A Visit to the Hospital.

As much of southwestern Pennsylvania is breathing a sigh of relief after being bypassed by the worst winter storm of the year, I am hoping that a different force of nature will soon depart from my family's life. Yet again Baby E. is sick, and this time he has landed in Children's Hospital for an extended (if indeterminate) stay. Yesterday morning I tried to decipher the meaning of a familiar but misplaced buzzing sound coming from the stand alongside my bed. It took me a bit to figure out that it was my cell phone on "manner mode". I quickly discovered the reason for its intrusion- M. was trying to get a hold of me, and calling repeatedly. When I finally answered I learned that she was at the hospital ER with E.

I don't know about you, but I'm not entirely rational first thing in the morning. It's always taken me awhile to reconcile to the fact that it's time to re-enter my waking life. M. was irritated that I hadn't picked up her call the first few times she had called, and I interpreted her tone as panicked. I don't quite remember what she had to say, but I knew that my son was in trouble and that I was needed somehow to assist. And I honed in on the phrase "104 degree temperature" that apparently described E.'s current condition. He had been ill for a few days previously, but had demonstrated a marked improvement through Saturday, so this was entirely unexpected. I wasn't remotely prepared for it.

When I was a freshman in college, I once ran a temperature that exceeded 104 degrees Fahrenheit. It was shortly after my first kiss, and seemed a poetic introduction to the worldly ways of adult passions. I was laid up pretty helplessly, and unable (or unwilling) to seek proper medical attention. When it finally felt like my fever broke, I made my way to the university hospital for a check-up. I had been unable to eat for six days, and couldn't even keep water down for half of that period. I was surprised to learn that I was at 104 degrees. My parents were called, and they were told to leave their house immediately in the middle of the night. They drove 300 miles to Pittsburgh. Apparently it was touch-and-go for some time.

In retrospect I suppose I suffered some sort of damage due to that fever. Strange shifts in my brain became evident. My ability to understand complex mathematical concepts seemed to degrade rather abruptly, but my verbal skills improved markedly in a manner that might be described as "odd". The aftermath of the affliction had major effects on my life. I didn't return to school until the next year. For about a month after my sickness I looked like a concentration camp victim. I had lost 25 pounds in a week. I had to piss more frequently. It was a strange time, and I'm sure it left an impression on my parents as well. I can only imagine the concern they had for my well-being. I stayed with my grandparents for a week after they picked me up.

Now I have had a glimpse of what it's like to worry about the health of my child. When I got to the hospital (after gathering the things that M. needed for an overnight stay), I lost my composure for the second time in the space of a couple of hours. When I finally located E.'s room, and walked through the door, I saw my son- he appeared clammy and had tubes running to multiple parts of his body. He was sitting in M.'s lap, and he looked up at me with a weak smile and extended a hand wrapped in gauze to hold an IV in place. As I crouched down to greet him my eyes teared up and I was struck speechless. There aren't sufficient words to describe how I felt at that moment.

Woe is Me.

Last November I wrote a post about my experience staying home with Baby E. during the day. I noted how difficult it could be trying to figure out what he needs and when. If I was his full-time caretaker, I expect I would have already developed a kind of sixth sense for individualized maintenance. Perhaps I'd know how to decode his vocalizations, so that I could tell when he was hungry, tired, wet, or in pain. As it is, I'm confined mostly to a clumsy guesswork and my limited powers of perception. I can muddle through with process of elimination, and usually get him to stop crying about half the time. Otherwise he eventually gets so exhausted that he poops out. That's a very shallow victory.

As hard as it was several months ago to assume responsibility for E., it's been even harder during the last couple days. Because this time around I'm just as much (or more) sick than he is. Over this past weekend he developed nasty ear infections in both of his ears, and these afflictions caused him obvious pain that could only be addressed with baby Motrin. For those not familiar, this version of Ibuprofen is administered with an oral syringe. It must taste fairly good, because it's been extraordinarily easy to get E. to swallow it. The only real problem with the product is determining how much to give him. There is a chart on the packaging that lists doses for age and weight. Unfortunately our kid has already far outstripped the weight limitations.

Still, to some extent, this over-the-counter medication has been our salvation. Not only does it seem to take the edge off of E.'s suffering, but it also controls the fever spikes that he is vulnerable to with ear infections. No matter how many times a parent hears that he/she need not worry too much until baby's temperature hovers at 104 degrees, that's a hard number for us to process. I've had that high a reading when I was in college, and it meant that I was close to death. It seems like one more nasty trick devised to keep breeders anxious about their progeny. I'm not the type to necessarily get caught up in the "miracle of life", but I do find it amazing what these little beings can take.

If there's a single issue that has become particularly pressing, now that I have seen over a full year of my child's life, it is the daycare issue. The strains it places on child-rearing can be formidable in a number of ways. Obviously, first and foremost, there is the potentially prohibitive monetary cost. People have to make an assessment of their income streams to decide whether or not it makes more sense to have one parent stay at home, rather than spend around eight hundred dollars per month to have strangers look after their child in a group setting fraught with bacteria and resistant forms of virus. Given the state of the current economy, and projections for its future, stay-at-home parenthood is likely to experience a decline in frequency.

However, even once an adequate facility can be identified that meets minimum standards and falls within one's budget, parents still need to arrange some sort of backup for the occasion when their child is too sick to attend daycare. M. and I are both fortunate and unlucky when it comes to this requirement. Our sick days do accrue, and carry over from year-to-year. Although M. used all of her store after E. was first born, I still have a surplus left (meaning that I have now become the go-to nursemaid). But neither of us have family available locally to fill in the gaps when we can't take off, or are too sick to do a proper job ourselves. I can only imagine what single parents must go through trying to raise a kid in this day-and-age.

Fun-and-games at the Grocery Store.

M. has decided that it's a big help for me to accompany her and Baby E. when they go to the grocery store. It just so happened that this past Saturday's weather forecast seemed to suggest treacherous road conditions, and cabin fever looked to be a distinct possibility. Ordinarily I would have no interest in going to the local strip mall during a weekend afternoon, but I knew that it made sense in our circumscribed world. We bundled up the tyke and set off, me driving at about half the speed I would normally attain due to passengers and ice. Naturally there was a hint of slip on the road and people were already driving like idiots. I don't get drivers who think panic makes them more adept behind the wheel.

When we got to the store I realized that everyone had anticipated the types of difficulties that we had. Perhaps the weather forecast is sponsored by Giant Eagle (I really don't know). There were a lot of folks in the aisles that seemed as oblivious as they probably had been on the streets outside. I'll be forthcoming and admit that whatever attitude I had when I walked through the sliding automatic doors was accentuated by the fact that I had only slept about four hours. I quickly made an executive decision to follow M. around blindly and not try to make any tough decisions. Through hindsight I have determined that this was wise. I would have been completely dazed and over-stimulated otherwise.

My main objective was to find a way to make the trip fun for E. and I. The first thing I focused on was his vocalizations. For some reason, he was especially happy I was along. He kept beaming up at me from his metal bench at the front of the cart. I guess he wanted to let me know about his good mood, as he was shouting out some funny stuff of his own devise. So I thought it was only right to return the favor at an enhanced volume. Perhaps it annoyed some particularly stressed patrons. If so i wasn't aware of it, and I wouldn't have cared regardless. In my condition I felt like E. was speaking my language, and I wanted to make sure there was a dialogue. I know that he appreciated it because we both got progressively louder.

Then I realized that certain customers were actually paying attention to us. Of course I had to start clowning around. In an exaggeratedly solicitous voice I kept asking E. what kind of dog food he wanted. I explained to him that the nuances of flavored mixes, and that he might prefer something with fish in it. Again I knew that he was entertained because he was laughing maniacally by that point. Meanwhile we started getting some strange stares from people. I pointedly asked him if we were all out of Robitussin, and if he had finished the last of it, as I had been too blitzed the night before to remember. The exchange was especially amusing because he had a prominent bruise on his head from daycare that was easy to notice.

Having scandalized the joint already, I decided to mimic stealing stuff off the shelves, hoping E. would take my cue. I even took off his mittens to facilitate the learning process. He was all kicked back with a gangster lean, hand dangling innocuously over the side. We went through the cookie aisle several times. E.'s got the kind of face that makes others love him almost immediately, so our developing scam is especially effective. I just have to figure out how to identify my favorite products for him, and he needs to learn how to hide the more valuable items where no one will look. I figure that we have plenty of time to work on the act. He'll get more wily as he continues to grow into his cuteness. He does indeed make the supermarket fun.

In the News...Baked Goods and Dinosaur Eggs.

Today I had an idea that I might post a roundup of my favorite news stories from this past week. It's been a slow cycle due to the low profile appointments Obama has been making recently. Sure, we've had the shoe-hurler to entertain us, but other than that things have been relatively quiet. I actually had two things in mind that I wanted to follow up on. Unfortunately I completely forgot one of them. The other has to do with a clamp-down on PA nail salons that have been fronting for a slavery ring. Reportedly these shops have been masking a trade of Vietnamesee women, who are lured to America with the promise of marriage and citizenship. I'm sure this practice is more common than we'd like to admit.

Just this morning I heard about recent scientific findings that seem to suggest that male dinosaurs of some species were the primary caregivers to their offspring. Archaeologists have been puzzled for years about clutches of eggs that appeared too numerous to have been carried by the animals whose skeletons were found nearby. Apparently they've followed up with research into creatures that aren't extinct, and discovered similarities in the behaviors of emus and ostriches. These abhorrent birds also tend to place child-rearing burdens on the fathers. So now the oviraptor (which was thought to prey on eggs) seems misnamed. When its remains were first discovered on top of a nest of eggs, it was thought to have been engaging in infanticide. To the contrary, it was just providing daycare.

While we're on the topic of parenting, I feel compelled to mention a controversy that a friend alerted me to the other day. In Eastern PA (Lehigh County), a couple is complaining that a local grocery store (ShopRite) refused to decorate their child's birthday cake. No, they weren't asking for boob icing, or anything of the sort, but rather for the kid's name to be simply spelled out on its surface. In our society, it is commonly expected that businesses will cater to the desires of customers. There are even adages that suggest the infallibility of clients. Why would any self-respecting business refuse a potential sale, especially one concerning such an ordinary request? Why take away something that might mean a lot to a little boy?

Well, the mother and father of three-year-old Adolf Hitler Campbell seem to be asking themselves the same questions. In fact, the scandalized Dad himself summarized his feelings succinctly by stating, "Other kids get their cake. I get a hard time. It’s not fair to my children." And perhaps Heath Campbell has a point. Little Adolf, along with his sisters JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell , certainly deserve the benefit of a normal and wholesome lifestyle, punctuated by small pleasures like balloons and personalized baked goods. On the other hand, maybe Heath should have ceded the naming rights to someone with a clue... or maybe he should have simply sterilized himself before the controversy of offspring developed.


I could spend a lot of time writing about the mindset of the county I grew up in. Unfortunately the behavior of the Campbell elders isn't nearly as aberrant as it ought to be. Somehow they came to the conclusion that their pathetic lives (and the nation as a whole) would be improved if they just invested themselves in the pride of race. Still the level of self-delusion is astonishing to behold. Despite the presence of multiple swastikas throughout his home, Heath Campbell complains, "“[People] need to take their heads out of the cloud they’ve been in and start focusing on the future and not on the past." Fortunately for him (and his progeny), Walmart came to the rescue and decorated the baked good to his specifications. God Bless Sam Walton!

Safe Haven.

Once again I find myself here at home taking care of Baby E. It has been nearly a full week of diarrhea for the boy, and it's putting a fair amount of stress on our little family. Yesterday he visited the hospital again, and they suggested that his situation may be bacterial as well (or instead of) viral. They set up a diagnostic test of his stool to find out, so M. spent the bulk of the day back and forth between medical facilities. When she finally got to the front of the line of the testing center, she was told they would need a bigger sample. It would take about five grams (how much is that?) to get a proper reading. Babies don't poo in big chunks. Anyway, I tried to run it by after work, but they were already closed. Sometimes nothing comes easy.

So E. is taking a nap, and I'm thinking about a story I heard on the news the other day. Nebraska has approved a change to their "Safe Haven Law". I didn't know it, but it turns out that every state in our union has a similar provision on their books. Apparently if you have a kid, yet for one reason or another you can't (or won't) take care of him/her, you can drop your child off at a hospital without prosecution. I guess too many babies were ending up in dumpsters. What made the land of the Cornhusker different was the age limitation, or lack of it. Many states restrict a "parent" from passing off his/her responsibility once the tyke reaches a certain cutoff point. In 13 states, that threshold is thirty days.

For some reason there were no parameters in the Nebraska law. Last Friday the last unwanted offspring (14-years old) was left at a hospital, making him the 36th minor to be abandoned since the problematic law went into effect in July. Reportedly many of these individuals were preteens, and one was actually 17-years old. A majority was said to have serious psychiatric or behavioral problems. Occasionally, people were driving in from out-of-state to ditch their responsibilities. I find that particularly sad. Are people really so desperate in our modern age to free themselves of their burdens? Is our social support system so inadequate that this is the last resort?

Obviously this isn't an option anymore. It's likely that Nebraska will end up imposing a limit of thirty days after birth for its "Safe Haven Law". But it's also clear that the problem is not going away. Todd Landry (Nebraskan state bureaucrat) expressed the official position: "The role of the state’s child-welfare system is to protect children who are fundamentally unsafe." He made it quite clear where the authorities stand on the issue- for "safe" children,"it is not the role of government to intervene". Of course that statement evokes certain questions about how we organize our society. If people are reaching out for help by simply ditching their kids under circumstances where they won't be prosecuted, is the government acting in an invasive manner by lending a hand?

From my point of view, this unfortunate phenomenon should be a wake-up call. A large segment of the populace is adamant that human life begins at conception. "Pro-life" warriors insist that every "act of creation" must be allowed its opportunity to be born. Yet evidently society's responsibility ends once the new being exits the birth canal (or after some arbitrary period like 30 days). Under this perspective, mothers who get pregnant are left entirely to their own devices in providing for the children they bear... regardless of whether or not they truly wanted them in the first place. Perhaps the anti-abortion crowd needs to realize that not every soul is equipped for parenthood. If they are unable to face this simple reality, they should be prepared to step in and provide support for every child that is abandoned, no matter at what age.

Pedialyte and Baby Einstein.

Today I had the task of watching Baby E. here at home. He's got some type of stomach virus, and it's making his stool look like gruel. He also had a couple of puking bouts over the last couple of days. Fortunately he doesn't have any kind of fever to speak of, and that makes us feel better about his overall well being. Whatever he has doesn't seem to be making him that miserable. He's got plenty of smiles for us, and he's playing the same way he usually does. But our daycare doesn't want a kid there who has puked within the last 24 hours, or has any version of nasty diarrhea. M. called off yesterday to watch him, and she's going through her allotted sick days quicker than normal. She used her entire store after E. was born.

I've got plenty of days saved up, so it actually makes a lot of sense for me to take the duty. The problem is that I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time. Sure it sounds easy in theory... babies eat, poop, and sleep. However they have a particular manner of doing each of these things, and you only really learn about them through repeat experience. E. is also too young (or too stubborn) to have much of a fixed schedule. So far today I've had to simply guess when it's time to eat, nap, or get his diaper changed (that last activity is made a bit clearer from the stench emanating from E.'s nether regions). I have to rely on my resources of observation and persuasion to get by.

What complicates the issue is that E. is out of his routine, and thrown off by whatever discomfort his ailment is giving him. I knew I was in for it late last night when M. decided to take him to Children's Hospital. He had only wet his diaper once, and that's an indicator of dehydration. You certainly couldn't tell that anything was wrong with him from his behavior. He seemed pretty happy. But the doctor that M. talked to said that you can't risk it. She schlepped him out way past his bedtime for check-up, and wouldn't you know it... the professionals decided not to give him fluids via I.V. They recommended that we give him Pedialyte (for those of you who are unfamiliar, it's like Gatorade for tykes).

Anyway, when I woke up with the kid this morning, I was given strict instructions to try hard to get him to drink this nostrum. Apparently though, little E. has strict temperature requirements for his drinks. He doesn't like them cold. If you open a single-serving bottle of Pedialyte, you are supposed to refrigerate the remains. If he won't drink it when you break the seal, it's got to be preserved, and then heated to room temperature the next time you give it to him. Luckily M. was able to rush home during lunch hour to problem solve. She was exhausted of breast milk, so she had to be creative. She mixed some Pedialyte with rice cereal and fed him with a spoon. I would have NEVER thought to do that. But that's why she's the Mommy.

I'm grateful that I have at least developed the skills to keep him distracted. More accurately, I'm glad that there are people whose jobs revolve around making stuff like plastic toys and Baby Einstein DVDs. What did hapless fathers do before these technologies were invented? I guess they simply went to work and let the stay-at-home mothers take care of it. That's not an option for many parents nowadays. It's a serious issue. You'd think that some enterprising entrepreneur would start sickroom day cares for kids that can't attend their regular facilities. I guess there are too many concerns with public health for that to work. I envy folks who have extended families that can take up the slack. Still I guess I should just be thankful that I have a job that allows me to take off for these situation.

My "First" Father's Day.

As many readers may be aware, this is the first Father's Day I am celebrating as an honoree, as well as observing my own Dad's role in my life. It was a bit surreal (but meaningful) to be wished happiness on this holiday by my direct forbear. Obviously I've never been in the position to process it in just this way. One would be forgiven for thinking that people have been commemorating fatherhood in June for centuries, but it's not true. In fact it was Richard Nixon that made this an official holiday in the United States. That was on the official recommendation of his predecessor Lyndon B. Johnson. However, the very first Father's Day in this nation was in Fairmont, West Virginia on July 5th, 1908.

A woman named Grace Golden Clayton made the suggestion to her Methodist pastor that they should have a special service to remember the 361 men who died in a mine explosion in nearby Monongah the previous December. Two years later (in Creston, Washington), a woman named Sonora Smart Dodd was instrumental in creating a Father's Day inspired by her own Dad- a Civil War veteran who had raised her and her five siblings singlehandedly after the tragic death of their mother. This was the first such observance held in the month of June. Some of its early supporters included William Jennings Bryan and Calvin Coolidge (who was the first president to recommend it as a national holiday).

If you go further back on a different continent you might find mention of Männertagen (Men's Day), or gentlemen's day (Herrentag). This regional German celebration involves clannish activities whereby men hike through the woods, pulling a wagon-load of beer and wine. Apparently it devolves into a drunken feast featuring traditional foods such as blood sausage and liverwurst. I'm reasonably sure that such a tradition would be heartily embraced by menfolk throughout the Americas. Still I suspect that Father's Day is a much more sedate affair for most fathers in the US. No doubt it typically involves doing a lot of sitting on the couch while one's offspring do the chores routinely relegated to Dads.

As for myself, I've had a pleasant start to the day. Five-month-old Baby E. was decked out in a Ralph Lauren onesie that had been updated with a hand-drawn heart obscuring the ridiculously prominent polo player logo. It read "I love Daddy". My favorite drink from the chain store coffee shop was waiting for me when I awoke, and I was given PiMs as a special breakfast treat. I also received a nice necktie and a handmade card with a tracing of E.'s little hand. It was all extraordinarily touching, and I had to admire my infant's exquisite tastes. After M. visits her own father, we will be going out to lunch at the restaurant of my own choosing. And then I will take E. for a walk while M. changes the kitty litter. I am truly spoiled.

Of course tradition dictates that I still call my own Dad. This is always a painless affair because I actually like him. He's a good man who has taught me some important virtues about how to treat others without judging them. That quality has made our relationship run pretty smoothly over the years. He's now enjoying the fruits of retirement, doing a lot of travel, and taking lots of photographs. Like me, he enjoys sharing his images with others. If you get a chance, check out his photos at the Flickr site.

Baby's Got a Bug.

The last couple of days have been instructive in the art of parenting. Baby E. has contracted some type of viral infection, and the days and nights have become especially long for M. The big question is, "how and where did he acquire the nasty bug?" Unfortunately there is no obvious answer. He could have gotten it from a number of places, and one of the only clues is that his two-week-old cousin had to make a trip to the emergency room last Saturday with similar symptoms. It started with a bit of a cough, and then we noticed that he was puking more than usual. There was just something about the outpouring of partially digested breast milk that seemed to be a red flag. Perhaps it was the frequency and amount of vomit.

Really though, it's kind of tough to decide what is 'normal' and what needs to be closely attended to. After all, babies are (to a large extent) simply spit-up machines. It could come out like a cottage cheese dribble, and still be considered healthy. The same thing would apply to the quality of the bowel movement. Should we be taking into account its color? It's often yellow, and sometimes brownish. What about that earthy forest green tone? Is that something to worry about? I've had that type of thing myself at times when I wasn't particularly sick. If you've ever kept track, certain types of kid's cereals can result in such discoloration. Have you ever eaten half a box of Boo Berry in a single setting?

Then there's the question of consistency. One of the signs of a viral infection is diarrhea. How the hell am I supposed to know what distinguishes that affliction from the ordinary watery stuff coming out of his butt? When M. took E.'s temperature and found it above 100 degrees, she promptly called the doctor for instructions. The mild fever likely would have been of little concern had not E. had other symptoms. It was suggested that E. pay a visit to Children's Hospital. At some point the good doctor examined his stool, and determined that he had "the runs". Now I'm not going to claim that I closely examine Baby E.'s shit every time he drops a load in his organic diapers... but I'm frankly mystified how one can make such an assessment.

Either way there was no confusing the fact that E. was sick. And naturally this was extremely worrisome for both M. and I. Our son would have intermittent bouts of melancholia, and would lapse into crying fits whenever he couldn't sleep. Occasionally he would get smiley and lead us into the false hope that he was getting better, only to relapse into another round of regurgitation. I made my first trip to the store for Pedialyte. E. seemed to like that OK. He even drank it out of a little plastic cup. Interestingly, despite the mess he was making, E. rarely lost his appetite. We just had to go very slow with him. The worst part of it all is that he started spitting back the medicine he takes to fight his acid reflux. That made him more uncomfortable at bedtime.

All of this time M. has been confined (basically) to a single room on the second floor. She hasn't been able to get anything else done. Of course that has provoked an intense cabin fever. That, along with the sleep deprivation, makes for a very edgy Mommy. It's lucky for all three of us that she isn't working now. It's possible that he contracted this thing during the single day we had to use daycare last week. Babies are certainly susceptible to all kind of maladies under those conditions. That's why the daycare staff prohibits parents from bringing their sick kids in until after the obvious symptoms have cleared up. We can't help but wonder how many days we'll need to take off next year to care for E. I don't know how anybody does this alone.

A Swelterin' Good Time.

OK... so turns out I was a bit dismissive about the heat this weekend. It is freakin' hot and humid. Granted it's June, so this isn't completely unexpected. But it certainly took me by surprise this year. Like I suggested in an earlier post, I have indeed spent most of the time out-of-doors. I am sure to have lost significant water weight. It has been worth it so far, as last night's Unblurred was everything I thought it might be and more. Driving by the Sprout Fund building on Penn, I was taken aback to see plenty of people already milling about in the adjacent lot. There was even a deejay set up. I thought that I'd stop by 'early' and take in the scene, and quickly learned that they had a name tag waiting for me at the front desk, and the happenings had started two hours previously. I surmised that I was supposed to stay awhile.

Truthfully it wasn't like I felt trapped, what with the free beer and entertainment and plenty of interesting folks catching up with each other. I actually had to pull myself away to see what else was going on down the street. Even with all the competing events going on last night, Penn Avenue was kickin'. I never once felt like I hadn't made the right choice as to where to be. The art itself was generally solid, but the main attraction was the amount of participants of all kinds. Everyone seemed to put out extravagant spreads too, which meant that revelers were feeling especially catered to. My friend even pointed out a few "sold" markings under some of the work. That was only mildly shocking because things were priced so low. I guess recession prices have officially settled in.

It was nice to see Christine and Matt from Moxie Dada in their home setting. Nicole and Josh from Boxheart were also present when I stopped by. It required a visit for it to sink in how good an idea these two galleries have developed with their "Open House" idea. If you are interested in having art hung temporarily in your home, they will come and interview you about your tastes, friends, interests and hobbies. Then they will select specific local art to match your answers, and hang it in your house for a party. If some work sells, the service is paid for that way. I like the fact that they are thinking outside the box with this concept. Pittsburgh definitely requires creative innovation in art marketing. Hopefully this project will succeed.

This morning there was no rest for the weary, as the Aspinwall annual community sale was going on. I was there last year with M., who was newly pregnant. She nostalgically remembered one guy who helpfully provided a plastic bag so that she didn't have to puke in the street. But you see, that's just the way the folks in that neighborhood are- accommodating. We got an early start, and with Baby E. in tow this year, we relied on the car to get us around. I blasted the air conditioning, and we took turns getting out to check out each household's offerings. We actually covered a lot of ground quickly that way. And E. was remarkably patient, sitting in his car seat and playing with his favorite Hawaiian-shirt-wearing stuffed monkey.

It's appropriate for E. to be forbearing of his parents' obsessive search for bargains- because he made out like the little bandit he no doubt will someday be. His library is expanding in great chunks this Spring. Children's books apparently don't have a whole lot of utility for people with adult offspring. The most either of us have paid for a single title is $1.50, and that felt like an obscene extravagance in the face of prevailing market prices. The vast majority of the 'little lit' we see at garage sales is priced between 25 and 50 cents. I don't understand why anyone would pay retail price for this stuff. And we also scored some cool-assed Playmobil pirates from some yuppie family in Fox Chapel. I thought at the time that half a dollar per figure was a bit expensive, but it turns out that a lot of adults obsess over these toys. Who woulda figured?!

The Intrepid Day-Tripper.

Among my friends and family I can count a number of world travelers. It's not that I know a lot of wealthy people (although there are a few exceptions), but rather that I tend to hang out with folks who put a lot of value on this activity. I've actually gotten into quite a few conversations with them about why I haven't been overseas. For some reason, a lot of my buddies seem to assume that I've been to Europe. But the fact is that I never arranged things in my life so that I could undertake such a substantial journey. When I had enough money, I always had other plans. I'd find myself tied down by commitments, or want to save up for some large purchase. Consequently I have enough possessions. I just don't have any interesting anecdotes about foreign countries.

To be honest, there's another reason I haven't done any extensive traveling- I don't like to fly. Even before 9-11 I found the experience extraordinarily uncomfortable. My height always necessitated a request for an emergency aisle seat. This made the experience bearable, except for the added sense of responsibility that it placed in my mind. Unfortunately. the last thing you want to be reminded of when you are flying is that there might be a need for an emergency exit. A couple of times there were no spots in the 'special' row, and I had to sit in a fetal position for an entire flight. Another time I sat next to a born-again Christian with a golf obsession. All these factors contributed to a sense of foreboding. And then the planes hit the buildings...

So for the last several years, I've been confined to land travel. My wife does no highway driving, so that anytime we go on a trip I'm always behind the wheel. That puts limitations on my range. I can do about twelve hours in a day, and then I start going a bit nuts. I make up for these restrictions of movement with creativity. I have been to plenty of places that most Western Pennsylvanians would never consider visiting. This includes a Hare Krishna ashram, an abandoned reformatory, the world's largest indoor Bible wax museum, and Erie. Of course I've been to most of the notable cities within that range as well- New York City, Boston, Washington DC, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Cleveland, Columbus, Asheville, Chicago, Toronto, Knoxville, and Atlantic City.

I'd certainly qualify as a regional explorer. Whether it's an Appalachian backwater, a rural hovel, a historic battlefield, a beach community, or a dying rust belt town- chances are it has not escaped my interest. It's strange to think about the variability in human experience that lays within 600 miles of any point on Earth. There's plenty of exploration to be done around any such node. While it may seem that I've seen the majority of stuff that is worthwhile, I realize that this isn't close to being true. I could spend the rest of my lifetime not going beyond these (somewhat) arbitrary borders, and never experience everything. I wonder how many people throughout the centuries have never strayed beyond such a circle.

My window of opportunity for overseas travel has definitely passed... at least temporarily. The costs and other responsibilities of raising an infant are a bit prohibitive. I realize that I'm going to have to get really creative if I want to continue taking 'vacations'. No more bathing in the lap of luxury, to be sure. I have to consider the well-being of my child, first and foremost. Yet I really have no idea how people travel with such a young child. Where do they go? How do they get to see anything that they want to see? With as many weeks off a year as I usually get, I'm sure I will find the time to work through some of these issues. As baby E. gets older, it's going to be fun to take him to some of my old haunts. I have to remind myself that this journey is just getting started.

Dark Days A-Coming.

I'm not very shy about the fact that I have contempt for radio hack AM Glenn Beck. Most of what he says is tremendously easy to write off as right wing propaganda. Generally I feel that you could take the opposite of what he says, and embrace it as truth. Still there is one obsession I have that I share with this asshole- the coming collapse of the American economy. Beck is certainly not the first figure to warn of bad times ahead. Roger Waters, bassist and songwriter for the band Pink Floyd, predicted the implosion of the Western economy in the 1970's. His numbers were off, but not by much. Before the debacle of George W. Bush's administration, such concerns seemed alarmist. Now they just appear merely realistic.

So what's my response to this type of noise? How do I confront the fears of an impending depression? I mostly try to push it to the back of my mind, and prepare to enjoy the ride the best I can. After all... how long did the Great Depression of the 1930's last? A couple of decades, perhaps? Can that still happen here? Look at oil prices. Doing that very thing made me take the step of creating a personal household budget the other day. I went to fill up my foreign sedan, and noticed that prices have exceeded $3.50 per gallon. This is becoming the single biggest drain on my finances. I drive about 1600 miles a month, and the costs of refueling certainly add up quickly.

I decided that I would get a taste of the future by adding up all of my expenditures, and including gasoline at an anticipated cost of $5 per gallon. I thought that maybe my salary could absorb such a price, and still allow me to save a few bucks. When all was accounted for, I found a shortfall of about $300 per month. This reality sent my mood into an immediate tailspin. I began to realize just how close I am to the margins of insolvency. My prospective budget did include a fair amount of wiggle room. If I quit smoking cigarettes (which I really ought to do anyway), I can save about $130 a month. I can go out less on the weekends and cut another hundred out of my loss column. I could cut down on the number of iced mochas I buy every week.

But there are some expenditures that can't be negotiated. Having a kid is very expensive- more so than I had expected. Between household necessities (non-food) and stuff for regular maintenance of the baby, my wife and I are spending about $900 a month. And that number is only as low as it is because we are getting a tremendous deal on daycare. We will be paying out this money until E. is in kindergarten. Also my mortgage and car payments will remain stable. And the price of food (for which I budgeted $300) threatens to rise dramatically with the increase in oil prices. Utilities are also subject to fluctuations in the oil market. Perhaps I could get a better deal on car insurance (if I have a better driving record for a few years), but I can't count on that either.

What's especially scary is that my prospective budget does not take into account emergencies or unanticipated costs. I didn't figure in car maintenance- like inspection, oil changes and new tires. There is no accounting for clothing purchases. I didn't figure in the cost of giving gifts to family and friends. I didn't include money for replacement appliances, should something break around the house. No cash for vacation, for art materials, for art... no DVDs, music, or books. No eating out. Absolutely no luxuries. And when I look at my salary, I know that it is above average. It makes me wonder how the bulk of America is going to weather a steep economic downturn. This is going to be a very different country in the next several years. If you don't believe me, make out a budget for yourself, and see how your own life is likely to change.

"What's it like being a father?"

Since I became a father my friends have continually asked how I am doing in that new capacity. I guess I have to get used to my son being a frequent topic of conversation. It's a general rule that most social interchanges begin with small talk, and Baby E. is now an easy starting point for just about everyone I run into. I really have to make an effort to engage in the kind of talk that starts with, "How's the kid?" or "What's it like being a father?" Those are such broad questions that I never know quite how to reply. If the expectation is merely the return of courtesy, I have no problem replying that everything is "fine". But what does that mean anyway? It sounds so mundane coming out of my mouth that most of the time I'd rather just shrug and mumble something beneath my breath.

Anyway, the answer is that Baby E. is fine. That is... unless he's not, and the resultant discussion is going to extend well past simple amiability. As far as the other question, I have thought a lot about it and I think I have a fairly straightforward answer. Becoming a father (for me) was an opportunity to finally understand what fear is. I can honestly say that before this experience I never really was afraid of anything (other than a generalizable terror of death). I felt pretty invulnerable to the sort of eventualities that normally provoke a fearful response. I am still relatively young and have a semblance of good health (despite myself). I've always been appropriately cautious and have a way of constantly preparing for the worst. Additionally, I am of large stature, so I've never really seriously considered other people a threat to my physical well-being. All in all, I've been quite lucky (if you believe in that sort of thing).

So it is only now that I get it. The world is a dark, brutal place where human beings visit the worst kinds of atrocities on each other and everything else on the Earth. It may be a bleak outlook... but I'm reasonably confident that it's a fair representation of reality. If it's just a matter of self-preservation, or the well-being of others who can ultimately take care of themselves- then that's an acceptable proposition. But now I'm responsible to someone who I love very deeply. Anything that happens to him effects me on the deepest level. His concerns are my own. And he can't do anything to stave off the insidious forces around him. It has to be me or someone I trust with his life. That may be a cliché, but it's a profound realization now that I'm actually a parent.

I'll share an example situation that best illustrates the change in my awareness. Today M. needed to go to the salon for a hair cut, and she proposed that we take E. and his stroller to the shopping center together. I could watch him, or push him around while I waited for her. Sounds great, eh? She promised to buy me one of my fancy coffee drinks, so I agreed. So I got to the chain java shop, found a comfy armchair and parked E. beside me while I read Kim Deitch's Alias the Cat (which is quite amusing, by the way). I gave E. a pacifier and he was quiet, and I figured that time would pass quickly and in a carefree, relaxed manner. For about twenty minutes I was right. And then a guy came up and asked if anyone was sitting next to me. There was a similar seat, separated by a coffee table, next to mine. I grunted and moved E. to the opposite side, away from the stranger.

At first I was just worried that my peace would be disrupted by the jarring that moving E.'s stroller entailed. Luckily he didn't wake up, and I settled back in to my reading. But then I caught a glimpse of this guy out of the corner of my eye. He was of average build, with stringy longish hair glued down on the backside of his balding head. He had squinty eyes and filthy, formerly white running shoes. And he had a leering smirk, and seemed to be paying inordinate attention to my sleeping baby. I tried to radiate menace without provoking a confrontation. Perhaps he didn't have evil intentions. Yet all I could think about were all the grimy perverts and ne'er-do-wells that surround us constantly. Maybe I read too much true crime, but there it is. He hadn't even done anything, but I visualized bashing in his skull. You'll have to forgive me, because sometimes that's what it's like being a father.

Youth and the Cult of Competition.

I heard on the news this morning that the top American figure skater is not allowed to compete in the 2008 world championships in Sweden. Mirai Nagasu is a 14-year old from California, and has already proven herself to be one of the BEST at her sport by winning the US National Championship in St. Paul, Minnesota. Although she qualifies for the senior level here in her home-country, she is still considered a 'junior' worldwide. So she'll have to put the greater glory on hold for another year. For some reason, the rest of the world doesn't seem to want to embrace the US agenda of producing the youngest elite athletes. Are other countries simply proving themselves to be the "nanny states" that Americans regularly accuse them of being, or is there a valid reason to encourage patience in our children?

It's not uncommon here in the States for parents to sign their kids up for a competitive sport at age 5 or 6. After all, if the young ones are going to eventually become the very best, then they need to start early. At stake are limited college scholarships and even more rare slots in the pro ranks. For some people the goal of winning eventually eclipses all of the other reasons for participating in sports. The overzealous father who screams from the sidelines at the coach or referees is now a cliche. There is a quality of desperation in the expectations such parents have for the performance of their offspring. It really is as if they are trying to live through their kids. Projecting one's own inner dreams on one's brood can be more than just creepy- it can actually be physically harmful to the child.

The nature of childhood is development. Growth during this initial period of one's life can set the tone for adult health. Putting young people at risk for serious injuries that may affect them for the rest of their lives does not seem especially prudent. There is much evidence that intense physical conditioning (even without injury) can stunt growth. That's because nutrients and energy that would ordinarily be used for bone development is diverted to the muscles. Additionally, unnatural amounts of chemicals produced in the process of working out can interfere with the natural levels of hormones associated with nascent maturity. Have you ever wondered why so many short adults were intense wrestlers or gymnasts in their youths?

Aside from whatever physical maturation problems can arise from a hyper-competitive drive, there are psychological concerns that must be taken into account. No matter how good your little one ever gets at a sport, there is always someone better. If self-worth is determined by rank, then one learns to never be satisfied. While perpetual dissatisfaction is actually encouraged as a positive value in American culture, it can be devastating to one's perception of "quality of life". Do you really want to teach your son or daughter that they can never be quite good enough? By putting an inordinate emphasis on the competitive quality of sports, that's exactly what you are doing. And even if they do become elite, they will have to accept that time itself is against them. In many world-class athletic events, you are washed up by the time you are in your mid-20's (if not before).

Given the American way of approaching competitive athletics, I have absolutely no inclination to encourage my children to pursue such goals. Not only would I not want them to feel over-the-hill before they even reach full adulthood, but I also wouldn't want them looking back on their high school years as the "best times of their lives"- because that's simply pathetic. Additionally, I don't want to see them enter the cult of worship that makes watching televised sports a lifelong obsession. These athletes (professional or otherwise) are not heroes, at least not simply by virtue of them being the best at some conglomeration of physical feats. In most cases they are merely people who have such limited focus that they excel at a single thing. Apparently that's what passes for a role model in our narrow-minded society. It's a shame.

Bon Appetit!

Having a brand new kid has made me reconsider a lot of life choices that I have been taking for granted for many years. I suppose it's only natural to second guess myself now that my decisions more directly affect someone else. While it's not so crucial that I make hard-and-fast, life-changing judgments immediately, it seems appropriate that I initiate some basic considerations. There are many areas of my life that reflect values I have held consistently and consciously for a long time. But other habits have developed as a result of perceived necessity, fleeting preference, and/or convenience. When it comes to eating, my behavior has been influenced by all three of those factors.

It strikes some of my friends as odd that I should be so particular about "consuming" certain things (books, films, music), yet when it comes to food I am rather indiscriminate. I have often admitted that I have an extremely unsophisticated palette. At home I make very few meals. I do sandwiches, spaghetti, or some basic version of quesadillas. That's really about it. If I want something different, I generally have to go out to some sort of restaurant or order for delivery. I've only had those options on a regular basis for the last decade or so, due to financial constraints before that. Because of these long-lasting limitations, it should probably be no surprise that I stick to the conventional offerings.

The problem with all of this is that the typical American diet is unwholesome, and a bit gross. This is a meat-and-potatoes nation, and even those standards are usually cooked in an extremely unhealthy manner. Just about everything is fried. The United States loves its french fries, wings, onion rings, cheese sticks, burgers, donuts, eggs, fried chicken, and cheese steaks. Hell, this is the only nation where one could reasonable expect someone to develop a fried OREO. And if it's not fried, then it's invariably smothered in grease and oil, filled with sugar, or jammed into pockets of fat. I think I read somewhere that three-quarters of the menu offerings in every eatery in the US are virtually identical. If it's not true, it sure seems like it. The vast majority of what we eat is a corn byproduct.

I would think that the situation outside the home closely mirrors what's happening in private kitchens across the country. Generally businesses cater to the lowest common denominator. What else are "the people" eating? Another indicator of the unfortunate state of our national cuisine is the typical public school lunch menu. If you haven't visited your local school lately, you would be stunned to see what the government allows cafeterias to feed the kids. How about mini corn dogs, nachos w/cheese, fruit cup, and 2% milk? Sound pretty nutritious to you? OK then, try ribbie sandwich, chips, baby carrots, and chocolate milk? They usually just put "cook's choice" on the schedule when they serve up stuff like this. It's better public relations. And believe me, whatever it looks like on paper... it's different when it's resting there in slabs on the little styrofoam tray.

To make matters worse- this stuff is invariably the lowest quality product from an uncaring, mechanized, nationwide, corporate agribusiness industry. It is engineered to meet the basic standards of a national government board for the absolute minimum cost. I don't know all of the ins and outs of the policy procedures for mandated nutrition, but I can say without reservation that the system is broken. Not long ago a huge amount of ground beef was judged by the USDA to be substandard, and was belatedly recalled. Much of that meat originally found its way into the nation's school lunchrooms. It was consumed by children. I don't know why the American public tolerates such a disgrace. The youth are being trained to eat offal. I wonder who will be held responsible. I guess we'll be packing lunches for Baby E.

What it's like to worry.

There are some people that can simply take things as they come, with the full assurance that they will be able to handle anything unexpected that arises. These are the flexible and adaptable ones... the early adopters and the folks that always land on their feet even though they often dive in head first. Sometimes I envy them. But when I step back and take a deliberately objective view, I understand that I am very different. There have been a lot of things that have changed throughout my life, and I'm certainly not saying that I haven't been able to negotiate the changes. Still my strategy seems to rely on contingency planning. I often try to visualize the worst things that could happen, and then look for signs that they aren't going to manifest themselves. Ultimately I enjoy the perception that everything has been taken care of, and I can relax for awhile... maybe even give in to some "controlled spontaneity".

The reality is that all the ducks are never in a row. Something is always waiting on the periphery, ready to make a mess out of your carefully wrought plans. On rare occasions these are pleasant surprises, but too often they are serious new obstacles you haven't anticipated. Entropy is an inescapable part of life. Yesterday I felt like I knew exactly what I was going to be doing when I got off work. My plan was to stop and grab a mocha, spend some time with baby E., and then go to a drawing session. I was already taking my satisfaction on credit. Just the feeling of an ordered evening doing things I wanted to do- the very idea made me deeply content. So it was that I was blindsided by a phone call that I seriously considered not picking up. My cell phone screen registered an incoming from a local number that I didn't recognize. I told myself, "What the hell, I can handle this... whatever it is."

It was M. on the other side, calling from a pay phone at Saint Margaret's. She anxiously told me that she had taken E.'s temperature, and that he had registered a fever of 100.5 degrees. She had called the pediatrician and then embarked on a hasty trip to the emergency room. The good news was that his temperature was down, and that she would probably be home soon. I tried to shove my anxiety to the side, and sat down in front of the computer. Soon M. called again, and told me that she was taking E. to Children's Hospital in Oakland. His fever was back, and he had a reading of 99.5. She was going to need a bag packed with necessities in case he had to be kept overnight. For some reason I thought she was going to drive by and honk, and I was meant to run the stuff out to the car. I didn't even have my shoes on, and I got outside and realized that I was supposed to be driving. I ran back inside and grabbed my necessities and jumped behind the wheel for a stressful rush hour jaunt to Oakland.

What a mess. Traffic was ridiculous, but I finally got in spitting distance of Children's Hospital. I pulled over to the side and let M. out at the entrance. Then I went off in search of parking. The task was made more difficult by a Pitt game at the Peterson Center, which is located adjacent to the medical complex. I found a spot in the garage and tried to make my way through the labyrinth to the emergency room. I had to stop and ask for directions a few times. All the time I was trying not to obsess on the well being of our new born baby. I found M. and E., and was relieved to see that they were already being helped. We saw a succession of professionals in the space of a half hour, and learned that E. had no fever. Being new at all of this, we looked to the doctor for guidance. She suggested that we could check E. in for 48 hours so he could get a full work-up, including blood tests and spinal tap. Spinal Tap!? Holy shit.

Apparently they don't mess around when a baby is two months or younger. They need to determine if there is some kind of infection that the little body is trying to fight off. As invasive as it sounds, we were informed that spinal taps are routine in those circumstances. We were even told that most babies sleep through the procedure. The doctor was undecided about the course we should take. Since E. wasn't showing a high temperature, we might have nothing to worry about. But then again... some parents insist on keeping their babies in the hospital despite no external signs of sickness. This put us in a stressful position. We didn't want to put E. through two days of tests if it wasn't necessary. However, we'd obviously feel terribly guilty if something really was wrong and we didn't address it. We were actually relieved when the doctor made the choice for us-we should bring him home, and stop off on the way for a rectal thermometer.

It turns out that ear thermometers (which M. initially used to get the high reading that set this minor nightmare in motion) are notoriously unreliable, especially with children under two months of age. How were we supposed to know that? There are so many little things that you are never told while you are waiting for your first child to come. Everyone has advice or comments, but their words are usually filled with generalizations about how your life will irrevocably change. Ultimately there is no way to prepare for that first scare, when you believe that something serious is wrong with your baby. I'm happy that E. is well, but I'm a bit shaken from the experience. I guess I'm just in for many years of feeling vulnerable on behalf of this little package of human. That's one aspect of the journey we have chosen to embark upon.

Baby E. christens my night before "Gestures" @ Mattress Factory.

This weekend has been dramatically different from the previous ten days. I've actually had a chance to go out and see stuff, without having to worry too much about rushing home. My job is mostly to make sure that M. has everything she needs in order to get through the day. Fortunately my Dad sent a DVD that provided some useful hints for soothing a crying baby. It's a bit humorous in retrospect that we've been telling people that Little E. is a particularly fussy baby. The fact is that's he's not... not really. We just weren't doing the right things. It turns out that babies actually have a sort of "soothing reflex". The tiny tyke could be losing his shit, but he is always vulnerable to a step-by-step method of calming. The DVD explains that the first three months of a new-born's life is like a fourth trimester. The best thing you can do to keep a baby happy is to simulate the experience of being in the womb. That actually makes a lot of sense.

I was privy to a very special milestone yesterday. M. gave me E. to hold for awhile so she could get things done. I propped him upright against my legs on my lap, facing me. He was wide awake and in a pretty good mood. At one point he looked at me and made a nice burp. A milky air bubble was on his tongue. I had never seen that before, and thought- "Look at that. It's a little bubble. How cute!" The next thing he did was glance at me again and projectile vomit a foot long continuous stream, like a cherubic fountain. The barf was smooth and creamy, and bright yellow. There were no chunks at all. He paused for a moment, and then let out another burst. Whenever I had imagined my kid "spitting up", I didn't picture that. It seemed like he expelled six ounces of liquid. Then he promptly flopped his head down and fell immediately and contentedly asleep. How sweet he is!

Anyway after I got cleaned up (and wiped off the sofa), I got ready for my night out. I planned my itinerary very methodically, and knew that I could hit three of the five galleries I had earlier identified as priorities. I really wanted to see the Gestures show at the Mattress Factory, so I started in the North Side. This is the annual opportunity for this excellent installation museum to roll out a little of the local flavor. The name of this year's exhibition is Illustrations of Catastrophe and Remote Times. It was curated by the assistant curator for the Carnegie Museum of Art, Heather Pesanti. All participating artists were asked to respond to an essay by Robert Smithson and Mel Bochner (no... I've never read it). Of course the range of responses varied greatly, and employed many different mediums and materials.

I was excited to find myself arriving before the crowds that I knew would show up as the night wore on. I got a great parking space and walked by a huddle of what looked like down-on-their-luck medieval reenactors, and into the satellite gallery on Monterrey Street. For the first time in my recollection, they were charging an admission ($10) to see the opening. I finagled the student discount and went in with great anticipation. I knew several of the artists- Renee Ickees, Christiane Leach, Laurie Mancuso, Jen Howison, etc, and was familiar with quite a few of the others. As expected I enjoyed several of the pieces. Particular standouts included a UFO visitation by Matthew Barton and Jacob Ciocci, as well as a meditation on the declining industry of the region by the aforementioned Mancuso.

Not surprisingly the place quickly became more crowded than I could bear. I said "hello" to a few friends and acquaintances, enjoyed another drink, and went out front for a smoke. I took a moment to watch the K-mart-outfitted knights, who turned out to be the subject of a music video by some post-punky band that I had minimal interest in. They did add a bit of lowbrow flavor to the event. Overall, I felt the show was certainly strong enough to recommend to others. Pesanti gave enough space to each artist, allowing their respective works to breathe in a way that I haven't seen at previous "Gestures" shows. As one might expect, the lineup of creators mirrored the social circle of the creator... but this seemed to work in the favor of this particular show. It's a talented group, and well worth at least one visit. I certainly felt like it gave my evening the patina it deserved. In short- it was better than baby puke.

Asleep at the Wheel.

I'm now into the second week of my son's life, and I'm trying to get adjusted to the new paradigm. Understandably my home has been reorganized to suit his needs. There is baby paraphernalia situated throughout the house. Everything is aimed toward keeping him content- which means that he's not screaming his head off. He's definitely got a "fussy time" during the evening, as we were led to expect. This usually corresponds with M.'s breaking point, as she is used to winding down during that period of the day. While I can keep an eye on him, I'm (obviously) not built to meet his ultimate needs. So I mostly linger about helplessly, trying to figure out what I can contribute to his mother's happiness.

Despite the fact that I'm getting nearly my usual amount of sleep, the stress of the situation is taking a weird toll on me. Last night on my way home from work, I fell asleep at the wheel. I had just gone through one green light and nodded off within the forty feet before the next stoplight. I jerked my head up just in time to experience hitting the bumper of the car ahead of me. Luckily I was only going about 3-5 mph at most. I jumped out of my car and went to see if the people ahead of me were alright. It was a middle-aged woman with her grandson in the back seat. Naturally she got out of her car complaining about being jerked about. I noticed that neither her nor her boy had been wearing their seat belts, but I refrained from commenting on that oversight.

The woman was understandably quite upset, and she was looking for injury where none existed. It was easy to see that there was no damage to her car, other than a bit of chipped paint on her back end. Inexplicably, she insisted that her entire bumper was cracked. There was no point in arguing with her- she was already worked up as it was. I asked her what she wanted to do and she said I should follow her and pull off on the side of the road. But when I got back in my car, I saw that she had reconsidered. She wanted to exchange information right where we were, blocking traffic and all. I had no problem with that. Maybe she thought I was going to blow by her, making a hasty escape? For some reason she kept lamenting the lack of visible police, as if they had nothing better to do than wait around for minor bumper busters.

When she got back in her car and drove off, I followed her. I wasn't sure if that was what she intended, so I played it safe and pulled behind her when she parked illegally off to the side of the road. I wanted to make sure she didn't try to pin a hit-and-run on me. She exited her car again and looked at me inquisitively. Did I want to call the cops? No, I was just making sure she had everything she needed. She stated that she was going to call in a claim. I was resigned to that, as there was nothing else I could do in the situation that would be appropriate. If she does call this in to her insurance company, they will likely get a hearty laugh out of the incident. They will collect their deductible and raise her insurance. Pennsylvania is a "no-fault" state.

As I said before, the only damage on her end was a barely noticeable break in her paint. If she takes her car into a body shop, they will likely be stupefied by the connection between her perception and reality. Although she'd be foolish to file a claim, I have a suspicion that she might. She was obviously affronted by what happened, and she will want to get some type of immediate satisfaction. Even though she has every right to do so, I hope she doesn't. Every involvement, no matter how insignificant, is used by insurance companies to jack up premiums. I spend too much time in my car, and it seems like I get into these minor accidents about once a year. As scary as it is to nod off while driving, I'm thankful that it didn't happen on the highway. That could have been ugly.

Living in Babyland.

My first weekend as a father is almost complete. Tomorrow it's back to the everyday grind of work, and it's not as severe a prospect as it has been for years. Unlike during my long period of relative freedom, I'm not sacrificing much by getting back into the routine of the week. For the first time since E. was born, I'm feeling a sense of relative normalcy again. Last night M. and I decided that she would use her single daily allowance of stair use at night, so that she and the baby can sleep in his room. This will give her an opportunity to change her environment a bit so she won't go completely mad being confined to the same room 24-7. The new strategy paid immediate dividends as they got a new peaceful place to rest. He actually slept in his crib. This gave M. a chance to get some more needed sleep.

The flood of visitors has slowed to a trickle. Our friends and family have all been wonderfully supportive. It's nice to know that so many folks are willing to lend a hand. We are constantly getting offers from people who would be willing to help out even more. We're not the type of couple that accepts support from others very easily, but the knowledge that it's out there should we need it is reassuring. These visits have been great for me, as it pulls me out of "babyland" for a glimpse of the outside world. All in all, it's not been nearly as oppressive as I expected it to be. Only time will tell if I can say the same thing a month from now. I guess it depends upon the habits that E. eventually develops. It's still too early to get a true gauge of his developing personality.

There are times when our boy is extremely cranky. When he gets really upset he sounds like something possessed- a la The Exorcist. Has the Antichrist joined our family? If so, we will do everything to make him feel welcome and try not to judge. He's going to be his own little person regardless. Maybe we can take the edge off for humanity's sake. We've noticed that he doesn't have the sort of infinite patience we might have hoped for. Of course if he had, it would have been an aberration, considering our own individual temperaments. M. has repeatedly commented that I had a sort or evilly retarded look as an infant. Meanwhile I've always felt when looking at M.'s childhood photos that she was no plum fairy herself. E. looks a bit angelic, and then he opens up that quivering mouth and lets loose with a barrage of insistent complaint.

So it is pleasant once in while to get away. Last night I received exactly one and a half hours of social leave. I used it to run out and see three gallery openings. I called a friend and he was able to accompany me in my whirlwind tour of the Pittsburgh art offerings. Zombo Gallery had a "bring your own art" show. Apparently (although I didn't really get any exact details) they provided wall space for any artists that wanted to display a piece or two. As one might expect, all the available space was used, and there were plenty of people milling about. The proprietors typically make sure to have some decent beer and wine on hand, and last tonight it was a quarter keg of Church Brew Works craft ale. I waited for the foam to settle and had a look around.

Knowing that I was on a tight schedule definitely affected my enjoyment. Whenever I ran into someone I knew, I was self-conscious about not spending too much time with small talk. I'm sure I appeared as if I was distracted, and indeed I was. But I wanted to make sure I took enough time with the work itself. Unfortunately, nothing I saw at any of the galleries stood out enough to make me pause for awhile. Still I'm not sure whether that was because of the intrinsic quality of the work, or due to the fact that I felt hurried. I wanted to milk every single minute for maximum pleasure. That's a lot to expect from entries in a group show. My other outside excitement from this weekend entailed buying the wrong diapers at Giant Eagle, and consequently being sent out to the Dollar Store. I remedied the first mistake with another- buying a generic brand which M. would never put on E. Oh well.

A Big Welcome Home.

Yesterday when I came home from work, M. and E. were waiting there in the living room for me. Because M. won't be able to make it up and down the stairs for awhile, we decided it would be best to set up her entire life in that single room for the next three weeks. That may sound like an awfully dreary existence, but M. seems to be bearing up well under the pressure. No matter what small sacrifices I find myself making, her lot is a thousand times harder. It feels good to have them both back home after their stint in the hospital. There's the understandably cozy idea of the domestic scene, and a feeling of compartmentalized life. Still the concept of home has irrevocably changed, and it's going to take a lot of adjustment.

For the first time in recent memory, I came home from work on a Friday and stayed in the night. There was certainly time for me to sit at the computer and construct a blog post, but I was completely exhausted from the strain of this week. To make matters a bit more stressful, E. cried intermittently through the evening and far into the night. The tough part about being the father to a newborn is knowing that there's not a whole lot you can do to make things the way you want them. There's a profound feeling of helplessness when your child is crying and you can't get him to stop.

I knew I'd experience a lot of frustration trying to figure out what the baby is communicating when he cries. Does he have a poopy diaper? Is he hungry? Does he have gas from nursing? Is he cold? Does his circumcision still bother him? Or is he merely tired from lack of sleep? He doesn't even know sign language yet, let alone proper English. Sometimes the only way to get him to settle down is to pick him up and hold him. We've already learned a couple of surefire soothing positions that don't entail him sucking on a nipple. As I mentioned earlier, he didn't really sleep at all last night. Of course that means that M. didn't either. However, for some reason, he slept in my arms for two hours straight this morning while I watched episodes of Mr. Show.

During the time he was crashed out, M. got to get up and put stuff in the laundry. She ate and took care of stuff she hadn't had the opportunity to address in days. She couldn't sleep because I had made a trip for coffee and she had requested some- anticipating that it would be a long time before E. was settled down. We have to get a grip on these rhythms, so that M. can seize any chance to get some shut-eye. She's even talking about swearing off coffee altogether. Fortunately I know there are some things I can do to make her burden just a little bit easier. Someone recently told me that the first year of a child's life is all about the mother's relationship with her kid. All the father can really do is to be on call for whatever mom needs.

I could write for days about the multiple strains that I feel with this fussy little addition to the family. Yet (as I said) my life is comparatively easy. I don't have to be the tyke's eternal tap. I've actually felt guilty going upstairs to get some sleep. Last night I languished in a terrible series of nightmares. I woke up in the middle of the night and made a zombie-walk downstairs to see the restless pair. They were still wide awake and trying to find the happy medium of routine. It's looking more and more like this kid is like his father- a nocturnal rambler who would much rather lay down during the day, and make endless forays into the mysteries of the night.

To Cut, Or Not to Cut...

I wonder when a baby is no longer a newborn. E. has completed his first day on Earth. He seems to be quite a bit better adjusted than yesterday. I guess that's to be expected. It's fun to see his eyes open, and scanning his environment for anything at all that makes sense. I'd love to see through his eyes for about thirty seconds (and then of course recover my own imperfect eyesight). I don't believe he'll ever have any conscious memory about what he's seeing, but in some ways he's laying some important foundations for his ultimate life perspective. That's an intense idea. It's easy to want the very best for him, but hard to figure out just how to give it to him. I'm not sure at all what he wants when he cries, and that can be frustrating.

I think I can say with some confidence that he probably didn't want his foreskin clipped. Yet that was exactly what happened today. I have to say that neither of us really considered doing anything but going ahead with the procedure. Whatever controversy exists over the idea of routine circumcision has been so far on the periphery of our lives that it hasn't even registered with us. Bumper stickers like "100% of babies oppose circumcision" strike me as inane and a bit annoying. We have heard too much about respecting nature's way when it comes to childbirth and rearing. The reality is that humans have developed many health practices that seem counter to what "nature" or "god" intended. To me that entire approach is simplistic.

A major argument against circumcision goes something like this- "My baby is born perfect, and why should I alter it in any way?" Besides being arguably naive and idealistic, there's simply not a lot of substance behind it. More galling is the contention that male circumcision is akin to female circumcision. For contrary evidence, just consult the pornography industry. I can speak to this point from personal experience- I am circumcised and I have had no deficit of sensory pleasure throughout my life. In fact, I think more feeling might possibly be a bad thing. Other people don't seem to have the stomach for "hurting" little boys... as if any and all pain should be avoided at all costs. Well... immunization is neither natural nor pain-free, but science suggests that it is often beneficial.

The skeptical reader may oppose my comparison between circumcision and immunization. But the latest research is very interesting, and directly applicable to this dialog. It turns out that studies have shown that circumcision reduces the risk of contracting HIV/AIDS from heterosexual sex by 50 percent. Similarly, it decreases by half the chance of getting other STDs. Men with foreskins also get significantly more urinary tract infections and suffer higher rates of penile cancer. When confronted with such dangers, the "flappers" suggest that many of those problems can be staved off with condoms (which also happen to decrease sexual pleasure- the supposed advantage of not being clipped in the first place). Sure- precautions, rigorous hygiene, and antibiotics can make living with a foreskin safer- but why take that chance at all?

Maybe when men roamed the Earth on all fours, the foreskin played an important protective role. But now that moist enclosure is nothing more than a snug Petri dish waiting to house all types of bacteria. If we apply the logic of the "intactivists" (which is the self-selected title for those who believe parents DO NOT have a right to make the decision to circumcise), we should hesitate to remove the vestigial tails that some babies are born with. The same concept should apply to tonsils, suspicious moles, unwanted hair, the appendix and long toenails. How dare human society ever remove these sacred birthrights?