From the Mouths of Babes

You have to know Grey's granddad to understand this story, so here goes:

He is a man that would lose his keys every single day of his life if he didn't put them in the same place every time he took them out of his pocket.  So, he puts them in the same place every single day and has never once lost them.  He is the kind of person who you are not allowed to speak to until 20-30 minutes after he has come home because he rushes immediately to his office to jot down a reminder on a legal pad or make a note of something he has heard on the radio or read in the paper that he doesn't want to forget.  He then proceeds to write thank you notes or letters of encouragement to friends and return every single phone call that he has said he would return.  Then, and only then, will he exit his office and proceed with your typical welcome home type stuff.

At this point you have less than five minutes to hold his attention on any pressing matter as all he can think about is briskly walking through the kitchen, sliding past the living room, and into his bedroom to change into his running gear.  If anyone is standing adjacent to his path, he will ask them how their day went, or maybe how their job was going, or he may even ask them for their opinion on some new restaurant downtown.  If you use more than three words in your description you are wasting your breath.  He is already gone - if not physically, certainly mentally.  If you say anything negative, you have lost him - this is a man who claims that he has never been ill, nor has he ever had a bad day at work, and he has zero interest in hearing about yours.  He didn't really want to talk to you at all, but he considers himself too much of a gentleman to walk through a room and not acknowledge your very existence.

Next, he is going running.  It does not matter what the weather, it does not matter what plans you have, or that you might need five seconds of his time (my mother has literally unloaded furniture by herself as he ran by saying, "That's a nice looking wingback chair."), you are not getting it.  The trail is.  He has run almost every single day of his life for the last 30 years and you are not important enough to keep that from happening on this or any other day.  If you think that you are, or you think that today is special, you are about to get your feelings hurt because it is not happening.

When he gets back from his love affair with the River Parks and his beloved trail, he is going to take a shower without waiting for one second to do it.  There will be no replacement of burnt out light bulbs, there will be no hanging of my mother's many holiday flags, there will be no prolonged chit-chatting with the neighbors on the front lawn or otherwise.  There will be a shower and it will be now.

After the shower there are a few minutes in which he may engage with you while he eats, most often while standing, in the kitchen.  At this point you may feel like you can really have a conversation with him and sometimes you are right.  Other times you will find yourself answering a question to the refrigerator because he has exited without whatever information you were asked to convey to him.  My mother starts to answer a question and then proceeds to sprint down the hall toward his office, her volume increasing as if she is having a conversation with someone that is standing on an elevator whose doors are closing. Either that or she prattles on and on about something and just as she starts to enjoy the sound of her own voice, she hears his office door shut and realizes she has been holding an audience with thin air for minutes.

Throughout the rest of the evening, my son's granddad will exit his office intermittently for food, something to drink, or perhaps to let you know that there is something more interesting on television than what you have chosen to watch.  The way he lets you know this is by entering the room and changing the channel on the television that you are watching.  And rest assured, if there is an HD version of the channel he wishes for you to enjoy, the television will not be on it.  He claims to not see any difference, so he hasn't bothered to memorize the channel numbers.

But despite all of this, there are the sweet things, too.  He loves my wife and is proud to share an inside joke with her about their common astrological sign, Scorpio, and how that totally lets him off the hook for being a recluse.  He thinks that my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world and never fails to mention it.  He is the most protective and proud of my little brother, and in ancient times he would have been designated the Patron Saint of House Cats for the love, care, and rescue of some of God's most wonderful creatures.  He cares deeply about the treatment of minorities and the disenfranchised and starts guerrilla campaigns with the followers of his radio program to strip the city of misplaced election signs during voting season.  Memorial Day will find him in a graveyard placing small flags next to the plaques of the men and women who have died for their country and our freedom.  And about the only thing that is allowed to get in the way of his daily run is an opportunity to stop, pet, and ask the name of a dog that he meets along the path.

And then there is Grey, his grandson. He is absolutely over the moon about his grandson.  At ten months old, my son is the proud owner of batting gloves, a radio flyer wagon, just about every children's book that can be purchased, a trailer that can be pulled by my bicycle, and slightly more of his granddad's attention than any of the rest of us have been able to hold.  Having never had any siblings or children of his own, I would say that granddad has done very well with Grey.  He is a natural at holding and playing, if not the best at consoling.  He is constantly amazed with Grey's development and is thinking of him on an hourly basis.  He even mentioned him on his radio program the other day, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.

A few days ago my son strung together his first multi-syllabic word.  To non-parents this will mean very little, but to anyone who has raised a child from infancy, it is understood that this is a milestone.  One that denotes complex speaking patterns and advancing brain development.  And when you have a child, you get very excited when these words come out of their mouth as they tend to become some sort of bizarre affirmation that you have not yet screwed him or her up completely.  Are you ready for the word?  The one whose utterance simultaneously fills me with pride and laughter?  Here it is:  "bubo."  (pronunciation: buh-bo)

Okay, so technically it is not a word, but it is two syllables strung together.  And not accidentally, either. He says it all the time.  What he means by it we have no fucking idea, but that's not the point really.  It is the first word he says in the morning and the last one he says at night.  A few evenings ago, he was totally asleep and then he pulled away from my wife's breast, opened his eyes, and said, "bubo," in a raspy voice and then proceeded to go back to sleep.

Cari and I talked about what we thought Grey might mean by the word "bubo" for awhile and then we joked about how granddad constantly repeated the word back to him in what we had determined was either an effort to communicate, or what was more than likely a desperate attempt to say something relevant to a ten month-old boy.  Often, when we go over to his house, granddad will have forgotten the most recent thing that we have been saying that makes Grey laugh, or he incorrectly mimics Grey's speech and I will admit, there have been times when I have thought less of him for not being more involved and staying engaged.  Is it too much to ask for a person to just stay in a room and pay attention to his grandson and possibly even his children or maybe his wife?

Later that evening I got a text from my mother that read:  "I just went in granddad's office to feed the cats and I looked at the legal pad on his desk.  Look at the entry at the bottom of the page."

You're off the hook, Granddad...

Interview with the Artist

The following is a pretend interview with a very real artist - it was originally initiated in early December of 2010.  Following a string of life altering events I sat down with Beau Matthew Adams as he tried to make sense of it all.  By "trying to make sense of it all", I mean to say that he was noticeably distracted.

So, I have been following your blog for a number of months and I have some questions about it.  Why the name, Kickball?
Good question, you know, you are the first person who has ever asked me that.  Two reasons, really.  One, because I wanted to convey how much fun writing is for me, and when I thought back to my childhood, I realized that one of the things that I enjoyed the most was playing kickball on the playground at recess during grade school.


And...
And what?


You said that there were two reasons that you named your blog Kickball.  What was the other one?
No, that was it.  Did I say that there were two reasons?  No, just the one reason.  That's it - just had fun playing Kickball when I was a kid.


Ooookaaayyy...  Well, let's talk about your childhood then.  You moved around a lot as a small child, how did-
Oh yeah, I remember the other reason now.  That's right - there were two reasons - I was right the first time.  The other reason was because nobody ever fucking reads this thing anyway, so who gives a shit?


I see.  So your early childhood, was it problematic to move so often?  Did it leave you with a sense of insecurity?
Yeah, there was a certain amount of "gypsy" to my family's existence, but I don't think that you understand that until you get older, you know?  I mean, I guess I figured that everyone moved around a lot until I met some people who told me that they had never moved at all.  I guess that is when I really started to realize that some families move around a lot, but some families pretty much stay put.

Interesting (sigh)...  So, do you think that has had a profound effect on who you are today?  On your writing style?  Or on how you approach your craft?
Well, perhaps...  If we could go back to the first question for a minute, I would like to say that the more I think about it, the more I realize that I really love those balls that we used to play kickball with on the playground. You know, those big red bouncy ones?

Yes, I am aware of the balls you are speaking of, quite a lot of fun, indeed.  What were you like as a teenager? 
I was a pretty normal teenager, I think.  I was full of self- doubt.  I always wanted to be someone else, that sort of thing.  I was quiet.

Were you a good student?
Not really.  I got pretty good grades for awhile, but then they kind of slipped and when I was no longer at the top of my class, I quit caring.  I wouldn't do any homework - I refused to spend my time at home working on school work, so I would work feverishly in each class during the day doing the homework that had been assigned in the previous class.  In the end, there was always some homework that didn't get done and I would try to finish that work on the day it was due during the actual class.  I would either whip right through it, or if I was too far behind, I would just copy someone else's work.  Inevitably, it was a horrible plan.

Did you enjoy college?
Parts of it.  I liked the coffee, doing crossword puzzles, and going to parties.  And I always enjoyed enrollment...ahh, the possibilities.

You were an English Major at Oklahoma State University.  Were you a good writer then?
No, but luckily for me, I thought I was.

Do you think that you are a good writer now?
No, I am not really a writer.  I just kind of live my life and try to transcribe it into the written language.  I am more like an inept stenographer than a good writer.

I know that you are also interested in yoga and music.  Are you particularly proficient at either of these pursuits?
I enjoy them, but I don't think that I am very good at them.  I'm the kind of person that is a little bit good at a lot of things, rather than very good at a few things.

How has that worked out for you?
Not that well.  It seems to be of more value to be really good at one thing than fairly average at a bunch of things.  There is not much interest in comprehensive mediocrity.

How will you make it work for you?
I am not sure - that's what I have been trying to figure out for my entire life.  I think that might be my life's purpose.

Why don't you just try to work on one thing and try to be really good at that thing?
I don't know, it's just not in me.  I don't enjoy just working on one thing.  I would be much happier working on a variety of things.

What if that doesn't exist?  What if that opportunity never presents itself?
First of all, let me say that I believe it will.  I guess that until it does, I'll just keep looking for it.  I'll just keep trying to find a way.  Maybe I can find a way and that will be an inspiration to others, to show them that there is a way.  I have a terrible feeling that there are a lot of people that feel the way I do, but would never even admit it to themselves.  I think that we toil in work because we invested time and money to earn a degree or master a craft, and proclaim to our families and the world that "this" is what we're going to do for the rest of our lives and we become petrified with fear when we get in the middle of it and discover that it is no longer enjoyable, or it has changed in a way that we cannot repair.  At that point, you can choose to leave it all behind, knowing that your efforts weren't wasted and that your knowledge will not be stripped from you, or you can continue to live in the fear of how the rest of the world will view you and put your head down, maintain your path, and ultimately come to some kind of peace while always working to quiet the "what-ifs" that tug at you.  It makes me sad that most people choose the latter.

So, you think that people who go to school, get a degree, and then pursue that profession throughout their adult lives are unhappy?
Not necessarily.  Some people just seem to know exactly what they want to be, and for them none of that is a waste of time.  However, I think that it is somewhat ludicrous to believe that the majority of 19 year-olds know exactly what they want to do every day for the rest of their lives.  I think what is more likely is that as a young person, you make the best choice you can based on the information that you have and then try to make it work for you as you go along.


You recently quit your high-paying corporate job to help your wife start her own business.  Is that the answer?
It's part of it.  It's not the whole answer, but it's part of it.  I was able to help her and get her set up on a path that gives her an outlet for her creativity.  That is of some value.

But that isn't enough?
No.  It was one of my goals, and certainly my immediate one, but I also need to find something that I enjoy doing creatively.  I also need my own enterprise or else I will just end up in the same spot of working to fulfill other's dreams.

Was it irresponsible to quit your job?
No.  It was not irresponsible, it was perhaps, irrational.  I have this quote that I like to try and remember, "To the rationally minded the mental processes of the intuitive appear to work backwards."  To me, it would have been much more irresponsible to stay in a position that I had become so unhappy to be a part of.

So, you have it figured out then?
No, not at all.  I am figuring it out as I go.  I have had to come to terms with that, but to think that anyone else is doing it any differently would be absurd.  Even the most self assured people are just figuring it out as they go along.  You have to become comfortable with that axiom.

What will you do next?
I am going to do all of the things I always claimed that I couldn't do because of my job.  I have to change things up.  It wouldn't do much good to claim that my job had held me back from accomplishing certain things just to quit my job and then not try to accomplish them.

What will you do for income?
Money will come.  It always does.  My only hope is to get closer to finding a way to marry my love of writing with my love of massive amounts of income and quality health insurance.

Are you scared?
Yes, I am.  Sometimes I am petrified and other times I am completely calm.  Ultimately, I am just banking on the calmness winning out...

My two best friends...

I am so proud of my best friend, Jason Coates.  He was recently let go from a job that he hated desperately, but very much thought that he needed to survive.  After what I know were some trying weeks full of indecision, he has picked up some work through an aquaintance and is making more money and having more fun than before.  Hopefully, this new job will continue to adapt and become the job he had always wanted, but didn't ever know how to get.


And my wife, Cari, my other best friend.  She has started her own company, Care More Art, and in addition to raising our child, has worked tirelessly and has taken every free moment to create.  Her talent, determination, and work ethic are amazing.  I truly hope that she will soon realize the profits from all of her hard work and sacrifice.  My wife is a brave and skilled individual.  She has pushed forward with no guarantee of success, and yet, she has already accomplished what so many people can never even imagine doing:  Attempting to Live the Life of Her Dreams.

I am so proud of both of my friends and am fortunate to have them around to inspire me...

Yesterday...

...was easily one of the best days of my life.  As I sit here now at 7:00 AM (because our son decided to wake up at 3:30 and is now taking what we believe to be his morning nap) I have a little time to reflect.  Here is what I did:

• Woke up at 5:30 with Grey and read some books (Hippos go Berserk!).
• Morning Yoga with Grey (mostly he just climbed on me and laughed).
• Topeca Coffee - best in the world.
• Made appointments, checked with vendors, balanced Care More Art spreadsheets, etc...
• Rode my bike to Dwelling Spaces to check on Care More Art display/stock.  Rode bike to mail cards.
• Played with my son when I got home.
• Ate leftovers from the previous night - spaghetti with meat sauce and mushrooms.
• After Grey's afternoon nap, we went to Hobby Lobby to get some materials for our artist in residence, Grey refers to her as "mammamma".
• Prepared one of my favorite dinners, "Baked Potato Bar".
• Gave Grey a bath and got him ready for bed.
• Watched Manhattan on television.
• Read an interesting article about having too many things - http://almostfearless.com/2008/06/02/the-10-unexpected-costs-of-owning-things/
• Sat next to my wife on the couch/massaged her legs.
• Went to bed.

It may seem like a very simple day, and it was, but that is the point.  All things in balance.  Some work, some play, some exercise, and a few good meals.  I didn't waste anything, I didn't buy anything that I didn't need.  Things were accomplished, but at a reasonable pace with little or no stress.  Every member of my family was happy and well.

This is what my life is supposed to be like...  These are the goals I have set...

I love my life and I am thankful for it.

Holiday Tour 2010!!!

Production Rider for Adams Family Thanksgiving Visit / Holiday Tour 2010

Please read and understand that the following items should be strictly adhered to during the Adams Family Visit(s) during the 2010 Holiday Tour.  It is in the best interests of the VENUE (various hosts of Holiday parties/meals) that these demands be followed if VENUE wishes for a return visit from TALENT (Mother/Father) and HEADLINER (Adorable Infant) in the year 2011 and beyond.  Furthermore, there shall be no amendment to this contract without express consent of TALENT.

LOAD IN:

VENUE should be aware that TALENT may arrive as much as 3 hours before/after scheduled event start time due to TALENT’s complete reliance upon HEADLINER’s unscheduled nap times.  There should be no derogatory remarks made in reference to the TALENT’s time of arrival as TALENT is completely out of control of this situation and can be rather sensitive at times, particularly around the holidays.  VENUE shall considered itself forewarned.

Upon arrival, SPECIAL GUESTS (invitees to VENUE), should make sure to give TALENT a wide berth and steer clear of asking too many questions of TALENT.  TALENT does not have the mental acuity it once had and will likely have been sequestered in TOUR BUS (compact SUV) with irritable HEADLINER for a number of minutes/some hours prior to arrival.  Upon greeting TALENT, it is best to simply hand TALENT an ADULT BEVERAGE (import beer/red wine/festive holiday cocktail) and offer to take HEADLINER for a few minutes - possibly performing a diaper change.  It is important to note that during these first 15-30 minutes, TALENT may not be able to speak coherently or operate small appliances/corkscrews/bottle openers/swizzle sticks.

TALENT will be responsible for preparing SIDE DISH (twice baked sweet potatoes).  However, TALENT will not necessarily be responsible for delivering SIDE DISH as recently TALENT cannot even remember what day of the week it is and may indeed leave SIDE DISH in their oven/near front door /on roof of TOUR BUS.  SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should make no mention of missing SIDE DISH, as this will make TALENT feel terribly insecure and lead to possible overeating/binge drinking.  SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should keep in mind the spirit of the season and cut TALENT some slack.

SPECIAL GUESTS/VENUE should make no comment as to the appearance of TALENT upon arrival.  TALENT has very little time to shower or perform even the most basic of grooming tasks.  When TALENT is not working for HEADLINER, TALENT often stares blankly at the wall across the room from themselves wondering how long it will be until HEADLINER will wake and resume his relentless assault on inertia.

DINNER PERFORMANCE:

TALENT is aware that SPECIAL GUESTS will be sharing the bill during the dinner portion of the show and TALENT will be obliged to interact.  The following are some topics that are considered off limits for discussion with TALENT:

1. TALENT’s recent unorthodox employment choices.
2. TALENT’s inability to dress themselves in a fashionable sense/adequately remove pet hair from clothing.
3. TALENT’s parenting skills/lack of parenting skills.
4. SPECIAL GUESTS should be careful not to tell stories about being “bored” or allude to having “too much time on their hands,” as this will infuriate TALENT and send TALENT into a blind rage.
5. It will be best to avoid any topic that is particularly cutting edge or deemed underground/hip.  TALENT has very little time to stay abreast of these cultural developments and will feel terrible having to feign interest in/lie about the knowledge of such things.

Options for discussion with TALENT:

1. The desire to place individual/corporate orders with TALENT’s new business.
2. The feature film, Babies - TALENT was very impressed with this movie and has some interesting things to say about it.

LOAD OUT:

TALENT will require ample portions of each dinner item in reusable/recyclable containers - TALENT has very strong feelings about waste of any kind, especially waste of food.

TALENT is interested in recent back issues of magazines belonging to VENUE that TALENT hopes it will someday find the time to read. 

TALENT will gladly accept open/unopened bottles of red wine for personal use during the weekly celebration of “Wine Wednesday” back at TALENT’s residence (SPECIAL GUESTS/HEADLINER not invited).

Thanks for being a part of the Adams Family Thanksgiving/Holiday Tour 2010.  We anticipate that this year will be the best ever!!!  

Gun Control

The last time that I shot at an animal was also the only time.  I was either five or six years old, I can't remember which, but it had to be somewhere in those years because I remember the house where it happened.  It was a crummy little rent house on Bennett Street in Stillwater, OK.  The lessees of the house were my father, his best friend, and his girlfriend at the time who would eventually become my stepmother.  I had been left alone to shoot empty Coors beer cans in the backyard with the BB gun that my father had bought for me on an occasion for which I am not certain.  For most boys growing up in Oklahoma, the procurement of their first gun is a monumental event, but I can't recall ever even asking for one, though I may have, it is hard to say.

My father, being recently divorced from my mother had been going through a number of identity crises, and recently had settled on outdoorsman.  It was a good enough fit, he had grown a mustache and tended to look good in jeans and cowboy boots, plaid shirts, and goose down vests.  He had met someone through his girlfriend who was an actual hunter and probably decided that he should give it a go as well.  His metamorphosis from small-town optometrist to weekend game hunter was somewhat comical and a little sad at times.  Sure he owned a jeep, but to see him hoist a shotgun up to his shoulder and take aim was about as believable as watching a stage actor or a model on a photo shoot attempt the same motion.  It was not without its grace, but there was nothing about it that felt particularly lethal.

My father, the hunter was preceded by my father, the bohemian folksinger and followed by my father, the sailor.  Later incarnations would include the windsurfer, the tennis pro, the angler, the country-clubber, the woodworker, and so on.  Each of these hobbies requiring the purchasing of thousands of dollars worth of "gear" that he would devote the better part of my visiting weekends scouting out.  Sailing was my favorite because I actually got to go sailing which was mostly peaceful and of terrible interest to me.  But right now, he was a hunter.  And being the son of a self-interested father meant that I was, too.

Game hunting required a lot of equipment.  In particular, since no one in our family had ever hunted anything more than a great place to buy home furnishings, my father was starting from scratch.  We had to purchase various guns and ammunition, clothes for hunting when it was cold and clothes for hunting when it was wet.  We bought decoys that looked like mallard ducks and small wooden whistle-like devices that when correctly manipulated, mimicked their calls.  The shopping for these items seemed never ending and in the outdoors store I would wander off to the section with the camping equipment and marvel at the freeze dried food selections, browsing their bags as though I were preparing to order my dinner.  Although I remember spending a lot of time with my father shopping for hunting gear, I only remember going hunting with him once.

We had planned on being up very early in the morning, before sunrise.  Presumably so we could catch the birds unaware before they got their breakfasts and shuffled off to work.  But we overslept.  I remember my father hurrying around our house gathering up all of the necessary instruments that we would need to hunt down and kill... doves, I think it was.  We bundled ourselves in thick, puffy jackets and jumped in the jeep heading towards a ranch that one of my father's friends owned.  When we got there it was nearly 8:00 AM and even though I knew nothing about hunting, I could tell by the expression that my father was wearing that we were too late.  We walked the ranch covering acre after acre not seeing whatever it was we were supposed to be there to kill and I could tell my father was frustrated.  Every once in a while, I would ask him a question and he would remind me that I had to be quiet.

"The birds can scare just by hearing the dry grass under our feet," he explained.  So talking was out of the question.

After what seemed like several hours, we stopped at a little pond to drink some water from our canteens and eat some summer sausage and cheese that we had prepared the night before.  The sun was beating down on me and I could feel sweat rolling down various parts of my body underneath all of my clothes.  We sat quietly and ate, and I wondered if it might be alright to talk but then decided not to risk it.

It was my father who broke the silence.  "I think maybe we should start heading back.  Not many birds out here today."

I nodded my head not knowing if I was allowed to speak.

"Grab your things, let's go," he said, and he picked up his shotgun and I picked up the little pack with the food and threw it over my shoulder.

Just then, I saw my father spring into action and before I could turn around, I heard the explosion that was the discharge of his gun.  I turned to look at what he was shooting and saw a bird falling from the sky.  It was funny, though - like it was not falling the right way.  It was falling slower than I had expected and was much larger as well.

"Is that a dove?" I asked.

"I don't think so," my father said.

A visible tightness drew across his face as we went to see what he had shot.  When we got there we saw a large, brown-feathered bird struggling on the red clay soil.  It had not died yet and I wondered what he might be thinking.  Flying along one minute and struck to the ground, mortally wounded the next.  I started to cry and turned away from the whole scene when I was surprised by the sound of another blast from the shotgun.  I turned toward my father and I must have had a look on my face that demanded an explanation because he immediately told me, "I had to put it out of its misery."

I turned away again and searched the ground for something else to focus on, hoping that I would see something that would take my mind off of the way I felt in that moment.  I felt terrible for the bird and I was terrified to know what plans my father had for it now that it was dead.  I resolved not to look back in the direction of the massacre but soon broke my own promise as curiosity got the best of me.  When I scanned the ground where I had last seen our prey, I noticed only small mound of earth - no blood, no feathers.  My father had buried the bird.  Once again the look on my face must have warranted a response because my father said, "I wasn't supposed to shoot that bird.  It was a golden eagle.  Don't tell anybody that we shot it, I think it might be a federal offense."

I am not sure how much time passed between that day and the day that I stood aiming at a squirrel running the wire in the back yard at my father's rent house.  But even as I took aim and proceeded to squeeze the trigger of my BB gun, I knew what I was doing was wrong.  I may have nicked the squirrel or I may have missed him completely, but I am fairly certain that it was not a fatal shot because he scampered away down the wire and into a neighboring pecan tree fairly quickly and without much effort.  When I looked around to see if anyone had been watching, I saw my father.  The look on his face was one of disappointment and I knew without speaking that I had no good excuse.  He came and took the gun from my hands and I offered no struggle.

"You are only supposed to shoot at the cans," he said and he left me there in the backyard as he escorted the gun to the house.

I picked up a basketball that was lying in the yard and sizing up the hoop through my tears, I began to shoot.  I was crying because I had let my father down, I was crying because I was thinking about the bird, and I was crying because I wanted someone to make sense of it all for me.

I never shot another gun and I am pretty sure that my father hasn't either.  Our attempts at being wildlife hunters was a colossal disaster, at best.  I have never been able to understand how some fathers and sons get such a great bonding experience out of hunting down and killing animals.  But, there are a lot of things I don't understand.

One thing that I learned about my father and myself was the fact that if you give either of us a gun and enough time, we will eventually shoot at something that we shouldn't.

Crazy Kid Stuff

My baby now sits up.  He crawls, eats real food, and tries to stand, as well.  Next week he will be eight months old.  In two-thirds of one year he has managed to learn to do all of these things.  Truth be told, most of it has been learned in the last month or so.  Before then, he was mainly resigned to lying on his back like an upended turtle grasping at various shiny objects and working on his hand-eye skills.

But now he is mobile.  You can tell that these newly developed abilities make him very happy.  He is truly proud of himself as he moves towards top-heavy pieces of furniture and attempts to crush himself with them or as he squeals with glee when he grasps the power cord for the computer and proceeds to ingest it.  You can also tell that he is very much... a boy.

Right now his path of destruction is limited.  Without the ability to walk upright he can only manage to dislodge items that are grounded and somewhat light in weight such as our antique smoke stand or say, a swivel chair.  But you can tell he has his sights set on larger items - he is nothing if not persistent.  This is no real surprise to me.  I was a boy once and I even had the aid of a kid brother.  Together we managed to destroy almost every lamp, decorative wall-hanging, and expensive piece of furniture in our childhood home spanning the better part of two decades.  Play Australian Rules Football in the house?  Sounds like a great idea!  Smash eggs with a badminton racket?  Why not!

As a Father, I can understand these things.  They are not reasonable, but few things that boys enjoy are, really.  When I was a boy, I would spend the better part of an afternoon lying on my back and bouncing a racquetball off of the wall, up to the ceiling, and then back into my waiting hands.  Over and over again.  For hours.  This little exercise produced the most annoying rhythmic "da-dum" sound, which may explain why my mother always found so many errands to run on the weekends.

But as a woman, I am worried that Cari might not have the same shared-past type of lenses in her glasses that allow her to view these inherently stupid boy traits as amusing or even, endearing.  What will be her reaction the first time she turns a corner and sees Grey banging senselessly on the wood floors with the claw end of a hammer?  Might she be pleasantly surprised when she finds out that the reason there is water running down the stairs is because Grey has decided to find out just how many nerf balls he can stuff into the toilet?

Cari has an older brother, so it is not like she hasn't lived with this type of moronic behavior.  But he is 5 years older than her which means that she was not even born when his body of work had begun.  By the time she had enough sense to know that fastening the cat's collar to a plastic shopping bag was an insanely destructive idea, her brother had probably moved on to reading banned books and scheming on pubescent girls.

The other day as Cari and I were enjoying some cold, cold wine (don't ask) on the porch after putting our child to bed, Cari said, in an exasperated tone, "He is just such a...boy."  I didn't need any clarification - I instantly knew what she meant.

She said that she had been talking to our Godbrother, Gabriel, and that she was sorry to inform him that Grey was definitley a boy.  And most likely a heterosexual one as well.  "He flirts with women," she said, "I can feel my dream of having a little gay boy slipping away."

"Oh well," Gabe said, "we'll just have to remember that even though he may be attracted to women, we'll just have to do our best to love him for who he is."

This morning when I walked out of the house to go to work, I heard Grey begin to cry.  I hate to hear him that way, but I selfishly hoped that he was crying for me to come back.  He must have been, because Cari picked him up and brought him right outside so he could watch as I drove off down our street.  I can remember feeling that way about my parents, but I didn't know that it started that early.

I have to admit, it feels wonderful to be wanted in that way.  Different than any way anyone has wanted me to be around before.  I always understand when a pet feels that way about me, but I usually chalk that up to the fact that I feed them, therefore when I leave, they may be worried that they will starve to death.  But I don't feed Grey - not in a life sustaining way.  When I feed him it is more of an excersise than any true attempt at nourishment.  The reason he was upset is simply because he wanted me to be around and he became fearful my walking out the door meant that that was not going to happen.

As I drove away, waiving to Cari and Grey as they stood on the porch, I could see him studying me, studying the car and listening to the sounds it made as I pulled away.  I wondered what he must be thinking.  Probably something along the lines of, "I wonder how many rocks it would take to break all of the windows out of that thing."

Wish List

I have been spending the last two "work days" at home with my family under the guise of a stomach virus and I have come to realize something that I had previously suspected - they are really pleasant people and I would like to see them more often.  It is Tuesday, and I just haven't been able to make myself go to work yet this week.  After the last two days, I am not sure that I will ever be able to go back.

Yesterday, I thought that it might be nice, even satisfying to go back to work one last time and hand in all of the little snares that have been provided for me by my job over the years.  These seemingly harmless items that are portrayed as perks that tether you to the company you work for with an increasing, exponential power.  Yes, I thought it might be really nice to drive out to work one last time and bundle together my work phone, company credit card, pike pass, and office key in one neat little parcel - perhaps with a wide rubber band, I thought.

Fast forward 24 hours and I am thinking that just going to the post office and mailing them is a much better idea.  I can't even stand to think about going back there at this point.  The only reason a person would keep doing something that they did not want to do is because of fear.  Fear of failure, fear of being perceived as utterly irresponsible, fear of being judged.

How can a grown man just quit his job and give up his paycheck and health insurance?  How can he just  throw away everything just because "everything" means nothing to him?

Don't get me wrong, I love paychecks - as a matter of fact, they happen to be my favorite thing about work!  I also love and am grateful for the health insurance that we have been able to afford - it is a great feeling to know that your son's doctor visits are all covered save for $40.00.

But isn't there a way to have that stuff and happiness, too?  If quitting your job to try and do something that makes you happy is irresponsible, what is staying in a job that makes you miserable?  Admirable?  Dutiful?  Ridiculous?

Like most people, I work more than I do anything else in my life.  I now average about 55-60 hours per week - some of that at night or during "off" hours.  I make a large amount of money for my company of which I get to keep a small amount for myself.  I have no fewer than seven bosses that I answer to from Tulsa to Kansas City to Springfield to Chicago.  If I do something stupid enough, I might even find out that I have a few more (Phoenix, perhaps).  I am well thought of at my job and as such have been recently promoted which would seem like a good thing except I could care less.  I can't remember the last time that something happened at my job that led to genuine excitement on my part.  However, I can easily remember all of the times that I knew I was supposed to be excited and had to fake it.

The simple fact of the matter is, I am not cut out for traditional work.  I never have been.  I have always felt that my biggest curse is that I can perform traditional work, so I seem to have no built-in excuse not to.  Well, here is my excuse:  I don't want to.

I realize that at this point I am operating on about the same level as a five year old, but you know what, I am fine with that.  Maybe five year olds have it right.  Most five year olds are much happier than thirty-five year olds or forty-five year olds for that matter.  In fact, I want to do what five year olds do.

I want to run and play and draw and paint and learn and ask questions and build things and invent stories and make up games and laugh like a crazy person when something strikes me as funny and cry like a baby when someone hurts my feelings.  I want to be in awe of my surroundings - I want to be excited about things... genuinely excited.

Since I do very much believe that the Universe brings to you what you ask for, here is my wish list:

• Time - I want lots of time to think and play and figure things out and create.  There is no more precious commodity.  Everything I desire hinges on time.  Time = Freedom.
• I want to walk around and look at things - study things.  Maybe I will draw them, maybe I will paint them, maybe I will simply marvel at them.
• Money.  I want ample amounts of money.  Money to live the life of my dreams, money to aid others, money to start foundations and charities, money to help myself and others.
• I would like to ride my bike to whatever it is I call work.
• I want to spend more time with my family.  Not in a creepy congressional scandal way, but in the real way.  I want to be around Cari and Grey throughout the day.
• I want to be a great father.
• I want to be the best husband.
• I want to create.  I want to write children's books with Cari, I want to write essays, novels, and parenting books.  I want to receive an honorary degree from a prestigious University.  
• I want to sell and market a line of greeting cards that Cari has created, I want to promote other friends and artists that I now know and soon will meet.  I want to show people like me that there is a way for them to have a good life and that there is nothing wrong with having a non-traditional career.
• I want to give back.  I want to help those who need it and teach those that are yearning to be taught.
• I want to to be on CBS Sunday Morning.
• I want to be on NPR - preferably Fresh Air with Terry Gross.
• I would love to be a good cook - not a great one, just a good one.
• I would like to travel - Western Europe, the parts of North America that I haven't seen, and then who knows where else...
• I would like to be good at Yoga.
• I would like to be friends/colleagues of David and Amy Sedaris.
• I am strangely interested in beekeeping - maybe that could be a hobby.
• I would like to live my life, write about my life and get paid for it.  The world is a strange and wonderful place and I think that there maybe aren't enough people keeping record of that.  I would like to volunteer to do that.
• I would like to make/restore furniture.  I have no skill that I know of that would lend itself to this, but I would like to give it a whirl, anyway.
• I would like to be smiling most of the time.  It should be said about me, "he is always smiling."

I would like to have the guts to do something about all of this.  If anyone has any ideas on how I could make this happen, I am listening...

Homesick...

I am away from home this week working in the town of McAlester, OK.

I generally dislike being away from my home unless the place I am visiting is more interesting/prettier/has nicer creature comforts than my home.  Unfortunately for myself and the good people of this town, McAlester meets none of these criteria.

It is a hilly, green little town that as nearly as I can tell bares no real distinction from many other of the hilly, green little towns in Eastern, OK.  It has taken me two trips before I have found a coffee shop and I am sad to say that after the excitement of my discovery had worn off, the lingering taste of their mediocre coffee had not.  I know that my wife hates it when I bash Oklahoma (see her previous blog at oddholler.blogspot.com) but she has never had to spend any time in McAlester.  If it weren't for my job, I probably would have never had to spend any time here, either.

When I am working out of town, I don't have much choice but to eat at a restaurant for every meal.  For me, this is no real torture.  I love to eat "out".  However, I do prefer lunches on these business trips because I can go alone.  Dinners are often times a forced affair with the other members of the "team" where everyone nervously pretends to like and be interested in everyone else's particular challenges that they may have met during the day.

This is at best awkward and at worst unmanageable.  During these dinners I like to look at my phone a lot and pretend that I am reading extremely important e-mails that must be acted upon immediately.

But with lunch I can take my time, read the newspaper, and not have to expend the energy to pretend that I am interested in some near-stranger's life (not that strangers are incapable of being interesting, but in the case of my company, strange does not typically translate to surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of mid-century modernism.  It usually translates to, surprisingly knowledgeable on the topic of hunting down, assassinating, and stuffing animals for home display).

Today's lunch was fantastic.  I found a local little Mexican place that was clean, efficient, and whose offerings were delicious.  I got to read the paper and be left in peace to decompress following the crucible that had become my morning. 

Sitting behind me were some teenagers (at least I think they were, that is something that is becoming more and more difficult for me to discern as I hurtle towards my forties) that were being about as obnoxious as you would think teenagers would be - nothing shocking there.  In fact, I became more and more amazed as I continued to eat ( I refuse to say, "as I continued to lunch" - that is a ridiculous use of that particular noun as a verb and it must stop) that the group of braying asses had ceased to upset the calming nature of my meal.

What had changed?  Even a year ago, I probably would have gotten up and moved to a quieter spot in the restaurant or worse, hated myself for not doing so.  Why was this not pissing me off?  Had I become so compassionately zen-like that even small town tweens couldn't rattle me?

Kind of.

It dawned on me seconds later.  My metamorphosis was not gained by some new age mountain top yoga retreat, nor was it forged by some unseen hand of the Almighty.  My peace came from within - it was a sense of knowing.  It was an amazing experience and one that filled me with the overwhelming reassurance that nothing so small would ever bother me again.  I laughed out loud.

The difference is that I now have a child.  And once you go through the experiences that my new family has shared with each other over the last four and a half months, nothing so insignificant as annoying teenagers will ever come close to rattling your cage.

Eating lunch next to small town kids in a Mexican restaurant is infinitely easier than eating lunch with an infant.  Cari and I often laugh about having to scarf our food down as fast as possible because we can see that Grey has just about had enough of sitting in his infant carrier staring at ceiling fans.  It's like running some kind of bizarre epicurean race or training to become a competitive eater.

Most of the time we can't even eat together.  One of us eats while the other one patiently parades our beautiful boy through the restaurant swinging him about in some form of "Superman" flying pose that all of the sudden is the only way that he will be held without crying.

As I was laughing about the ridiculousness that has become our everyday life I started thinking about all of the photos I see of famous people and their children out on the town.

You know, the Pinkett-Smith's and the Jolie-Pitt's of the world carrying on with their-well appointed brood looking slightly haggard by the efforts of parenting which somehow tends to make them even more alluring.

There are countless pictures of these families swashbuckling their way through foreign airports (presumably after they have traveled to some underprivileged nation and immunized all of their children, rebuilt all of their roads, and provided a sustainable Eco-grid that will forever power their village enabling them to no longer be at the mercy of corrupt petroleum producers) looking like they just stepped out of some place in Prospect Heights where the Kings of Leon ripped through a 2 hour set of 70's Glam Band covers in a bar that only existed for one day. 

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and if that is true, then some of those words could be used to form a sentence that is a complete lie.  Trust me, nobody that manages six kids on a full time basis could look that good without a stylist and a team of Au pairs hovering in the wings.

If anyone in the world thinks that this is what having children is like, please do not procreate until you and your wife have several million dollar picture deals in your portfolio.

I don't even shower on the weekends.  There is no time and there is no point.  Reading books (other than infant-related) has become a thing of the past.  My bicycle's tires have become under-inflated from lack of use and a layer of fine dust covers my new record player that Cari got me for Christmas.  I don't do a very good job taking care of the lawn anymore because I feel guilty that Cari takes care of Grey all day during the week and I want to help her on the weekends (plus it is God awful hot - jeez, it's not like I didn't know that when I moved back).  I have a particularly difficult time keeping up with my laundry and I will admit I put forth minimum effort on home projects now. 

But...my son is happy. 

In fact he is more than happy -  he is at ease with the world.  Sure, he gets upset sometimes, but you can tell it is out of frustration, not fear.  My wife and I have somehow been able to make him feel safe, cared for, and loved.  And that is something that I didn't know I was capable of doing before he came along.  It is also something that is, and I suspect always will be, a full-time job.  Which is fine by me. 

I've got nothing better to do.

Burnout

I am taking the day off from work today.  I am taking what my company calls a "Personal Day".  That is the box I will check when I get back to work and fill out my "PTO Request".  The "PTO" stands for "Paid Time Off".  That is so stupid.


I haven't taken a day off of work since my son was born in the middle of February, so I figured it was about time.  This was however a completely spontaneous decision.  When I went to bed last night I had full intentions of working today, and although my stomach was experiencing a kind of mild turbulence last night, I am not ill.  Hence the "Personal Day".


I noticed before I started to write this that my last post was in mid December - that's a good break, I guess.  While writing is one of the most enjoyable things that I do, I haven't done it in over 6 months.  There is absolutely no excuse for that.  I could say that work has been crazy and that taking care of a baby leaves me emotionally and physically drained, but those are tired excuses made all the more ridiculous when you figure that writing actually gives me energy.  I have no defense.


So today I have decided to turn off the work phone completely.  I waffled for a bit this morning on this subject.  Most of the time that I am not at work, I still have my phone on and I can't help but read e-mails or listen to messages throughout the day.  I tell myself that it is okay because the phone is on "vibrate" - it is not like it is ringing - just an erratic buzz, like a downed power wire or a dental drill.  It is beyond annoying.


And just to set the record straight, I am not "techie" or even a particularly hard working person.  I do not really care that much for the customers that are calling me, nor do I feel any real need to solve their problems.  There is no altruism in my constant phone checking.  It is more Pavlovian than anything, and I will not do it today.


Today will be a day that I spend with my family doing what I want to do - accomplishing things that interest me, fulfill me, and bring joy to my life.  I will take care of myself so that I might better take care of others.  It will be a day that will help resuscitate my withering interest in my career by getting the Hell away from it for a little while.  A day that I will re-think things and take the time to really pay attention to what life is saying to me.  A day that will be lived the way I want to live it.


I guess you would call it, a "Personal Day".