"Sweet Child O' Mine"

One of my favorite comedians, David Cross, has a joke about pathetic and boring his friends who have recently had kids for the first time have become, especially when talking about their kids.

"Oh, David, you should have seen him; he was great; he's such a funny little guy. We just... yesterday, yesterday, yesterday... he was staring at this grape!"

It's so true, but it's also a perfect indicator of the divide between those of us who have kids and those of us who don't. Before Connor came along, I could probably count on one finger the things in my life that I couldn't walk away from at a moment's notice if I absolutely had to—boy that should fuel some speculation, huh?

Now, I can't get more than ten feet away from this skinny, pink stick of a kid with permanent bed-head before I start to miss him—though I've gotten the violent muscle spasms and obnoxious cursing somewhat under control now. Everything Stacey and I see when we're away from him, we either think about how much our boy would like to see it, or how much it reminds us of him. It doesn't matter if it's a mud puddle, a discarded work boot or a homeless war vet amputee—we see Connor in everything.

Occasionally, in the middle of all the joy, there are times of concern—like today when Connor was diagnosed with a case of bronchitis or last year's hospitalization for Rotavirus, or the continual parade of cuts, bruises and other minor maladies. Stacey is constantly consumed with morbid thoughts of things that could possibly happen to Connor, and I must confess that I am, too. Shows like Law & Order are now nearly off limits as they always seem to deal with hurt/endangered/molested/kidnapped/murdered children. I just don't have the gut for that anymore.

Anyone similarly turned off by these topics would do well to avoid the movie Freedomland, though I am immensely glad I sacked up and sat through it, even if it did deal with the uncomfortable topics of violence, absentee parents and children caught in the middle.

When the movie was over, I wanted to wake Connor up and hold him 'til dawn—and never let him out of my sight from then until my last breath, although it might look odd, in 50 years, for an old man to be holding a full grown dude on his lap.

Though I already knew it, Freedomland reminded me why being a parent is one of the most gut-wrenchingly painful and rewarding endeavors that a human can undertake. We love our children, and we want to protect them, but we can't always be there for them—despite our best efforts to shield them from every danger the world has to offer.

Today, I found out that the remains of a little girl who was abducted from the bus stop just a hundred yards from our house in Alabama several years ago were found in the crawlspace of an abandoned house in a nearby town earlier this week.

While I certainly don't need help appreciating Connor, stories such as this one (or this blog) or even ephemeral entertainment fare like Freedomland remind me that my time with him is limited, in the grand scheme of things. All I can do is love him and try to be the best role model I can... stop snickering... I said "try."

I initially wanted this post to be a convincing argument for the benefits of having children, though I'm sure that never came across. All I can say is this: I wouldn't trade my son for anything in the world. If you think you might be inclinded to swap your own flesh and blood for, say, a PlayStation3 or a dose of Crystal Meth, parenthood might not be for you. Otherwise, join the party. I need someone new to talk dirty diapers with.

"Long Way Back From Hell"

He's baaaaaaaack!

You'd think I learned my lesson fifteen years ago ... at least that's what my mama says.

After countless broken bones, cuts, gashes, sprains and Godknowswhatelse inflicted upon my body in the name of skateboarding, maybe I should have figured out that pads and a helmet aren't the enemy long before now. In light of recent events, though, I've invested in some wrist guards and a decent helmet (with elbow and knee pads likely to follow shortly), because if I get mangled, I can't write. If I can't write, I can't earn. If I can't earn ... seein' a pattern yet?

Two weeks after spraining my wrist (and with a soft cast on), I made a trip to the same skatepark that so generously gave me a sprained wrist to show that concrete beast that I wasn't afraid of it. After being there for exactly two seconds, I slammed again, removing a healthy (healthy?) portion of skin from one elbow, two knees. Oh, and I'm also sporting a nice "hipper."

I'm not fifteen anymore. My body doesn't instantly heal itself, and I suppose it's time I accepted that fact. Besides, Connor WILL wear a helmet if he starts skating in the next few years, so I might as well get used to wearing one now. ("Why doesn't daddy have to protect HIS brain?")

Today at the 'park, a full-time touring musician was sessioning with us, sans pads, and I couldn't help but think, 'If you slam hard, your band is screwed. DUDE, put some pads on.'

Great, I've turned into my mother.