Today has been a father’s day without Ian. It’s been a good day, but uneventful for the most part.
Ian and his mom left to visit her family in Spokane, Washington on Saturday. They will be gone for a week. He called me today and wished me a happy father’s day.
I usually get Ian Sunday through Wednesday every week. I won’t see him at all this week.
I don’t care about the Hallmark Holiday’s like father’s day, mother’s day and Valentine’s Day. I try to honor my mother and father every day and if I am in a relationship I make sure my significant other knows how I feel about them, regardless if Wal-Mart is telling me to or not.
So I didn’t think anything about not having my son around today. It’s just another day. I spent it with the rest of my family. However, I miss my boy and would even if it wasn’t father’s day. I can’t stop thinking about his smile that never stops, and the constellation of newly formed freckles smattered across his cheeks and nose. They are a golden-brown and match his blonde hair and fair skin that is getting surprisingly tan for a product of a mostly Irish-German dad and a mostly Polish mom. I even miss his incessant talking.
His mother and her friends recently gave him a mohawk. It looks pretty rad.
Whatever the kid is doing 2,000 miles away I wish he was here instead. I recently bought my first house and there is a storage area that I designated Ian’s clubhouse before I had even made on offer on it. Today it still sits covered in dust with boxes of crap littering the floor. As I drove Ian and his mom to the airport, I promised him that I would set up his club while they were gone. I should have done it about six months ago. I’m too lazy to be a dad.
Today is a day designated to show our fathers that they are loved and appreciated. Instead I’m thinking of ways I suck as a dad.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Burning the Ecliptic
It has been more than a year since I updated this blog. I also have a new home for it, the original website is now defunct.
A lot has happened in the past year.
Who remembers when they were five years old? I do. I remember a lot of things. I actually think I have total recall. Although, when I talk about some of my memories to my family they usually think I’m making them up.
Five is a good age. It seems to be the year that we come into complete and total awareness. I realize that humans become “aware” before then, any parent knows this to be true. However, I believe that five is the age when actual life lessons begin to really stick and then metastasis in our brains. We learn something and then start building on it. Five is also the period of true freedom. The period when we are able to communicate effectively, think for ourselves and we have plenty of free-time to do so. Because, depending on your birthday, it is right before we start school.
This is where Ian is now. Five: the stage of self-awareness and true freedom.
He just finished pre K, where I am convinced he did not learn anything, and he will start Kindergarten in the fall. I’m not worried that he didn’t learn anything because he is brilliant and by far the most advanced five year old around (I'm certain he is the only one that uses the word facetious in casual conversation).
Me, I’m still in school. I could have graduated by now, but I keep adding more classes. I went from a lone major, to a major and a minor and then said screw it and changed to a double major. I am currently considering a double major and a minor, but I doubt I do that. It is time for me to move on. Though, I still have two semesters to go after this summer.
A lot has happened in the past year.
Who remembers when they were five years old? I do. I remember a lot of things. I actually think I have total recall. Although, when I talk about some of my memories to my family they usually think I’m making them up.
Five is a good age. It seems to be the year that we come into complete and total awareness. I realize that humans become “aware” before then, any parent knows this to be true. However, I believe that five is the age when actual life lessons begin to really stick and then metastasis in our brains. We learn something and then start building on it. Five is also the period of true freedom. The period when we are able to communicate effectively, think for ourselves and we have plenty of free-time to do so. Because, depending on your birthday, it is right before we start school.
This is where Ian is now. Five: the stage of self-awareness and true freedom.
He just finished pre K, where I am convinced he did not learn anything, and he will start Kindergarten in the fall. I’m not worried that he didn’t learn anything because he is brilliant and by far the most advanced five year old around (I'm certain he is the only one that uses the word facetious in casual conversation).
Me, I’m still in school. I could have graduated by now, but I keep adding more classes. I went from a lone major, to a major and a minor and then said screw it and changed to a double major. I am currently considering a double major and a minor, but I doubt I do that. It is time for me to move on. Though, I still have two semesters to go after this summer.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Old Habits and Heartaches
Originally posted 4/23/09
I just tied Ian to his bed, locked him in his room and turned my stereo up as loud as it can go. It’s a crappy 10-year-old Aiwa Best Buy stereo blasting out the Riverboat Gamblers at 100 decibels. I’m downstairs with the music and Ian is upstairs. Pictures are rattling off the shelves, my neighbors are beating on my walls, I’m pretty sure one of my speakers just busted…and I can still hear Ian talking to me. He has been trying to give me a hug and a kiss every two minutes for the past two months, all while rambling on and on about nothing and everything. Normally I relish in the affection, but tonight I’m a little too stressed out from all of the schoolwork I have to do. Final projects are coming due and finals week is drifting in like an Oklahoma thunderstorm, building up ominous and dark in the distance.
I also have the regular assignments to do as well. The easy “busy work” the professors give that most of my classmates finished long ago. All the homework I put off until the last possible second.
It’s all starting to heckle me like a bunch of toothless meth addicted carnies at the Apache rattlesnake festival.
I can practically smell it in the air: another semester is officially coming to an end.
Okay, so I didn’t really tie Ian up or lock him in his room. And I just now turned my stereo on (at a low volume) but I admit it is a scenario I have played out in my head countless times.
Actually, I think the semester has gone fairly well. I dropped some classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work so it’s not as hectic as the last three years have been. I still have a horrible problem with procrastination. Obviously it’s a common habit among college students, but having ADHD and a 4-year-old makes being successfully lazy harder than it should be. I’m too old to go through college fighting the same habits I had in junior high. I should set a good example for Ian and stop putting things off.
But I should do a lot of things.
Sometimes it seems like I procrastinate at being a good father because tonight I didn’t play with Ian at all. I let him watch Ben 10 and made him play with his toys so I could get some homework done. I keep telling myself that its okay, tomorrow I will play with him all night. It has to be worth it, I’m going to school so I can get a better job and give Ian a better life. I have to sacrifice but, sadly, it's like Ian does too. When it is all said and done it will be worth it. The bad thing is that I wasn’t able to spend much time with him last week either. If I added it all up, I have probably had to skip playtime a lot more often than I would like to admit, and its only because I procrastinate. If I was better organized and utilized my time adequately I wouldn’t be kicking myself in a blog in the middle of the night.
I realized a long time ago that when I stress out it is usually a direct result of my tendency to avoid my academic obligations. You could say old habits die hard, but I’m starting to think they don’t die at all.
But at least I don’t tie Ian up and lock him in his room. Right?
I just tied Ian to his bed, locked him in his room and turned my stereo up as loud as it can go. It’s a crappy 10-year-old Aiwa Best Buy stereo blasting out the Riverboat Gamblers at 100 decibels. I’m downstairs with the music and Ian is upstairs. Pictures are rattling off the shelves, my neighbors are beating on my walls, I’m pretty sure one of my speakers just busted…and I can still hear Ian talking to me. He has been trying to give me a hug and a kiss every two minutes for the past two months, all while rambling on and on about nothing and everything. Normally I relish in the affection, but tonight I’m a little too stressed out from all of the schoolwork I have to do. Final projects are coming due and finals week is drifting in like an Oklahoma thunderstorm, building up ominous and dark in the distance.
I also have the regular assignments to do as well. The easy “busy work” the professors give that most of my classmates finished long ago. All the homework I put off until the last possible second.
It’s all starting to heckle me like a bunch of toothless meth addicted carnies at the Apache rattlesnake festival.
I can practically smell it in the air: another semester is officially coming to an end.
Okay, so I didn’t really tie Ian up or lock him in his room. And I just now turned my stereo on (at a low volume) but I admit it is a scenario I have played out in my head countless times.
Actually, I think the semester has gone fairly well. I dropped some classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work so it’s not as hectic as the last three years have been. I still have a horrible problem with procrastination. Obviously it’s a common habit among college students, but having ADHD and a 4-year-old makes being successfully lazy harder than it should be. I’m too old to go through college fighting the same habits I had in junior high. I should set a good example for Ian and stop putting things off.
But I should do a lot of things.
Sometimes it seems like I procrastinate at being a good father because tonight I didn’t play with Ian at all. I let him watch Ben 10 and made him play with his toys so I could get some homework done. I keep telling myself that its okay, tomorrow I will play with him all night. It has to be worth it, I’m going to school so I can get a better job and give Ian a better life. I have to sacrifice but, sadly, it's like Ian does too. When it is all said and done it will be worth it. The bad thing is that I wasn’t able to spend much time with him last week either. If I added it all up, I have probably had to skip playtime a lot more often than I would like to admit, and its only because I procrastinate. If I was better organized and utilized my time adequately I wouldn’t be kicking myself in a blog in the middle of the night.
I realized a long time ago that when I stress out it is usually a direct result of my tendency to avoid my academic obligations. You could say old habits die hard, but I’m starting to think they don’t die at all.
But at least I don’t tie Ian up and lock him in his room. Right?
Mr. Science
Originally posted 4/01/09
This was my conversation with Ian on the way to school today:
“Daddy, why do some people have I’s in their names?”
“Well, uh, why not?”
“And hearts too?”
“Hearts in their names?”
“Yes, and it says ‘I love you.’”
I suck at answering Ian’s questions. Sometimes I go with the scientific explanation and he looks at me like I’m an idiot. Other times I make something up that’s as far from the truth as possible, or I counter his constant “Why’s” with an equally perplexing “Why not?” and try to get him to tell me his opinion. The conversation usually ends with him looking at me sideways like I’m an idiot, unsure if he should ignore me or actually tell me that I’m an idiot.
My scientific explanation consists of a mischievous little bald guy with a tie and glasses named Mr. Science. He lives under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, and he gets bored so he sneaks around like a leprechaun messing things up for everyone. Mr. Science is the reason it snows and rains, he is the reason my car is so much dirtier than everyone else’s and he is also the reason the mirror fogs up after a shower.
I’m a fan of Mr. Science. I have fun with him but I’m pretty sure Ian has never believed that he exists.
However, I’m starting to believe.
This was my conversation with Ian on the way to school today:
“Daddy, why do some people have I’s in their names?”
“Well, uh, why not?”
“And hearts too?”
“Hearts in their names?”
“Yes, and it says ‘I love you.’”
I suck at answering Ian’s questions. Sometimes I go with the scientific explanation and he looks at me like I’m an idiot. Other times I make something up that’s as far from the truth as possible, or I counter his constant “Why’s” with an equally perplexing “Why not?” and try to get him to tell me his opinion. The conversation usually ends with him looking at me sideways like I’m an idiot, unsure if he should ignore me or actually tell me that I’m an idiot.
My scientific explanation consists of a mischievous little bald guy with a tie and glasses named Mr. Science. He lives under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, and he gets bored so he sneaks around like a leprechaun messing things up for everyone. Mr. Science is the reason it snows and rains, he is the reason my car is so much dirtier than everyone else’s and he is also the reason the mirror fogs up after a shower.
I’m a fan of Mr. Science. I have fun with him but I’m pretty sure Ian has never believed that he exists.
However, I’m starting to believe.
What's in a Name?
Originally posted 3/30/09
A couple of weeks ago Ian and I had a fairly long conversation about his full name. He was having trouble grasping the concept of a first, middle and last name.
For the longest time he thought I-A-N spelled all three of his names together. I was so impressed that he could spell Ian that I didn’t want to confuse him, so I didn’t try to correct him until a couple of weeks ago.
I walked away from that conversation convinced that he didn’t understand at all.
He has also been watching this cartoon called Ben 10. He is completely obsessed with it. It’s the only thing he wants to talk about and all he wants to do is watch it. Sometimes I get worried that he doesn’t use his imagination as much as he should so I try to get him to make up his own cartoon, but he would just rather watch Ben 10. There is a theater camp that we are taking him to with his cousins this summer. They put on plays and stuff, I’m not completely sure what it entails, but I think he will be using his imagination, so it sounds cool to me.
He will also be playing T-ball. I’m extremely excited about the summer. Probably more so than Ian.
Ian’s mom and I have given him stuffed animals since he was born. Every time I give him a new one I tell him to name it and he either wants to name it “Baby” or whatever it is, like “Puppy” or “Bear." I always discourage it and try to encourage him to think of something creative. For a week or two he wanted to name things “Batman” or “Robin," but i think being so creative began to wear him out, so he resorted back to the obvious names.
Last week I stopped by his Mom’s place to drop of some paperwork and Ian was sprawled on the floor watching Ben 10 with some of their friends. He got really excited that I was there, he started showing me things and hugging me over and over, telling me he loved me.
I felt really cool.
After I had been there for a little bit he grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, telling me he wanted to show me something. He jumped on his bed and pulled a blue stuffed animal out from under his Cars blankets. It was a fuzzy baby blue hippopotamus that I got when I was born. There is a picture of me in the hospital with it. I had forgotten that it existed. As Ian was showing me, he told me the hippo’s name was Skeleton.
I asked him if he meant Skeletor – just to mess with him – then he told me that Skeletor was his last name, Skeleton was his middle name and Sket was his first name.
The next day Ian’s mom sent me a text telling me that Ian wanted to know what I used to call Skeleton when I was a kid.
After I read the message I realized that I never named him, I just called him “Hippo.”
I guess Ian can name his stuffed animals whatever he wants.
A couple of weeks ago Ian and I had a fairly long conversation about his full name. He was having trouble grasping the concept of a first, middle and last name.
For the longest time he thought I-A-N spelled all three of his names together. I was so impressed that he could spell Ian that I didn’t want to confuse him, so I didn’t try to correct him until a couple of weeks ago.
I walked away from that conversation convinced that he didn’t understand at all.
He has also been watching this cartoon called Ben 10. He is completely obsessed with it. It’s the only thing he wants to talk about and all he wants to do is watch it. Sometimes I get worried that he doesn’t use his imagination as much as he should so I try to get him to make up his own cartoon, but he would just rather watch Ben 10. There is a theater camp that we are taking him to with his cousins this summer. They put on plays and stuff, I’m not completely sure what it entails, but I think he will be using his imagination, so it sounds cool to me.
He will also be playing T-ball. I’m extremely excited about the summer. Probably more so than Ian.
Ian’s mom and I have given him stuffed animals since he was born. Every time I give him a new one I tell him to name it and he either wants to name it “Baby” or whatever it is, like “Puppy” or “Bear." I always discourage it and try to encourage him to think of something creative. For a week or two he wanted to name things “Batman” or “Robin," but i think being so creative began to wear him out, so he resorted back to the obvious names.
Last week I stopped by his Mom’s place to drop of some paperwork and Ian was sprawled on the floor watching Ben 10 with some of their friends. He got really excited that I was there, he started showing me things and hugging me over and over, telling me he loved me.
I felt really cool.
After I had been there for a little bit he grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, telling me he wanted to show me something. He jumped on his bed and pulled a blue stuffed animal out from under his Cars blankets. It was a fuzzy baby blue hippopotamus that I got when I was born. There is a picture of me in the hospital with it. I had forgotten that it existed. As Ian was showing me, he told me the hippo’s name was Skeleton.
I asked him if he meant Skeletor – just to mess with him – then he told me that Skeletor was his last name, Skeleton was his middle name and Sket was his first name.
The next day Ian’s mom sent me a text telling me that Ian wanted to know what I used to call Skeleton when I was a kid.
After I read the message I realized that I never named him, I just called him “Hippo.”
I guess Ian can name his stuffed animals whatever he wants.
Hooray for the Shapes We're In
Originally posted 3/06/09
A week or so ago, Ian’s mom told me he got in trouble at school because he pushed a kid down and the kid got scratched and a little bloodied in the process. Apparently, the kid was picking on one of Ian’s friends.
My kid is a sweet, compliant and well-behaved little boy who would never intentionally hurt anyone. Somewhere along the way his mother and I have managed to instill a sense of judicious logic in him that prevents him from accepting the spiteful mistreatment of those he cares about.
On Tuesday Ian heard me talking about the Westboro Baptist “church” and their claim that “God hates the U.S.” and “fags.”
This is basically a cult that is made up of approximately 70, mostly related, people that espouse and vehemently advocate a doctrine of hatred and intolerance that is based upon a venomous interpretation of the bible. They picket military funerals claiming that the soldiers died because god hates homosexuals and he is punishing the U.S. because we tolerate and openly promote the “fag agenda.”
My four-year-old heard me talking about these people.
I didn’t realize he could hear me, but his ability to see, hear and absorb things is on par with most superheroes.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore when it happens, but it never ceases to amaze me.
He walked over to me with a very thoughtful and quizzical look on his face and asked me,
“Daddy, why does god hate people?”
I picked him up and set him on my lap and told him that god doesn’t hate people; he only loves people. Then I explained that sometimes sick and mean people think god hates, but they are wrong.
I’m not religious but I grew up attending a Baptist church (maybe the former explains the latter) and I am grateful that my parents forced me to go. As early as I can remember I attended Sunday school until the age where I learned how to ditch it without getting caught. At church I learned invaluable lessons of morality and the core elements of loyalty and integrity. However, Sunday school was also where I got my first lessons in hypocrisy and intolerance, but it was never from the bible or basic tenants of Christianity. It was from the actions of those that were teaching and preaching it. Regardless, I’m grateful for EVERTYTHING I learned there.
Much to the chagrin of his grandmothers Ian does not attend church or a Sunday school, and I have no idea what kind of concept he has of god. As much love as Ian has inside of him, and as much love as his family gives him, I have no idea what kind of concept of hate he has.
So I assured myself that he doesn’t really understand what he heard me say about the Westboro cult and their views on god.
The next night, on Wednesday, I tested him by asking him about god.
He told me,
“God loves people, but sometimes mean people think he doesn’t”
I was relieved to hear him say this.
But after he explained his thoughts on god, I realized that he seems to know that the opposite of love is hate. This made me pause, but thankfully he hasn’t been exposed to the harsh reality of real unabridged hatred yet.
When he is confronted with it I am confident that he will defend himself and those around him against it, the way he did with the bully at daycare.
After talking to him about god and love I read “The Shape of Me and Other Stuff” by Dr. Seuss, put him to bed and then called his mom. We talked about everything Ian. We are preparing to enroll him in pre-k, and now we are talking about taking him to Sunday school somewhere. We have a lot of work to do. It becomes more and more obvious everyday that he got the best qualities of our DNA, and he is inherently a good person that makes his parents’ jobs easier than it should be sometimes. As much as I like to think my son is special, I know that most kids are good. It’s the adults they learn from that ruin it.
Ian gives me hope in the face of the misguided ignorance that the Westboro Baptist Church preaches, and regardless of the shape he turns out to be, he will be loved.
A week or so ago, Ian’s mom told me he got in trouble at school because he pushed a kid down and the kid got scratched and a little bloodied in the process. Apparently, the kid was picking on one of Ian’s friends.
My kid is a sweet, compliant and well-behaved little boy who would never intentionally hurt anyone. Somewhere along the way his mother and I have managed to instill a sense of judicious logic in him that prevents him from accepting the spiteful mistreatment of those he cares about.
On Tuesday Ian heard me talking about the Westboro Baptist “church” and their claim that “God hates the U.S.” and “fags.”
This is basically a cult that is made up of approximately 70, mostly related, people that espouse and vehemently advocate a doctrine of hatred and intolerance that is based upon a venomous interpretation of the bible. They picket military funerals claiming that the soldiers died because god hates homosexuals and he is punishing the U.S. because we tolerate and openly promote the “fag agenda.”
My four-year-old heard me talking about these people.
I didn’t realize he could hear me, but his ability to see, hear and absorb things is on par with most superheroes.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore when it happens, but it never ceases to amaze me.
He walked over to me with a very thoughtful and quizzical look on his face and asked me,
“Daddy, why does god hate people?”
I picked him up and set him on my lap and told him that god doesn’t hate people; he only loves people. Then I explained that sometimes sick and mean people think god hates, but they are wrong.
I’m not religious but I grew up attending a Baptist church (maybe the former explains the latter) and I am grateful that my parents forced me to go. As early as I can remember I attended Sunday school until the age where I learned how to ditch it without getting caught. At church I learned invaluable lessons of morality and the core elements of loyalty and integrity. However, Sunday school was also where I got my first lessons in hypocrisy and intolerance, but it was never from the bible or basic tenants of Christianity. It was from the actions of those that were teaching and preaching it. Regardless, I’m grateful for EVERTYTHING I learned there.
Much to the chagrin of his grandmothers Ian does not attend church or a Sunday school, and I have no idea what kind of concept he has of god. As much love as Ian has inside of him, and as much love as his family gives him, I have no idea what kind of concept of hate he has.
So I assured myself that he doesn’t really understand what he heard me say about the Westboro cult and their views on god.
The next night, on Wednesday, I tested him by asking him about god.
He told me,
“God loves people, but sometimes mean people think he doesn’t”
I was relieved to hear him say this.
But after he explained his thoughts on god, I realized that he seems to know that the opposite of love is hate. This made me pause, but thankfully he hasn’t been exposed to the harsh reality of real unabridged hatred yet.
When he is confronted with it I am confident that he will defend himself and those around him against it, the way he did with the bully at daycare.
After talking to him about god and love I read “The Shape of Me and Other Stuff” by Dr. Seuss, put him to bed and then called his mom. We talked about everything Ian. We are preparing to enroll him in pre-k, and now we are talking about taking him to Sunday school somewhere. We have a lot of work to do. It becomes more and more obvious everyday that he got the best qualities of our DNA, and he is inherently a good person that makes his parents’ jobs easier than it should be sometimes. As much as I like to think my son is special, I know that most kids are good. It’s the adults they learn from that ruin it.
Ian gives me hope in the face of the misguided ignorance that the Westboro Baptist Church preaches, and regardless of the shape he turns out to be, he will be loved.
Learning to Change Your Mind
Originally posted 2/25/09
This evening after I picked Ian up from daycare we went to my brother’s house so he could play with his cousin. His cousin is three days younger than him. We call them Gutterball and Chuckles, they’ll bite your cheek off if you look at ‘em wrong.
Actually they’re the nicest and coolest boys in the state.
We stayed a little late, and Ian was tired and hungry when we left. Tired and hungry is usually a recipe for disaster, but my son is ferociously considerate and well behaved, a little mischievous at times, but always extremely well intentioned. On the way home I told him that he was going to eat and then go to bed. When he finished eating, he told me he was ready for bed, but I told him he could stay up and watch some television if he wanted to.
“We’re you just joking about me having to go to bed, daddy?”
“No, I just changed my mind.”
“So I can stay up?”
“Yeah, sometimes people just change their minds, it doesn't mean they were joking. They just change their mind.”
We turned on the television and the President’s address to Congress was just starting. I got excited and told Ian,
“WE GET TO WATCH PRESIDENT OBAMA!”
I tried to make it sound like the most exciting thing he could possibly imagine.
We sat on the couch and started watching.
It made sense in my head, I wanted to teach him to revere the office of the president, I remember watching the president and feeling some sort of awe when I was around his age, but the chances of me actually sitting all the way through one of his speeches was about nil to nada.
Ian made it an alarming five minutes.
Of course it was about thirty seconds before he became restless – he would delicately pull individual hairs on my arm and try to whisper to me, but I shushed him and continued watching the president. About five minutes into it, he looked at me with big wet eyes, and said.
“Daddy, I want to go to bed.”
“You would rather go to bed instead of watch TV with me?”
“Yes.”
At that point I realized that Ian will be concerned about politics and current events soon enough, he’s four and shouldn’t care about the president or anything remotely serious for as long as possible.
“How ‘bout you go play in your room.”
“Okay.”
It was about five minutes later when he came back downstairs in his batman pajamas.
“ I thought you we’re going to play in your room.”
“I changed my mind. Sometimes I just do that.”
Then he sat down beside me, kissed on my head and rubbed my hair as I sat and watched the president.
This evening after I picked Ian up from daycare we went to my brother’s house so he could play with his cousin. His cousin is three days younger than him. We call them Gutterball and Chuckles, they’ll bite your cheek off if you look at ‘em wrong.
Actually they’re the nicest and coolest boys in the state.
We stayed a little late, and Ian was tired and hungry when we left. Tired and hungry is usually a recipe for disaster, but my son is ferociously considerate and well behaved, a little mischievous at times, but always extremely well intentioned. On the way home I told him that he was going to eat and then go to bed. When he finished eating, he told me he was ready for bed, but I told him he could stay up and watch some television if he wanted to.
“We’re you just joking about me having to go to bed, daddy?”
“No, I just changed my mind.”
“So I can stay up?”
“Yeah, sometimes people just change their minds, it doesn't mean they were joking. They just change their mind.”
We turned on the television and the President’s address to Congress was just starting. I got excited and told Ian,
“WE GET TO WATCH PRESIDENT OBAMA!”
I tried to make it sound like the most exciting thing he could possibly imagine.
We sat on the couch and started watching.
It made sense in my head, I wanted to teach him to revere the office of the president, I remember watching the president and feeling some sort of awe when I was around his age, but the chances of me actually sitting all the way through one of his speeches was about nil to nada.
Ian made it an alarming five minutes.
Of course it was about thirty seconds before he became restless – he would delicately pull individual hairs on my arm and try to whisper to me, but I shushed him and continued watching the president. About five minutes into it, he looked at me with big wet eyes, and said.
“Daddy, I want to go to bed.”
“You would rather go to bed instead of watch TV with me?”
“Yes.”
At that point I realized that Ian will be concerned about politics and current events soon enough, he’s four and shouldn’t care about the president or anything remotely serious for as long as possible.
“How ‘bout you go play in your room.”
“Okay.”
It was about five minutes later when he came back downstairs in his batman pajamas.
“ I thought you we’re going to play in your room.”
“I changed my mind. Sometimes I just do that.”
Then he sat down beside me, kissed on my head and rubbed my hair as I sat and watched the president.
The Dirty Work
Originally posted 2/20/09
I feel like I didn’t see Ian at all this week.
I’ve been extremely busy. I dropped one of my classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work, so it’s going to be a little easier. Though I won’t have any money for a while.
Ian has officially morphed into a little boy. His face has filled out, he’s tall, and he has gotten a lot more coordinated and dexterous.
He is probably the cutest boy in Oklahoma.
But don’t tell him that because according to him little boys aren’t cute or pretty, they’re handsome.
It makes me a little sad when I think about how quickly he is growing. But then he called me the other day just to tell me that he wiped his own butt.
It was pretty awesome.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, I wiped my own butt today, all by myself.”
It was the best and most exciting news I have heard in a long time.
He has been “wiping” on his own for a while, but he has been incapable of doing it sufficiently, so I still have to do the dirty work. When he is with me he doesn’t even try to do it on his own, he just yells for me to come and do it for him. So, the fact that he did it, and that he is aware he needs to start doing it on his own every time is a huge step.
I realize this may not be the most pleasant topic, but I agreed to be completely honest about raising Ian, and that includes the less glamorous (aka poopie) stuff.
And poop is all my week consisted of.
In the end - pun intended - it doesn’t matter if he wipes his own butt now or later, because I’ll be doing it for him metaphorically for the rest of my life.
Regardless of whether he asks me to or not.
I feel like I didn’t see Ian at all this week.
I’ve been extremely busy. I dropped one of my classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work, so it’s going to be a little easier. Though I won’t have any money for a while.
Ian has officially morphed into a little boy. His face has filled out, he’s tall, and he has gotten a lot more coordinated and dexterous.
He is probably the cutest boy in Oklahoma.
But don’t tell him that because according to him little boys aren’t cute or pretty, they’re handsome.
It makes me a little sad when I think about how quickly he is growing. But then he called me the other day just to tell me that he wiped his own butt.
It was pretty awesome.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, I wiped my own butt today, all by myself.”
It was the best and most exciting news I have heard in a long time.
He has been “wiping” on his own for a while, but he has been incapable of doing it sufficiently, so I still have to do the dirty work. When he is with me he doesn’t even try to do it on his own, he just yells for me to come and do it for him. So, the fact that he did it, and that he is aware he needs to start doing it on his own every time is a huge step.
I realize this may not be the most pleasant topic, but I agreed to be completely honest about raising Ian, and that includes the less glamorous (aka poopie) stuff.
And poop is all my week consisted of.
In the end - pun intended - it doesn’t matter if he wipes his own butt now or later, because I’ll be doing it for him metaphorically for the rest of my life.
Regardless of whether he asks me to or not.
The Triumph of Sir Talksalot
Originally posted 2/13/09
Ian talks a lot.
Actually, to say that he talks a lot is a massive understatement. He opens his mouth before he opens his eyes in the morning when I wake him up, and he doesn’t stop until he’s in bed and I shut the door on him somewhere in mid-sentence.
He is the personification of twitter, constantly and needlessly updating me about his every move, thought and whereabouts, and incessantly questioning me about the sun, the sky, and everything you can possibly imagine that exists underneath the two.
He talks and talks and talks.
When I think about how much he talks, I can’t help but think back to the time when he was a baby and then a wee toddler. When he first started bouncing around on legs that haven’t stopped kicking since he was biding his time in utero, drooling like a broken faucet, laughing constantly, and trying his hardest to communicate verbally. His mom and I would lose our minds with joy when his gibberish sounded even remotely similar to anything we tried to teach him to say. Like all parents we were coaching and encouraging him to speak the instant his eyes revealed that he was aware, watching and listening to everything we said and did.
Had we known the ramifications of him learning to talk, we probably would have communicated through written messages, or grunts and gestures, so that language would have remained foreign to him as long as possible.
Now that I think about it, this probably would have saved our marriage too.
My mother tells me I deserve every second of his boggling proclivity to prattle. Apparently I was just as verbose. I don’t think that is possible, but I have to take her word for it and I have apologized to both of my parents many times.
These days I’m a man of brooding silence, so Ian’s overactive jaw can get to me. Especially when I’m trying to do homework. I hope he hangs on to it though. I lost it somewhere along the way, and I’m pretty sure it has left me with a social deficit.
I’m Ian’s father, but it is just as much a learning experience for me as it is for him. As much as I try to show and teach Ian, maybe he will show me how to talk to anyone and everyone about anything and everything and I can eventually make some more friends. But, right now I’m too busy with school, so maybe he could just be quiet for one second.
With that said, I’m glad my thoughts are being documented. That way when Ian is a teenager and doesn’t want anything to do with me, someone can rub my face in it.
Ian talks a lot.
Actually, to say that he talks a lot is a massive understatement. He opens his mouth before he opens his eyes in the morning when I wake him up, and he doesn’t stop until he’s in bed and I shut the door on him somewhere in mid-sentence.
He is the personification of twitter, constantly and needlessly updating me about his every move, thought and whereabouts, and incessantly questioning me about the sun, the sky, and everything you can possibly imagine that exists underneath the two.
He talks and talks and talks.
When I think about how much he talks, I can’t help but think back to the time when he was a baby and then a wee toddler. When he first started bouncing around on legs that haven’t stopped kicking since he was biding his time in utero, drooling like a broken faucet, laughing constantly, and trying his hardest to communicate verbally. His mom and I would lose our minds with joy when his gibberish sounded even remotely similar to anything we tried to teach him to say. Like all parents we were coaching and encouraging him to speak the instant his eyes revealed that he was aware, watching and listening to everything we said and did.
Had we known the ramifications of him learning to talk, we probably would have communicated through written messages, or grunts and gestures, so that language would have remained foreign to him as long as possible.
Now that I think about it, this probably would have saved our marriage too.
My mother tells me I deserve every second of his boggling proclivity to prattle. Apparently I was just as verbose. I don’t think that is possible, but I have to take her word for it and I have apologized to both of my parents many times.
These days I’m a man of brooding silence, so Ian’s overactive jaw can get to me. Especially when I’m trying to do homework. I hope he hangs on to it though. I lost it somewhere along the way, and I’m pretty sure it has left me with a social deficit.
I’m Ian’s father, but it is just as much a learning experience for me as it is for him. As much as I try to show and teach Ian, maybe he will show me how to talk to anyone and everyone about anything and everything and I can eventually make some more friends. But, right now I’m too busy with school, so maybe he could just be quiet for one second.
With that said, I’m glad my thoughts are being documented. That way when Ian is a teenager and doesn’t want anything to do with me, someone can rub my face in it.
Batman Pants
Originally posted 1/30/09
School was canceled for two and a half days, but Ian’s daycare was only closed for one. I kept him home until Wednesday afternoon, when I had to go to work. We both went a little stir-crazy but it was relaxing nonetheless. I stayed in my pajamas for two days straight, but Ian insisted on getting dressed immediately because his black jeans “look like Batman’s pants.”
Although we didn’t do much during our time off, Ian managed to develop another crafty little scheme. I mentioned in my previous post that he might be too smart for his own good, or that it might just be my own cynicism and paranoia. This past week reaffirmed both of those and further confounded the distinction between the two.
Ian came down with a cough.
But, I’m positive he only coughs when he wants my attention. Used to, when he would wake up before me, he would come into my room, stand by my bed and clear his throat while gently nudging the mattress. If I pretended to sleep he would eventually give up and go back to bed. Last week when he “woke up” to get some water, I told him not to get out of bed again, and apparently he took that to mean forever. So, the two days I didn’t have to wake up early for school, he woke up before me but stayed in bed. I was awake but tried to sleep in, and I could hear him clearly because our bedrooms are next to one another and the doors are always open.
Both days he would cough. It was only a little at first, but the longer he laid in bed, the more the coughing increased and the louder it became. It was the dry kind of cough that sounded shallow and extremely fake, like someone subtly trying to get your attention.
When I finally went into his room, I told him I knew he was faking. He looked up at me with big sad blue eyes and said in a meek whisper,
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.”
So, of course, I instantly felt like a jerk and got him some water. Then, he jumped out of bed and started playing. He didn’t cough again until later, after I mentioned that he had stopped coughing.
I think he has me cornered with this ploy. If I accuse him of faking, I’m a cruel father that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of my child. But, if I let him get away with it, I’m a sucker that falls for anything. The older Ian gets, the more I’m starting to realize that navigating a delicate balance of malice and gullibility is the essence of being a dad.
School was canceled for two and a half days, but Ian’s daycare was only closed for one. I kept him home until Wednesday afternoon, when I had to go to work. We both went a little stir-crazy but it was relaxing nonetheless. I stayed in my pajamas for two days straight, but Ian insisted on getting dressed immediately because his black jeans “look like Batman’s pants.”
Although we didn’t do much during our time off, Ian managed to develop another crafty little scheme. I mentioned in my previous post that he might be too smart for his own good, or that it might just be my own cynicism and paranoia. This past week reaffirmed both of those and further confounded the distinction between the two.
Ian came down with a cough.
But, I’m positive he only coughs when he wants my attention. Used to, when he would wake up before me, he would come into my room, stand by my bed and clear his throat while gently nudging the mattress. If I pretended to sleep he would eventually give up and go back to bed. Last week when he “woke up” to get some water, I told him not to get out of bed again, and apparently he took that to mean forever. So, the two days I didn’t have to wake up early for school, he woke up before me but stayed in bed. I was awake but tried to sleep in, and I could hear him clearly because our bedrooms are next to one another and the doors are always open.
Both days he would cough. It was only a little at first, but the longer he laid in bed, the more the coughing increased and the louder it became. It was the dry kind of cough that sounded shallow and extremely fake, like someone subtly trying to get your attention.
When I finally went into his room, I told him I knew he was faking. He looked up at me with big sad blue eyes and said in a meek whisper,
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.”
So, of course, I instantly felt like a jerk and got him some water. Then, he jumped out of bed and started playing. He didn’t cough again until later, after I mentioned that he had stopped coughing.
I think he has me cornered with this ploy. If I accuse him of faking, I’m a cruel father that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of my child. But, if I let him get away with it, I’m a sucker that falls for anything. The older Ian gets, the more I’m starting to realize that navigating a delicate balance of malice and gullibility is the essence of being a dad.
Getting the Gum
Originally posted 1/22/09
I just woke up at the 19th hole in the UC with my head in my arms and 23 out of 40 Spanish exercises completed on my laptop. There was a string of drool oozing from my lips through my arms, puddling on the table. It connected my face to the table like the wormholes toward the end of Donnie Darko.
I’m extremely tired.
It’s only the second week and I already have that sick foreboding feeling in my gut that tells me I have taken on too much. It seems like the panic comes earlier and lasts longer every semester.
Last night Ian got out of bed around 10:30 because he wanted a drink of water. He looked like he was wide a wake. He goes to bed at 8:30, but I’m pretty sure he had been awake, playing in bed.
Toward the end of December he stopped taking naps at daycare, and I went round and round with him trying to get him to take a nap. Instead of sleeping he would quietly roll around on his mat until some of the other kids woke up. Finally, we struck a deal. If he takes a nap I give him a huge piece of bubble gum as soon as I pick him up from daycare. He has now been taking a nap everyday for two weeks, and difference in his moods and behavior is like night and day.
Exhaustion is a breeding ground for paranoia, but I’m positive Ian pretends to go to sleep at night and stays up late so that he will be tired enough to fall asleep at naptime. That way he gets the gum.
He’s only four, but I think he might be a shifty little genius.
I wish I had a designated naptime. I guess these days it is whenever I try to do Spanish homework.
I just woke up at the 19th hole in the UC with my head in my arms and 23 out of 40 Spanish exercises completed on my laptop. There was a string of drool oozing from my lips through my arms, puddling on the table. It connected my face to the table like the wormholes toward the end of Donnie Darko.
I’m extremely tired.
It’s only the second week and I already have that sick foreboding feeling in my gut that tells me I have taken on too much. It seems like the panic comes earlier and lasts longer every semester.
Last night Ian got out of bed around 10:30 because he wanted a drink of water. He looked like he was wide a wake. He goes to bed at 8:30, but I’m pretty sure he had been awake, playing in bed.
Toward the end of December he stopped taking naps at daycare, and I went round and round with him trying to get him to take a nap. Instead of sleeping he would quietly roll around on his mat until some of the other kids woke up. Finally, we struck a deal. If he takes a nap I give him a huge piece of bubble gum as soon as I pick him up from daycare. He has now been taking a nap everyday for two weeks, and difference in his moods and behavior is like night and day.
Exhaustion is a breeding ground for paranoia, but I’m positive Ian pretends to go to sleep at night and stays up late so that he will be tired enough to fall asleep at naptime. That way he gets the gum.
He’s only four, but I think he might be a shifty little genius.
I wish I had a designated naptime. I guess these days it is whenever I try to do Spanish homework.
Lip Balm as a Metaphor
Originally Posted 1/16/09
This past weekend was nice. I finished up my intersession class on Friday and went from there to work until 8:30. I worked a double on Saturday, from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. So, on Sunday I didn’t do anything except hang out with Ian, and not worry about school, or work, until Monday.
Every Sunday at 9 in the morning I meet my ex-wife and Ian at Starbucks. We sit for thirty minutes, hangout, drink coffee – Ian drinks chocolate milk – and we have a genuinely good time.
Then, I get the car seat and we part ways, she goes to work, and Ian and I usually go to my apartment. We play, we watch movies, we nap, etc.
I just recently got a television, so lately I go home and watch Face the Nation and Meet the Press. This past Sunday Ian was sitting on the couch with me watching Meet the Press. Actually, I was watching it while he climbed all over the couch and me. Bill Cosby was one of the guests on the show. They were talking about parenting and they showed a clip of President-Elect Obama from last Father’s Day, talking about absent fathers.
“...Too many fathers are AWOL, missing from too many lives and too many homes. They’ve abandoned their responsibilities. They’re acting like boys instead of men, and the foundations of our family have suffered because of it. ”
As Obama spoke Ian stopped moving around and sat watching the television. As the panel on the show talked more in depth about the subject, another guest, Dr. Alvin Poussaint, made the point that it isn’t just about a single-parent home, or two parent homes, its about being a good parent.
I watched and listened. I thought about my life and the life my ex-wife and I have created for Ian. I thought about the hard work and the effort I have to give everyday, working and going to school. I asked myself if I was doing enough. And as I thought about this, Ian stuck his head in my face, grabbed my head and kissed me. Caught off guard I asked, “What was that for?”
With all of these thoughts swimming in my head, I thought that he was going to say something profound and then thank me for being a great dad.
Instead he grinned and said, “For giving me some ChapStick.”
I smiled and silently convinced myself that he was using the lip balm as a metaphor.
I get my kid Sunday through Wednesday every week. His mother and I are legally “Co-Custodial” parents, and lately we have been getting along great. Sometimes, when school is going full-steam and Ian stops napping at daycare – which usually happens at the same time every semester – things get really hard and I start having anxiety attacks on a daily basis. That’s when my time with Ian seems to last forever. Yet, there is never a week that goes by that I don’t wake up Wednesday morning and wish that I didn’t have to tell him good-bye and not see him for three and half days.
This past weekend was nice. I finished up my intersession class on Friday and went from there to work until 8:30. I worked a double on Saturday, from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. So, on Sunday I didn’t do anything except hang out with Ian, and not worry about school, or work, until Monday.
Every Sunday at 9 in the morning I meet my ex-wife and Ian at Starbucks. We sit for thirty minutes, hangout, drink coffee – Ian drinks chocolate milk – and we have a genuinely good time.
Then, I get the car seat and we part ways, she goes to work, and Ian and I usually go to my apartment. We play, we watch movies, we nap, etc.
I just recently got a television, so lately I go home and watch Face the Nation and Meet the Press. This past Sunday Ian was sitting on the couch with me watching Meet the Press. Actually, I was watching it while he climbed all over the couch and me. Bill Cosby was one of the guests on the show. They were talking about parenting and they showed a clip of President-Elect Obama from last Father’s Day, talking about absent fathers.
“...Too many fathers are AWOL, missing from too many lives and too many homes. They’ve abandoned their responsibilities. They’re acting like boys instead of men, and the foundations of our family have suffered because of it. ”
As Obama spoke Ian stopped moving around and sat watching the television. As the panel on the show talked more in depth about the subject, another guest, Dr. Alvin Poussaint, made the point that it isn’t just about a single-parent home, or two parent homes, its about being a good parent.
I watched and listened. I thought about my life and the life my ex-wife and I have created for Ian. I thought about the hard work and the effort I have to give everyday, working and going to school. I asked myself if I was doing enough. And as I thought about this, Ian stuck his head in my face, grabbed my head and kissed me. Caught off guard I asked, “What was that for?”
With all of these thoughts swimming in my head, I thought that he was going to say something profound and then thank me for being a great dad.
Instead he grinned and said, “For giving me some ChapStick.”
I smiled and silently convinced myself that he was using the lip balm as a metaphor.
I get my kid Sunday through Wednesday every week. His mother and I are legally “Co-Custodial” parents, and lately we have been getting along great. Sometimes, when school is going full-steam and Ian stops napping at daycare – which usually happens at the same time every semester – things get really hard and I start having anxiety attacks on a daily basis. That’s when my time with Ian seems to last forever. Yet, there is never a week that goes by that I don’t wake up Wednesday morning and wish that I didn’t have to tell him good-bye and not see him for three and half days.
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