So you’re a dad, little brother! Now what? Oh, the fun has just started. Snicker, snicker, snicker. First bit of advice from someone who’s been a father for almost eight years: When you hear someone say, “Oh, you’re a new father. The fun has just started … Snicker, snicker, snicker …,” resist the urge to run them over with your car. Because you will hear this a million times. They will tell you how you have no idea what awaits you. Because they do know what awaits you, and you don’t. Parenthood isn’t easy. Especially those first weeks and months. It’s like going to Army boot camp, only there you actually get sleep and pretty much everyone is potty trained. Not so with this.
Dreams of new furniture in a dog-free world
I almost asked the sales clerk behind the counter. Shame — and the thought of further public embarrassment — kept me from it. I was flipping through a catalog in the high-end furniture store. Looking through pictures of rugs that weren’t on the floor. This one? No, too light. That one? Nice, but the pattern is too static. It would never hide anything. I was about to drop some cash on a rug for the living room. My wife has been wanting one for a while. A replacement for the one we threw away. Why did we throw it away? Ha! Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Like the one I wanted to ask the retail clerk as I thumbed through the catalog gasping at prices and agonizing over what would go with the sofa and the wall color and my general mood and the futility of it all.
The ‘imprecision’ of waiting on a baby
“Could still be a week, a minute, three days …” said the text from my brother. “The imprecision of this process is a hoot.” Amen! Children. Especially the non-born kind. They have no respect for time. Due dates. Promptness. That people might have lives and need to get on with them. Masters of imprecise processes. Boy, if that doesn’t sum it up! My brother and sister-in-law are due pretty soon. Any day. It’s their first child, and as we all know, it can be an agonizing wait when you’re down to the final days. Uncomfortable. Anxious. Excited. Nervous. Wondering why in the world you thought this was a good idea. How you are ever going to use all the diapers stacked up in the baby’s room. What horrors will await you as you change those diapers! The more you wait, the worse it gets. I mean, it’s great practice, right? A taste of the patience you’ll need throughout parenthood: Waiting for teeth to get brushed. Waiting for shoes to be put on. Waiting for them to remember you told them 18 times to brush their teeth and put their shoes on. It’s a wonder we get anywhere or do anything.
Could it be, could it really be fall?
“Defibrillator!” I yelled. “Someone run inside and get a defibrillator! It’s just too beautiful out here.” My family scrambled, searching for something that would help. My wife finally rushed outside with a turkey baster and an electric mixer. “We don’t have a defibrillator,” she cried. “How about a 9-volt battery?” In a fit of panic, she wrapped her arms around my waist and gave me the Heimlich. It was just enough to snap me back to my senses. To help me survive the gorgeous fall morning that had been a shock to my unprepared Florida system. I had walked outside that early morning to get the newspaper. Immediately I knew something was wrong. “What’s happening?!?” I asked myself. “No sweat dripping off my forehead. No 400 percent humidity. Toes tingling! Goose bumps up and down my arms! Drunken smile across my face!
Writing home from a wildnerness retreat
Brian Thompson traveled with his wife and daughter on a two-day retreat to a cabin on a lake with Memorial Presbyterian this past weekend. He wrote this letter home to his mother, which we will now print in its entirety: Dear mom, How are you? I am fine. Homesick, but I have clean sheets, I change my underwear daily and I have not been horribly mauled by a bear. (As they say in Hollywood, the night is still young and I smell like chicken and roasted marshmallows. Hopefully I will survive the night.) It is very pretty here. The lake is very warm, and as far as I can tell, it is not filled with brain-eating amoeba. I am very concerned about brain-eating amoeba. So concerned, in fact, that I have yet to take a shower. Or drink water. Or brush my teeth. For some reason, whenever I walk up to some people and begin a conversation, their noses twitch and they take two giant steps backward. Must be some kind of camp tradition. The mosquitoes are the size of pterodactyls, and they don’t just bite you. They approach you with a blood donation bag and ask which arm has the largest veins. It’s very disconcerting. I chose the left arm. There are also great swarms of mating lovebugs. It is like some kind of lovebug hippie commune. They stay up all night mating and partying and dancing in the moonlight. Several tried to get into bed with me, but […]
The biggest of birthday lies
I wouldn’t normally do this, but I feel I have to use this space to clear up some horrible misinformation. If you happened to drive by my house this week, you noticed flamingo yard signs and a message with a blatant lie. It said “Happy Birthday” to my wife. That wasn’t a lie. No, but the sign COMPLETELY got her age wrong. I shall not repeat the lie. I will not inflict that unbearable pain again. Family members did this. Their hearts were in the right place. I’m not disputing that. It was sweet to walk out and see a yard filled with flamingoes. My dog thought we had been transported to another universe. She didn’t know where the heck we were.
Unclehood and becoming ‘Uncle Bri Bri Big Britches’
The onesies with monkeys. The tiny wash cloths. The toys with pieces so large, a starving camel couldn’t swallow them. The miniature socks meant for mice feet. It was my sister-in-law’s baby shower at work. I was one of the only men. Since we work in the same place and I’m family, I was contractually obligated to attend. She’s due in about a month. It’s all becoming real. Monkey onesies will do that. My brother is taking it well. I saw him last weekend after he returned from a baby-shopping trip to Pottery Barn Kids. He did great. He only threw up once! At the shower, happy people kept turning to me and saying, “You’re going to be an uncle! Aren’t you excited? Are you ready?” “Excited? Sure,” I answered. “But ‘ready?’ I don’t need to be ready! This is my brother’s gig. I’m here to point and laugh when he shows up in a BabyBjorn.” But it got me wondering: What does it mean to be an uncle? You know, what it entails and all. Whether I’m “ready.” Whether I need to be. Whether there are certain responsibilities I have to take on.
Who is this Mumford, and what’s the story with his sons?
It seems our little city of St. Augustine, FL, has been turned upside down by Mumford and Sons and their Gentleman of the Road tour, which stops in this weekend. Yet, many of you Nation’s Oldest City locals asking, “Just who is this Mumford guy and why are his sons going to jam up all the downtown streets?” So I put together some answers to frequently asked questions, along with tips to surviving the two-day Mumford and Sons concert. • Which one is Mumford? And how does he stand touring with his children? My kids would drive me crazy! — Marcus Mumford is the English lead singer of the band, and he also plays several instruments, including the triangle. (Keep an ear out for a smokin’ triangle solo!) But the rest of the band are NOT his sons. In fact, I don’t even think they’re cousins. It’s just kind of a catchy band name. You know, like how The Beatles weren’t really … say … what the heck is a “beatle?”
What a homeless shelter can teach you about taking nothing for granted
I left the dime in the rental car. I went through the arm rest and wadded up the napkins. I grabbed the empty coffee cups. I took the half empty bottle of Purell and even checked to see if anything was left in the trunk. I threw it all away. But I left the dime in the cupholder. I had considered grabbing it. Stopped to think about taking it with me. Ten cents? Nah, I told myself. I’m not a rich man, but I can afford to leave a dime. It’s too much trouble. I don’t want it rattling around in my pocket with keys. What am I going to do with a dime anyway? So I left it behind. I couldn’t throw it away. And I’m feeling awfully guilty now about even thinking that way.
Back to school nervousness, excitement … and forgetting of names
“Are you excited or nervous?” I asked my daughter. Of course it was a dumb question. Dads are legendary for dumb questions. Obvious ones. And no matter how many blank stares we get. No matter how many burning laser beams we get, we keep asking them. It was the first day of school. Second grade. The BIG time! On a whole new hall. In a big kid classroom. The seats are taller. When I sit in them, my back doesn’t creak and my knee caps don’t burst out of my legs. We were walking up the sidewalk to school. Parents all around smiled and said, “Welcome back! Just in time, huh? One more day of summer and I was selling little Johnnie to the gypsies!” You know, good stuff like that.