this trait.

For years, several members of Stacey's family claimed to have experienced repeated visions of her older sister Susan's future offspring, which was surely just around the corner, they swore. But, despite this bankable sense of intuition, none of the family prophets ever had any visions of Stacey having a child, even though she proved to be the first sibling to get pregnant. No one besides me seemed to notice anything telling in this revelation.

But, in the past few weeks, I've had dreams about a subject about which I am terrified to consider to be in any way a premonition — Connor's drowning to death.

Gentle transition, huh?

About most things, I am not a chronic worrier, so I don't think I've developed a sudden fear of losing my son to powers out of my control, which scares me even more about these repeated dreams. We do live on the lake, and we are making a trip to the beach soon, so perhaps that's to blame, but I've had several dreams that revolve around this particular theme, and aside from him drowning, there are no other recurring motifs. I've "seen" him drown in bathtubs, the lake, et cetera, and it makes me sick when I wake up. Once, I even drowned him myself in a dream.

Would it be cruel to have a lifejacket surgically attached?

"Too Much Month (At The End Of The Money)"

First it was the student loan debt. Next it was scaling back from two incomes to one. Then it was the coma-inducing hospital bill. Oh, and don't forget the nasty heroin habit. There's also the ever growing price of gas and the distance between us and anything resembling civilization. Last week Stacey got a speeding ticket. Today, a flat tire.

I'm sure I've left something out, but at this point, does it matter?

I won't go so far as to say that we're broke, because we do have some reserves from which we can draw emergency funds. We also have items that we can sell including blood plasma, spare organs (and not the kind you play in church, either) and two-year-old boys to keep us afloat, Of course we also have a host of family members who are nothing if not selfless in their generosity, but we're not exactly operating in the black right now.

To try and offset things a bit, Stacey has found a new hobby: clipping coupons. I secretly (well, not anymore, I guess) think that this is another attempt to prove that she's the smartest, most hardworkin'est member of this partnership (which, let's be obvious, I surrendured any claim to looooong ago). After buying the requisite supplies, which include a how-to book, a binder full of baseball card holders for organizing the coupons and cultivating a working knowledge of price comparison, she's set out to reinvent how we buy groceries.

I'm not asking too many questions but I can say this: we now have better food in our pantry (name brands, even!!) and we're somehow spending less, although I haven't seen the receipts.

Wait, maybe she has another new hobby she hasn't told me about yet. That would explain all those new fancy pairs of underwear she bought.

This post would probably explain why I'll be sleeping on the couch tomorrow night.

"When The Levee Breaks"

Remember the scene in Dumb and Dumber where Jeff Daniels' character gets dosed with TurboLax and has an unfortunate encounter with an out-of-order toilet? Welcome to Wednesday night in the Davis house — just add in uncontrolled vomiting for extra effect, and a working toilet, thank GOD!

Not pretty.

Now that the virus seems to have mostly passed out of my system, though, I thought that we were all three finally getting back to our normal happy selves, instead of shuffling around the house with a perma-scowl on our faces and vomit on our breath.

But, just before bed, Connor threw up for the first time since Tuesday morning when this nightmare really kicked in.

If we're all getting sick again I swear I'm going to start shooting.

"Don't Stand So Close To Me"

Crap.

Connor is finally over his bug, but in the process of curing him (which involved a live rooster, ten red M&M candies and a gallon of salt), Stacey and I both caught whatever he had. She's coming out of it, but I was apparently the last one to be infected.

I've got "it" coming out of both ends — too much information? — making Old Faithful look lazy by comparison, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Save yourself before it's too late.

Run.

"Sick Boy"

He's at it again.

This morning, when I went to wake Connor up to make our 8:20 doctor's appointment, I was greeted with the distintive aroma of vomit and a drippy mess that culminated in a chunky puddle on the floor next to his crib.

As proof that he's truly sick he didn't even budge, even with the door wide open, light filling the previously darkened room. Stacey and I cleaned up as much as possible and hurried off to the appointment. His doctor basically gave us "wait and see" orders, so for the rest of the day we chilled out, watched cartoons and drank several ounces of Gatorade every 15 minutes. By 5:30, we felt brave enough to attempt dry cereal and eventually plain rice. So far so good.

A few hours ago, he went to sleep easily enough, but I'm dreading what I'm going to find tomorrow morning.

"Get This Party Started"

Today was Connor's 2nd birthday. How'd he spend it? The exact same way he spent it last year — sick as a dog. Call me crazy, but I think there's a slight correlation between ingesting ten cups of sugar and napping only once during our three day weekend that's to blame.

Stacey took today off from work to hang out with the birthday boy and ended up playing nurse instead of going to the park or out to lunch, as she'd so optimistically planned. He was feeling better by tonight, though — keeping a bit of Corn Pops and Gatorade down — so any worries about another bout of Rotavirus have been quashed. Well, it's either that or his immune system kicked the shiite out of the little round invaders, sending them back to the shopping cart at Wal-Mart where he probably picked the germs up in the first place.

But, rather than bore you with the details of what the vomit of a sick kid looks like — a subject with which I'm intimately familiar, let me assure you — I'll let you see the video from his birthday party yesterday at Stacey's parents house instead.

Your appetite will thank me.

"Everything's Not Lost"

Our house isn't that big. We don't have a ton of stuff. We have few flat surfaces for depositing small (or big) items. Would someone please explain to me how we keep losing stuff?

First it was my Swiss Army knife (which I've since recoverd and had surgically attached to my right hand), then it was an endless line of car keys, credit cards, toy skateboards, ball point pens, dirty underwear, -item censored-, and even food items. Ever since Connor came along, we just can't seem to keep track of our stuff.

Yesterday, as per our usual routine, Connor and I made a trip to Wal-Mart. In the course of our travels, he conned me into buying him yet another Matchbox car. He's quickly approaching a car collection that would make Jay Leno blush.

Twenty minutes after we returned home, the car was gone. I remember seeing it in the house, so I KNOW we made it home with the toy car. Despite turning the house upside down (literally...I'm freakishly strong), I have yet to find the damn thing. I'm sure when we move in August (back to Atlanta, maybe you've heard!?), we'll stumble on Connor's secret hiding spot where he keeps his Playboys, the countless number of my guitar picks he's absconded with or the password to his MySpace account.

I've mentioned how much I hate to lose track of stuff, right?

I think, for my sanity's sake—especially when he's not even aware a specific toy is missing—I just have to try and forget about keeping track of everything Connor owns...especially since the worth of his enormous toy collection is quickly approaching the GNP of many small countries.

Maybe I can just get my OCD medication upped instead?

"Beat On The Brat"

One of the most depressing days of my life was when I heard the following cliche: the cleanest that your car will ever be is on the day you buy it and the day you sell it. As someone who strives to keep his posessions looking as new as possible, this devastated me. Even though I stepped up my efforts to rid my car of dirt, I secretly knew this revelation to be true.

Last year, at my job as a managing editor for two monthly publications, one of the perks I receieved was free car detailing in a trade deal involved with acquiring an advertising contract. We run their ads. They clean our cars and pay us for the privelege. Works for me.

Most of the people I worked with were single. Only two — not counting me — were married. Only one had kids. When detailing day rolled around, can you guess whose car took more than an hour to clean every time? It wasn't mine — that took them all of five minutes since I'd pretty much already done their job for them. I remember standing on the porch of our building watching the detailers take jackhammers and pressure washers to the car of my co-worker with kids to blast away the Cheerios/raisin/peanutbutterjelly globs that had become part of the upholstery. That was as good a birth control method I'd ever seen. Kids equal mess. Mess equals stress. Stress equals a loaded gun in a crowded shopping mall and we don't want to down that road, okay?

I have a strict list of what Connor is allowed to consume in my car, which mostly includes dried, non-sugary foods, such as animal crackers — yes, vegetarians eat animal crackers. Spare me the jokes, please. But, after every trip, I find myself scouring the backseat for stray pieces of food, which I invariably find tucked into the most obscure corners and crevasses.

Stacey once found a dead cockroach in the carseat that's in her car, which was enough to make me want to strap Connor to my roof. I know now that's a felony. Lesson learned.

In order to preserve my relationship with my son, though, I don't blow a fuse when he wings his crackers at my head, or stomps the back of my seat with his dirty feet. I just try and stay on top of the mess, but the day I find a dead roach (or a live one) in my car, fuse blowing will most certainly commence. Don't make me angry, boy. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

You wanna let this kid ride with you?

"What's The Matter With Parents These Days?"

Whoever said that marriage is the biggest compromise you'll ever make never had kids.

Just a few moments ago, I was sitting downstairs, working on a freelance project on my computer when I overheard Stacey getting ready to put Connor to bed upstairs.

"Okay, you can touch the nail, but then it's time for bed," she told him, matter of factly.

On one of the walls in his bedroom, is a nail left from a picture that we took down so it wouldn't get broken while we're staying here. Ever since the day we removed the picture in August, thus exposing the nail, Connor has been fascinated with it. He used to demand to touch it after every nap, but he's backed off a bit.

This scenario is a perfect example of how our lives have changed in the past two years. Now, instead of merely rocking a newborn to sleep, we have to touch nails in the wall, read certain books using specific voices, and dance on one foot with a paper pirate hat on our heads. Instead of simply parking our butts on the couch and stuffing a bottle in a baby's mouth, we have to entice the child to the table with crayons, toys and threats of bodily harm.

Marriage? Pfffft. Piece of cake.

"Working for the Weekend"

I work hard all week. I go to the grocery store. I wash the dishes (mostly). I spray Tilex in the shower every day. I do my little dance on the catwalk. But, when the weekend comes, I like to "clock out" and indulge myself. This is a self-prescribed regimen that has been enabled by Stacey's tenacious defense of her weekend time with Connor. Since she won't give him up anyway, I find other ways to occupy myself.

This weekend, my closely guarded routine was disrupted. On Saturday night, Stacey's stomach turned into a powder keg — well, a gooey, spasming mess of a powder keg. While I slept peacefully, she spent a great portion of the night in the bathroom, vomiting and dry heaving until her stomach was so sore that I couldn't even look at her without it hurting. I'll bet she's pissed that I went into so much detail, too.

On Sunday morning, I woke up to the sounds of "Daddy's coming." Wondering why Stacey wasn't in the bedroom and the baby monitor was, I went looking for an explanation, finding Stacey huddled up on the bed downstairs. Without asking, I already knew she was sick. We think she might have some form of the same Rotavirus that blindsided Connor nearly two months ago. (By the way, I spared some of you outspoken wusses the projectile vomiting pictures, and I found some GOOD ones online, too.)

So, she camped out in our bedroom upstairs, while Connor and I played downstairs until about lunchtime, oblivious to her presence in the house. I think he figured that his weekend had been cut short, too, and he didn't pitch too much of a fit at being stuck with just me again. His mama eventually emerged from her cocoon, parked herself in the recliner and was basically limp for the remainder of the day, cursing under her breath that she was missing out on some of her own preciously guarded weekend time.

But, even though I didn't spent the entire weekend being a miscreant, playing PS2 or my guitar, or loafing around the house like usual, I still enjoyed my weekend. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my wife.

"Finest Worksong"

Today was officially an every-other-Thursday, meaning that Connor's great grandparents were here to take the horrid burden of being a parent to a kid with way too much charm for his own good off of me for a day. Since I've got plenty to work on in the way of writing this week, I used the time constructively, rather than wistfully wasting the day watching Arrested Development episodes or seeing how many nose hairs I can pluck before my eyes start watering.

Basically, as soon as my backup arrived, I parked myself at my desk and started banging out the copy — in between trips to the pantry for a replinishment of my ever dwindling Atomic FireBall supply, of course. Since my computer is set up in the den, though, any mental outbursts were limited to a couple of minutes at a time.

Once Connor went down for his nap, though, I got into serious writing mode. I plugged in my noise isolating headphones (so I wouldn't hear the snoring of a certain great-grandparent or two who shall remain nameless), put on the soothing sounds of Mobb Deep, and got to work. After nearly three hours, during which I never once glanced at my watch, I realized that I'd been writing undisturbed for what was probably the longest duration since I left my job last summer.

Around that time, Connor was waking up and my creativity was coming to an end.

Prior to today, I had been thinking that I would have a tough time reacclimating myself to working — and I probably will — but I will now admit, in public, that it probably won't be as tough as I had assumed. So, Stacey, you can stop worrying about me going back to work. When Connor — and any future offspring we might produce, adopt or steal — graduates high school, I'm right back in the workforce.

Sounds like a plan to me.

"No Need To Argue"

Despite getting along famously these days, I think I've accepted that, one day, Connor and I are going to argue. These days, our disagreements consist mostly of him wanting to spend 99 percent of his life out of doors, and me insisting that we come back in for trivial routines, such as mealtimes and naps.

I know that I can't predict how our relationship will change over the course of the next something-teen years, but by the time Connor is in middle school, I fully expect the gloves to come off — I just don't know what we'll fight about yet, though I do have one prediction that I'm almost willing to lay money on: grammar.

Pffft. Kids these days have zero appreciation for proper grammatical usage. In my day, we spoke all proper like (well, not really) and we liked it. But, if you combine anincreasingg dependence on typing (e-mail, IM, etc) with the inherent laziness that is part and parcel with those of the teenage persuasion, disaster is inevitable, OMG, LMAO, ROTFL, LOL, PWNED! So br00tal!

I should confess that I've used one or two of these inane terms once or twice myself. I've even used a "smiley" in an e-mail or two. Ugh, I disgust myself.

When it comes to grammar, I'm an asshole. Stacey is probably sick to death of me chiming in every time she makes a verbal miscue, but she wasn't complaining when I was editing her cover letters for internship sites, now was she?

By the way, for those of you now self-conscious that I'm mentally correcting your grammar when we're talking, know this: Stacey is a psychologist, and I can guarantee that she's already mentally diagnosed every single one of you. She'll deny it, but don't let her fool you. You're all nuts.

"Country Roads Take Me Home"

Although it's not yet been confirmed, it looks like we're finally headed back to our hometown — the suburbs outside of Atlanta — after a six year absence, which saw a lot of our friends getting married, having kids or going to jail. Sometimes, all three.

Stacey was tentatively offered a post-doctoral position with a university counseling center (pending approval from their Human Resources dept.), and we should know within 24 hours whether the offer is officially on the table. The HR screening, as I understand it, is little more than a minor checkpoint to ensure that no "undesirables" are hired. Seeing as how Stacey is very desirable, I can't see how they'd pass on her.

When we blew town in the summer of 2000, we were two kids who'd been dating a while, but were still unsure of our future together. We return, married for several years with a child, a car payment, student loan debt and a road-weary dog in tow.

Prior to today's welcomed news, there was a possibility that we could have stayed put as Stacey's current employer might have ponied up and offered her a full-time position upon fulfillment of her internship. Knowing that we're leaving in a few months, though, makes putting up with the-20-minute-drive-to-anywhere a bit more tolerable. Besides, apart from trips to the grocery store or the mall, you're almost guaranteed at least 20 minutes in the car while driving in Atlanta traffic.

We aren't sure yet where we'll be living next year — maybe shacked up with Stacey's parents, if we can sneak in one night and hole ourselves up before they can kick us out — but eliminating one uncertainty from our status next year has lifted a ton of bricks off of our shoulders.

These past nine months have been fun and tough at the same time. On the positive side, we have an unbelievably generous hookup on rent payments (I'm actually ashamed to put the figure in print), but it's easy to feel isolated out here in the woods. Plus, 95 percent of our stuff is stored in Atlanta in a relative's basement as this house was furnished when we moved in.

I will certainly miss living on the lake, but it sure will be nice to be living in the same city as our furniture again.

"Talk is Cheap"

Sometimes I stop and really think about how lucky I am. Sure, we've got a knee-wobbling hospital bill hanging over our heads from Connor's recent stint in sick bay, we're facing the uncertainty of where we'll be next year and how the hell we'll make a living, and we're currently maxing out the possibilities of our "getting by on the kindness of strangers" budget, but life is good — well, for me and Connor, at least. Stacey's gotta go to work every day, the poor lass.

Today was a gorgeous day, with temperatures hovering in the low 70s and just enough clouds in the sky to keep the impending heat of summer at bay. After a few routine errands, Connor and I headed to the playground. For most of the time we spent there, we had the slide, swings and sand all to ourselves. After about 45 minutes, a mom with two kids showed up — a 14-month-old and a six-year-old. With her attention focused solely on the younger of the two siblings, we found ourselves with a new playmate. Connor was jealous of this kid's sandbox toys since figuring out new ways to get sand in my shoes is one of his favorite pasttimes. Our new acquaintance was gracious anough to let Connor play with his shovel and dumptruck, but, the tradeoff was that this boy became Connor's play boss.

"We're going to fill up this bucket, okay," he'd say, and Connor would politely oblige, fulfilling every duty he was instructed to complete.

After playing for a while, the boy decided that they needed to bury the dumptruck in the sand. Realizing that Connor wasn't understanding what he wanted him to do, he said, "we're gonna bury it — you know, like they do to people when they die?"

His mom, who had been oblivious to her elder son to this point, quickly snapped to attention and scolded him.

I understood her concern, but couldn't stop laughing. Suddenly, I had a realization: If Connor spends enough time around other kids, he'll learn about everything that we're scared to talk about with him.

Suddenly, daycare is starting to look more appealing.