LOSING IT
My dear 87 year old mother calls me on the phone every few days to tell me that she is losing her marbles.
We enjoy repetitive conversations about her finances, insurance policies, supposedly missing checks and just about anything else that preys on her mind during the small hours of the morning.
Now, I should tell you that my mother has always been the sharpest knife in the drawer. You couldn’t get anything past her as a kid. She possessed an all-seeing eye, an acerbic tongue, a sarcastic sense of humor, and the ability to look right through you and see just what it was you were hiding. There was no fooling her; she was smart, on top of the world and nobody’s fool.
When I talk to her now and she is full of doubt, vague worries, and the dreadful sense that she is sliding down the slippery slope towards dementia, well, it fills me with a clammy fear – and not just for her, but for me as well. For after all, if life can take down this rock of a woman, what’s it going to do to her most flawed offspring?
I was standing by the kitchen sink telling my wife that I was worried about my mom losing it. Since Rochelle is a Physical Therapist who works quite often with geriatric patients she had an interesting perspective.
“Your mother may be slipping a few gears,” she said. “But the fact that she thinks she is losing ground is really a sign that she still has it together.”
“How so?”
“Believe me, the people who are losing their minds think they are fine. If you can tell you are slipping, that means that you’re still fairly cogent.”
I don’t know,” I said. “My mom is pretty confused.”
“Is she wrapping potatoes in Reynolds Aluminum Wrap and shoving them in the microwave to bake?”
“No.”
“Does she mistake her daughter for her favorite sister, 20 plus years deceased?”
“Well, no.”
“Has she smeared fecal matter in her hair?”
“Good God, no!”
“Then, trust me, she’s not losing it.”
“Is this the new litmus test of mental acuity; have you given yourself a shit shampoo lately? If the answer is no, then you’re still with it. But if your answer is yes, then you probably don’t remember it anyway.”
“It’s a lot to look forward to, isn’t it?”
“I can tell that I’m slipping,” I confessed, because I live in Universe Jeff, where it is always all about me, all of the time.
“Yeah, well, you’re probably not the best barometer of mental stability.”
“I spent all last week looking for my reading glasses.”
“Are we going to go through that again?”
“I thought I had left them at the gym and I was pestering the people there every day asking them if anybody had turned them in. And all the time they were in….”
“The laundry basket,” she said. “I know; I’m the one who found them, remember?”
“Right, the laundry basket. I must have looked through that basket at least three times, because I knew that I had laid my jacket on it when I ….”
“Came home from the gym,” she said and she was tapping her foot in the impatient way that she has when someone obtuse is really annoying her.
“Right, but how did I miss them?”
“No doubt one of the enduring mysteries of the world.”
“And remember when I had that bright idea to take all our spare keys and hide them.”
“In case robbers broke in while we were on a ski trip,” she said. Her jaw was making a peculiar motion, like she was grinding her teeth.
“You’re doing that funny thing again with your jaw,” I told her.
“Golly, wonder why?” And she stopped doing it. I am really helpful in correcting her imperfections that way.
“And so what happened with all those keys?” I asked her.
“They all disappeared!” she said and slapped her forehead in mock wonder.
“That’s right! Exactly! I put them all in that special hiding place and we spent the next 2 years trying to remember where.”
“Not us, you. You spent the next 2 years trying to find them. I always assumed that some super-smart robbers slipped in here while we were in Beaver Creek and stole our spare keys just to mess with your head.”
“You’re not pretty when you are being sarcastic,” I told her, and not for the first time. I’m a saint to stay in this marriage.
“What could I possibly have to be sarcastic about? You’re convinced because you’re mom is slipping a gear or two, that you must be losing your mind too. But hey, Planet Earth to Planet Jeffrey, she is 87 and you are 57!”
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be happening. I’m losing stuff all the time. I could be suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
Man, now I was really depressed. I saw a bleak landscape stretching in front of me; the Rest of My Life, lived in diapers, drooling, not knowing my children from my siblings. I felt a spasm of tightness like an electrical current glance across my chest and whereas normally this brief pain would have caused me to worry about having a cardiac event – and me only 57, it’s not fair, I tell ya! – now, it felt vaguely reassuring. I mean, who wouldn’t take a quick exit through a seismic shift in your left ventricle, rather than facing decades of embarrassing dementia? Sign me up in a heartbeat.
“And if you do have Alzheimer’s, Darling, won’t it be extra special for me as I get to change your poopy diapers?” She said this in a sweet voice but her jaw was starting to grind away again.
“That’s not even funny,” I told her.
“No, it certainly is not,” she said as she turned to leave the room. “Oh, and if you’re not doing anything this afternoon, why don’t you look for the spare keys? You haven’t turned the house upside down since I found your glasses while doing the laundry.”
And so I was left to contemplate the inevitable slide into the grave. First my mother would lose her mind, and then she would die. Then I would lose my mind and then I would die.
It was enough to make a strong man weep, this slow unwinding of the funeral shroud before my mind’s eye.
It was at this critical juncture that the most well-balanced of the sentient beings in Chez Finn sauntered into the kitchen, her nose testing the air for a scent of food.
“Got your dawber down?” asked Kebu the Akita.
“My mom is losing her mind, and I am dying,” I told my dog while I scratched her velveteen ears absently.
A rumbling growl deep in her throat signaled her contentment with the ear rub.
“A piece of your home-made Biscotti would brighten your outlook, I am sure,” said the dog.
“You’re probably right,” I agreed and opened the cookie jar. “I’ll bet you’d like one too.”
“Well, now that you mention it, sure, why not?”
We stood there chewing thoughtfully on our Biscotti. “Life ever get you down, Kebu?”
She did that funny little cock of her head like she was listening for the sound of dangerous predators in the distance.
“I’m a dog,” she told me. “I try to live in the moment.”
“I wish I were a dog,” I said.
“That would be a disaster," Kebu said. "Who would bake our Biscotti?”
Trust a dog to keep matters in perspective.
(a note from DDD – for those of you who read this via email, check out my blog location for new paintings of the torrid twosome; view at www.dirtydiaperdad.blogspot.com)
HER GUARDIAN (a new oil painting by The Dirty Diaper Dad)
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
PIE IN THE SKY
Prior to the holidays I took a pie baking class through the Santa Rosa Rec. Now, on the face of it, you might think this was a good thing. You might even be tempted to say, “Good for you, Jeff. You are finally making some constructive use of your overly abundant free time. Maybe you are even going to, at long last, not make a total hash of this whole retirement thing.”
But, alas, you would be mistaken. For you would not be giving full weight to my obsessive personality, which can take even the most benign subject – like, say, pie baking – and make an evil of it.
I was overcome with the need to make the perfect pie crust. You would be surprised how difficult this is, even with expert instruction – in the form of the baking class – from a veteran pastry chef.
Now if you could make the pies in some magical kitchen where once they were baked, tasted and then they miraculously disappeared, then that would be what we call a good thing. But the kitchen at 4714 Muirfield Court is not a place where the paranormal occurs. When I bake a pie it does not vanish after one bite. No, it sits on the counter or in the fridge and it says, “Eat me.”
And because I was raised by Depression-era parents who convinced me it was sinful to let even one bite of food go to waste – because, in Sub Saharan Africa, don’t you know, there are Pagan Babies with their distended stomachs sticking out in front of them like a man with a basketball under a tee-shirt, and they are starving, and if I throw away even one morsel of food, then I am as good as killing them.
Ask anybody who went to Catholic school in the 50’s and they will confirm that this is the truth. I can still see those Pagan Babies with their basketball stomachs and their protruding belly buttons and their stick-like arms and legs. And, let me tell you, I finish everything on my plate, ‘cause I don’t want to be the one responsible for killing them.
Apple pie, berry pie, French apple-almond tort, pumpkin pie, peach pie.
I baked ‘em all, and my poor wife and I had to eat ‘em all. We were inviting people over just on the off chance we could send them home with a pie. We were eating pie for lunch. I was having a slice with my morning tea. We were eating pie at 9 p.m while watching television.
And then bolting upright in the middle of the night to dash to the bathroom and hurriedly shovel Tums in our mouths in the vain hope of reversing the acid reflux the late night slice of pie had induced.
We were simply bilious with pie.
I was feeding pie to my daughter when the wife was gone. I was feeding pie to Kebu to the point where she was following me around the house with an alert expression on her face and a look in her eyes that said; “You know what I think this would be a good time to do? Have another piece of pie!”
This lasted until the poor dog had midnight diarrhea – and wasn’t that some fun taking her out back in the windy rain 6 times between midnight and five a.m!
So not only did I make myself and my wife sick, I made the Akita sick. All because I couldn’t stop myself from baking pies. I gained 9 lbs over the holidays. I began to look like a big, fat piece of chunky apple pie.
So, no, the next time you come over to our house, we won’t be serving pie for desert. For, like a heroin addict, I can’t stop at one pie. At this point I am just trying to take it one pie-less day at a time.
But I have found a substitute. I am perfecting the perfect Italian biscotti. And Kebu is quite impressed with the first few batches.
Prior to the holidays I took a pie baking class through the Santa Rosa Rec. Now, on the face of it, you might think this was a good thing. You might even be tempted to say, “Good for you, Jeff. You are finally making some constructive use of your overly abundant free time. Maybe you are even going to, at long last, not make a total hash of this whole retirement thing.”
But, alas, you would be mistaken. For you would not be giving full weight to my obsessive personality, which can take even the most benign subject – like, say, pie baking – and make an evil of it.
I was overcome with the need to make the perfect pie crust. You would be surprised how difficult this is, even with expert instruction – in the form of the baking class – from a veteran pastry chef.
Now if you could make the pies in some magical kitchen where once they were baked, tasted and then they miraculously disappeared, then that would be what we call a good thing. But the kitchen at 4714 Muirfield Court is not a place where the paranormal occurs. When I bake a pie it does not vanish after one bite. No, it sits on the counter or in the fridge and it says, “Eat me.”
And because I was raised by Depression-era parents who convinced me it was sinful to let even one bite of food go to waste – because, in Sub Saharan Africa, don’t you know, there are Pagan Babies with their distended stomachs sticking out in front of them like a man with a basketball under a tee-shirt, and they are starving, and if I throw away even one morsel of food, then I am as good as killing them.
Ask anybody who went to Catholic school in the 50’s and they will confirm that this is the truth. I can still see those Pagan Babies with their basketball stomachs and their protruding belly buttons and their stick-like arms and legs. And, let me tell you, I finish everything on my plate, ‘cause I don’t want to be the one responsible for killing them.
Apple pie, berry pie, French apple-almond tort, pumpkin pie, peach pie.
I baked ‘em all, and my poor wife and I had to eat ‘em all. We were inviting people over just on the off chance we could send them home with a pie. We were eating pie for lunch. I was having a slice with my morning tea. We were eating pie at 9 p.m while watching television.
And then bolting upright in the middle of the night to dash to the bathroom and hurriedly shovel Tums in our mouths in the vain hope of reversing the acid reflux the late night slice of pie had induced.
We were simply bilious with pie.
I was feeding pie to my daughter when the wife was gone. I was feeding pie to Kebu to the point where she was following me around the house with an alert expression on her face and a look in her eyes that said; “You know what I think this would be a good time to do? Have another piece of pie!”
This lasted until the poor dog had midnight diarrhea – and wasn’t that some fun taking her out back in the windy rain 6 times between midnight and five a.m!
So not only did I make myself and my wife sick, I made the Akita sick. All because I couldn’t stop myself from baking pies. I gained 9 lbs over the holidays. I began to look like a big, fat piece of chunky apple pie.
So, no, the next time you come over to our house, we won’t be serving pie for desert. For, like a heroin addict, I can’t stop at one pie. At this point I am just trying to take it one pie-less day at a time.
But I have found a substitute. I am perfecting the perfect Italian biscotti. And Kebu is quite impressed with the first few batches.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
MISADVENTURES IN CHILD-PROOFING
Because we have a toddler who is fully mobile and can get into trouble quicker than you can say Jiminy Cricket, I was tasked with the unenviable chore of child-proofing our house. Now, there is a man who would take on this mission with a firm resolve, a steady hand, and equilibrium akin to Tom Brady standing tall in a collapsing pocket with his gaze planted resolutely downfield.
Alas, I am not that man.
I knew what I was in for. And it would not be pretty. It would require a lot of bending over (in a position designed to throw out my dodgy back), lots of sweating, and the use of sharp tools in tight places. I had baby-proofed two homes in my long ago past, and the recollection of those scenes transferred an faint sense of dread to the present job.
With cordless screwdriver in hand I set out to affix child proof devices to 38 cabinets and drawers. I was wearing knee pads, reading glasses (because I can’t see anything within 3 feet of my face), and a disquieting certainty that before this day was through I would desperately crave a drink.
So, you can see, I already had the right attitude.
I began in the kitchen and by the third drawer I knew I was in trouble, for this drawer, a precursor of many others, would not come out of its slot. Don’t ask me why, there are some things I am not meant to understand. Like women, self-destructive compulsions, how to throw a slider, the allure of rap music, and, now, drawers that refuse to be fully drawn.
I was bent over one such drawer and my gimpy back was twitching in a most alarming way, and the sweat was rolling down my forehead and smearing my reading glasses so I couldn’t see what I was doing and the screwdriver was slipping off the screw and gouging into my finger nail where I held the screw in place and I was beginning to weep in ineffectual anger and frustration when the only being who understands me wandered into the kitchen and sat down on the floor by the oven to watch the goings-on.
Kebu, the regal Akita, gazed at the fomenting disaster with her dark brown eyes, her noble head perched like a crown on the thick ruff of her neck. She blew heavily through her nose and then let out a long sigh that said she had seen all this before.
I sat down on the hardwood floor and looked at her. “Kebu,” I said, “we are well and truly screwed now. I’ve got about a million of these goddamned drawers to baby-proof and my back is on the verge of going out at any moment, I just smashed a sharp implement made of forged steel through my finger tip and I’m getting cranky and weepy.”
Kebu cocked her head at me, her sharp black ears pricked permanently skyward, while I sucked the blood from my finger like a baby child sucking a lollipop.
One of the things I like best about you, said my dog, is your baking. And I particularly like your biscotti. It appears you could use a cookie about right now.
This sounded like good advice so I got a piece of my anise-flavored biscotti out of the cookie jar and I shared it with the dog.
You’ve been going at it real hard, Kebu said. You deserve a nice break. Why don’t you have a cuppa?
Another bright idea. So, I made a cup of tea and sat back down on the floor. I was getting used to this floor, it was making me feel almost grounded.
You know what goes great with a cuppa? asked the dog.
“A biscotti?’ I guessed.
She nodded her big head.
This time I brought the cookie jar down to our level; all this standing and sitting was wearing me out. A working man needs to conserve his energy for the task at hand.
We split another piece of hard biscotti, the dog taking her pieces gently from my hand as she had been taught. I put a piece between my teeth and asked her for a kiss and she softly nibbled the cookie from my mouth, her chin whiskers tickling my lips. It made me laugh out loud. The sun finally broke through the gloomy Sonoma County sky and I didn’t feel quite as suicidal.
The only thing better than a piece of biscotti? Kebu said.
“Is two pieces of biscotti!” I grabbed a pair from the jar and we ate them in happy silence. I dipped my cookie into my tea, which softens it and seems to really bring out the taste of the anise seed. Kebu crunched her pieces between her back teeth, her bone-crushing jaws moving with terrible efficiency.
She licked her mouth with her long pink tongue and settled in to stare at the cookie jar.
“You missed a bit,” I told her and tapped the floor. She bent over and licked up the crumbs. You never have to vacuum the kitchen when Kebu’s around.
“I think I can get back to this hellish undertaking now,” I said.
That’s the spirit, said the Akita. She moved to the comfort of the rug by the couch, whence she could keep her eye on the yard and my progress in the kitchen.
“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” I said to her.
You never know when a squirrel or a cat is going invade our territory and need to be barked at, she informed me and settled down, her white paws and forelegs curled under her thick chest and head. She was a study of shifting grays, from off-white to coal black, and I imagined how her ancestors blended into the mountain snow while hunting marmots.
I’m here for you if you need another biscotti break, she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The taste of Earl Grey tea and anise in my mouth, I put a Band-Aid on my bleeding finger and went back to work.
Because we have a toddler who is fully mobile and can get into trouble quicker than you can say Jiminy Cricket, I was tasked with the unenviable chore of child-proofing our house. Now, there is a man who would take on this mission with a firm resolve, a steady hand, and equilibrium akin to Tom Brady standing tall in a collapsing pocket with his gaze planted resolutely downfield.
Alas, I am not that man.
I knew what I was in for. And it would not be pretty. It would require a lot of bending over (in a position designed to throw out my dodgy back), lots of sweating, and the use of sharp tools in tight places. I had baby-proofed two homes in my long ago past, and the recollection of those scenes transferred an faint sense of dread to the present job.
With cordless screwdriver in hand I set out to affix child proof devices to 38 cabinets and drawers. I was wearing knee pads, reading glasses (because I can’t see anything within 3 feet of my face), and a disquieting certainty that before this day was through I would desperately crave a drink.
So, you can see, I already had the right attitude.
I began in the kitchen and by the third drawer I knew I was in trouble, for this drawer, a precursor of many others, would not come out of its slot. Don’t ask me why, there are some things I am not meant to understand. Like women, self-destructive compulsions, how to throw a slider, the allure of rap music, and, now, drawers that refuse to be fully drawn.
I was bent over one such drawer and my gimpy back was twitching in a most alarming way, and the sweat was rolling down my forehead and smearing my reading glasses so I couldn’t see what I was doing and the screwdriver was slipping off the screw and gouging into my finger nail where I held the screw in place and I was beginning to weep in ineffectual anger and frustration when the only being who understands me wandered into the kitchen and sat down on the floor by the oven to watch the goings-on.
Kebu, the regal Akita, gazed at the fomenting disaster with her dark brown eyes, her noble head perched like a crown on the thick ruff of her neck. She blew heavily through her nose and then let out a long sigh that said she had seen all this before.
I sat down on the hardwood floor and looked at her. “Kebu,” I said, “we are well and truly screwed now. I’ve got about a million of these goddamned drawers to baby-proof and my back is on the verge of going out at any moment, I just smashed a sharp implement made of forged steel through my finger tip and I’m getting cranky and weepy.”
Kebu cocked her head at me, her sharp black ears pricked permanently skyward, while I sucked the blood from my finger like a baby child sucking a lollipop.
One of the things I like best about you, said my dog, is your baking. And I particularly like your biscotti. It appears you could use a cookie about right now.
This sounded like good advice so I got a piece of my anise-flavored biscotti out of the cookie jar and I shared it with the dog.
You’ve been going at it real hard, Kebu said. You deserve a nice break. Why don’t you have a cuppa?
Another bright idea. So, I made a cup of tea and sat back down on the floor. I was getting used to this floor, it was making me feel almost grounded.
You know what goes great with a cuppa? asked the dog.
“A biscotti?’ I guessed.
She nodded her big head.
This time I brought the cookie jar down to our level; all this standing and sitting was wearing me out. A working man needs to conserve his energy for the task at hand.
We split another piece of hard biscotti, the dog taking her pieces gently from my hand as she had been taught. I put a piece between my teeth and asked her for a kiss and she softly nibbled the cookie from my mouth, her chin whiskers tickling my lips. It made me laugh out loud. The sun finally broke through the gloomy Sonoma County sky and I didn’t feel quite as suicidal.
The only thing better than a piece of biscotti? Kebu said.
“Is two pieces of biscotti!” I grabbed a pair from the jar and we ate them in happy silence. I dipped my cookie into my tea, which softens it and seems to really bring out the taste of the anise seed. Kebu crunched her pieces between her back teeth, her bone-crushing jaws moving with terrible efficiency.
She licked her mouth with her long pink tongue and settled in to stare at the cookie jar.
“You missed a bit,” I told her and tapped the floor. She bent over and licked up the crumbs. You never have to vacuum the kitchen when Kebu’s around.
“I think I can get back to this hellish undertaking now,” I said.
That’s the spirit, said the Akita. She moved to the comfort of the rug by the couch, whence she could keep her eye on the yard and my progress in the kitchen.
“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” I said to her.
You never know when a squirrel or a cat is going invade our territory and need to be barked at, she informed me and settled down, her white paws and forelegs curled under her thick chest and head. She was a study of shifting grays, from off-white to coal black, and I imagined how her ancestors blended into the mountain snow while hunting marmots.
I’m here for you if you need another biscotti break, she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The taste of Earl Grey tea and anise in my mouth, I put a Band-Aid on my bleeding finger and went back to work.
Friday, January 14, 2011
KEEPING SCORE
Since my last posting, MEN’S LIB, I have been mulling over the challenges faced by our evolving Mr. Mom. It’s taken me some time to get my arms around the core issues facing the American male as he makes the not so quite graceful transition from uber-bread winner to stay at home dad.
And the crux of the problem comes down to score keeping.
To better explain myself a little background is in order.
When I was a lad I was quickly inculcated, both at home and at school, into the concept of keeping score as a measure of valuing one’s self worth. Specifically, my notion of self was framed by my report card, whether I was in the starting lineup on our school team for whatever sport was in season, merit pins awarded at the end of each grading period, and whether I was a class officer or not. That was pretty much it in Irish Catholic San Mateo in the fifties and early sixties.
As I grew up and supposedly matured, my scoring system changed with me. Now I graded my meaning on sex, my job, my golf handicap, sex, my time in the 10K, how much money I earned, sex, and, later, my children’s climb up the scoring later – because, obviously, their success reflected on my score as a parent.
You see, all scoring, all the time. Constant tallying and grading.
I’m not saying every guy, everywhere, is just like me. Maybe this obsession with scorekeeping is specific to me but I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not alone. Speaking in wide generalities (which I am allowed to do since I am Mr. Smarty Pants) women are raised to be nurturers, and men are raised to earn. In prehistoric times earning translated into providing food for the family hearth. In modern times it has evolved into making money to fund the hearth and all that goes with it. Men are not wired to feather the nest, but rather, kill the beast.
And that’s where I am having a little bit of problem with the whole Mr. Mom gig. I haven’t killed a beast in a while and it is getting to me. If after a day of baby watching the child is alive, dry and not dying of hunger I suppose that is a passing grade and worthy of some self praise. But honestly, it does not gratify me like hitting a line drive or closing a business deal did at earlier times.
We are a living paradox at Chez Finn; my wife would gladly give up her work to stay home with the toddler all day, every day, and now that my retirement has been waylaid, I would gladly cede the child rearing duties for a workaday job making money. But this isn’t happening anytime soon for either of us.
I talk to my intellectual superior, the Akita Kebu, about this and she says that in her experience the only thing that matters is one’s place in the pack. And since she is secure in her place in the pack, I should be secure in mine as Pack Leader. And she says that she is beginning to find all my strident self examination a little over indulgent.
And then she takes a nap.
I wish I were a dog.
Since my last posting, MEN’S LIB, I have been mulling over the challenges faced by our evolving Mr. Mom. It’s taken me some time to get my arms around the core issues facing the American male as he makes the not so quite graceful transition from uber-bread winner to stay at home dad.
And the crux of the problem comes down to score keeping.
To better explain myself a little background is in order.
When I was a lad I was quickly inculcated, both at home and at school, into the concept of keeping score as a measure of valuing one’s self worth. Specifically, my notion of self was framed by my report card, whether I was in the starting lineup on our school team for whatever sport was in season, merit pins awarded at the end of each grading period, and whether I was a class officer or not. That was pretty much it in Irish Catholic San Mateo in the fifties and early sixties.
As I grew up and supposedly matured, my scoring system changed with me. Now I graded my meaning on sex, my job, my golf handicap, sex, my time in the 10K, how much money I earned, sex, and, later, my children’s climb up the scoring later – because, obviously, their success reflected on my score as a parent.
You see, all scoring, all the time. Constant tallying and grading.
I’m not saying every guy, everywhere, is just like me. Maybe this obsession with scorekeeping is specific to me but I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not alone. Speaking in wide generalities (which I am allowed to do since I am Mr. Smarty Pants) women are raised to be nurturers, and men are raised to earn. In prehistoric times earning translated into providing food for the family hearth. In modern times it has evolved into making money to fund the hearth and all that goes with it. Men are not wired to feather the nest, but rather, kill the beast.
And that’s where I am having a little bit of problem with the whole Mr. Mom gig. I haven’t killed a beast in a while and it is getting to me. If after a day of baby watching the child is alive, dry and not dying of hunger I suppose that is a passing grade and worthy of some self praise. But honestly, it does not gratify me like hitting a line drive or closing a business deal did at earlier times.
We are a living paradox at Chez Finn; my wife would gladly give up her work to stay home with the toddler all day, every day, and now that my retirement has been waylaid, I would gladly cede the child rearing duties for a workaday job making money. But this isn’t happening anytime soon for either of us.
I talk to my intellectual superior, the Akita Kebu, about this and she says that in her experience the only thing that matters is one’s place in the pack. And since she is secure in her place in the pack, I should be secure in mine as Pack Leader. And she says that she is beginning to find all my strident self examination a little over indulgent.
And then she takes a nap.
I wish I were a dog.
Monday, January 3, 2011
MEN’S LIB
It was the final gasp of our well-deserved Indian Summer; a hot afternoon in the first week of November and we were still in thrall to the unexpected joy of the Giants World Series Win. I was sitting at a wrought iron table in the plaza outside my local Starbucks. With me was the dynamic duo; Vivienne, the cute but screeching toddler, and Kebu the wonder dog. As people came in and out of the coffee shop we all shared a good word regarding our magical team’s run to the championship.
At the appointed time my friend Louis sauntered up to our table in his slow easy gait, whistling cheerfully. Kebu hates whistlers and so she barked in alarm, though she has known Louis since birth and her tail was wagging enthusiastically. She can be a living paradox, her front end sounding a warning, while her rear end signals glee. Or as close to glee as an aloof Akita is likely to get.
Louis placed a Newsweek article on the table. Its title was MEN’S LIB, and he said: “Dude, this is you.”
After a 2 hour gabfest I took my wrecking crew home and read Louis’ article.
And, Dude, he was right.
It was all about me.
Basically the article said that life is changing dramatically for American men. Their old jobs are going away and they ain’t coming back any time soon. Sort of like the lyrics to a Springsteen song. Men need to embrace girly jobs and dirty diapers (ring a bell?). And they better learn how to re-imagine masculinity at work and at home or they are going to be in for some rough adjustments. (I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the drift.)
In short, because of the new economy and a shifting job market many men are going to be doing exactly what I am doing now – performing the Mr. Mom gig, while the mother in the family goes off to work. And if you don’t think that is going to be some bumpy adjustment for most men, then, brother, I am here to relieve you of that notion pronto.
Yes, it is a thorny change for men of my ilk. But that is not to say that there aren’t some beautiful and rewarding moments along the way. Just this morning I was feeding my daughter Vivienne her oatmeal for breakfast and she was irritating the living daylights out of me by spitting the food right back in my face. I was getting spun up and so I took a moment to back off and gather myself. And then I recalled what my wife was telling me this morning about our daughter’s development. Vivienne is 15 months old and her body and mind are growing faster than she can handle. She is frustrated because she wants to do things that her motor skills cannot handle. And because she is having semi-cogent thoughts, but as yet lacks the ability to communicate, she is doubly frustrated.
So I took a moment to objectively examine the state of affairs. Often when I am cogitating on sticky situations I call on a mind better than mine. So I turned to the noble Akita Kebu, who was lying in regal posture on the floor beside me, the thick fur of her neck ruffed out like a lion’s mane, her dark eyes gazing placidly on the mess around her.
I’m big enough to admit that I’ve been talking a lot more to my dog lately. But considering the alternatives, this is not necessarily a bad thing.
I said, “Kebu, I am flummoxed. I have a 15 month old daughter whom I no longer recognize. She used to eat everything, sleep all night and the only sound passing her pearly lips was the delightful giggle of the angels. Now she sprays food about the kitchen, screams from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. each and every night, and her comical singing of Chinese Opera has been replaced by an ear piercing Banshee-like shriek that, quite frankly, drives me to distraction. What am I to do?”
Now I’m not nutty enough to believe my dog actually talks back to me. Come on, everybody knows that is crazy. But when I voice my fears, thoughts, etcetera, to my haughty canine, I frequently have a following thought that is, by and large, a lot more enlightened than the usual junk that passes for reflection in my brain.
And the thought I had was this; “Your child isexperiencing the craving for independence. She is frustrated with being confined and directed. Think outside the box, Mr. Doofus.”
So I had the bright idea to let her feed herself. I bent over the high chair and gently placed the spoon in her hand. And then I guided her fat little fist as she fed herself oatmeal. She looked up at me with a big smile, her sharp little teeth poking haphazardly from her pink gums and then emitted a loud barking laugh reminiscent of Linda Blair in THE EXORCIST, complete with a demented demon’s grin. And she pulled her hand away from me and gave me a look that said she was in charge of the feeding now, thank you very much, and my help was no longer required.
“I am guiding her first step towards independence,” I said to myself. And in my mind’s eye I could see all the future steps spread out in front of us; potty training, pre-school, the first day of kindergarten, coaching her soccer team, high school and finally leaving home to go off to college.
For a moment I actually felt grounded and even as if I was doing exactly what I am intended to do. It was a fairly startling insight for someone as flawed as myself.
And if all the other Mr. Moms can have a few of these moments, then maybe the transition towards a new phase of the prototypical American family will be a little less jarring and a little more beatific.
(Endnote; I left my daughter to feed herself while I wrote in this journal and when I returned the bowl and spoon were on the floor and oatmeal was spread all over her face, hands, highchair, and, yes, especially in her hair. And even up her nose. But she wasn’t screaming and she seemed content so I was glad to clean up the mess.)
It was the final gasp of our well-deserved Indian Summer; a hot afternoon in the first week of November and we were still in thrall to the unexpected joy of the Giants World Series Win. I was sitting at a wrought iron table in the plaza outside my local Starbucks. With me was the dynamic duo; Vivienne, the cute but screeching toddler, and Kebu the wonder dog. As people came in and out of the coffee shop we all shared a good word regarding our magical team’s run to the championship.
At the appointed time my friend Louis sauntered up to our table in his slow easy gait, whistling cheerfully. Kebu hates whistlers and so she barked in alarm, though she has known Louis since birth and her tail was wagging enthusiastically. She can be a living paradox, her front end sounding a warning, while her rear end signals glee. Or as close to glee as an aloof Akita is likely to get.
Louis placed a Newsweek article on the table. Its title was MEN’S LIB, and he said: “Dude, this is you.”
After a 2 hour gabfest I took my wrecking crew home and read Louis’ article.
And, Dude, he was right.
It was all about me.
Basically the article said that life is changing dramatically for American men. Their old jobs are going away and they ain’t coming back any time soon. Sort of like the lyrics to a Springsteen song. Men need to embrace girly jobs and dirty diapers (ring a bell?). And they better learn how to re-imagine masculinity at work and at home or they are going to be in for some rough adjustments. (I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the drift.)
In short, because of the new economy and a shifting job market many men are going to be doing exactly what I am doing now – performing the Mr. Mom gig, while the mother in the family goes off to work. And if you don’t think that is going to be some bumpy adjustment for most men, then, brother, I am here to relieve you of that notion pronto.
Yes, it is a thorny change for men of my ilk. But that is not to say that there aren’t some beautiful and rewarding moments along the way. Just this morning I was feeding my daughter Vivienne her oatmeal for breakfast and she was irritating the living daylights out of me by spitting the food right back in my face. I was getting spun up and so I took a moment to back off and gather myself. And then I recalled what my wife was telling me this morning about our daughter’s development. Vivienne is 15 months old and her body and mind are growing faster than she can handle. She is frustrated because she wants to do things that her motor skills cannot handle. And because she is having semi-cogent thoughts, but as yet lacks the ability to communicate, she is doubly frustrated.
So I took a moment to objectively examine the state of affairs. Often when I am cogitating on sticky situations I call on a mind better than mine. So I turned to the noble Akita Kebu, who was lying in regal posture on the floor beside me, the thick fur of her neck ruffed out like a lion’s mane, her dark eyes gazing placidly on the mess around her.
I’m big enough to admit that I’ve been talking a lot more to my dog lately. But considering the alternatives, this is not necessarily a bad thing.
I said, “Kebu, I am flummoxed. I have a 15 month old daughter whom I no longer recognize. She used to eat everything, sleep all night and the only sound passing her pearly lips was the delightful giggle of the angels. Now she sprays food about the kitchen, screams from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. each and every night, and her comical singing of Chinese Opera has been replaced by an ear piercing Banshee-like shriek that, quite frankly, drives me to distraction. What am I to do?”
Now I’m not nutty enough to believe my dog actually talks back to me. Come on, everybody knows that is crazy. But when I voice my fears, thoughts, etcetera, to my haughty canine, I frequently have a following thought that is, by and large, a lot more enlightened than the usual junk that passes for reflection in my brain.
And the thought I had was this; “Your child isexperiencing the craving for independence. She is frustrated with being confined and directed. Think outside the box, Mr. Doofus.”
So I had the bright idea to let her feed herself. I bent over the high chair and gently placed the spoon in her hand. And then I guided her fat little fist as she fed herself oatmeal. She looked up at me with a big smile, her sharp little teeth poking haphazardly from her pink gums and then emitted a loud barking laugh reminiscent of Linda Blair in THE EXORCIST, complete with a demented demon’s grin. And she pulled her hand away from me and gave me a look that said she was in charge of the feeding now, thank you very much, and my help was no longer required.
“I am guiding her first step towards independence,” I said to myself. And in my mind’s eye I could see all the future steps spread out in front of us; potty training, pre-school, the first day of kindergarten, coaching her soccer team, high school and finally leaving home to go off to college.
For a moment I actually felt grounded and even as if I was doing exactly what I am intended to do. It was a fairly startling insight for someone as flawed as myself.
And if all the other Mr. Moms can have a few of these moments, then maybe the transition towards a new phase of the prototypical American family will be a little less jarring and a little more beatific.
(Endnote; I left my daughter to feed herself while I wrote in this journal and when I returned the bowl and spoon were on the floor and oatmeal was spread all over her face, hands, highchair, and, yes, especially in her hair. And even up her nose. But she wasn’t screaming and she seemed content so I was glad to clean up the mess.)
Sunday, January 2, 2011
RESOLUTION
Because my mind inhabits the land of Make Believe, where actual change and self improvement are considered real possibilities, I go to sleep every New Year’s Eve with the vague but misguided hope that when I awaken to the New Year I will be a new and upgraded version of Jeff. This year I was disabused of this notion in near record time, exactly 5 a.m., as I was cleaning dog vomit from the carpet in our bedroom.
You see, I know better than to feed our dog, the noble Kebu, bones and gristle. But since it was a holiday and the season of giving, I suspended my better judgment and gave her a treat, specifically the scraps from my dinner plate. I let her loose on the deck with a steak bone and then went back to whatever football game I was watching at the time and forgot about her.
Big mistake.
When you leave Kebu unsupervised with a bone for an extended period of time she chews the bone down to smithereens and then swallows all of it. And I know this. However, my careless disposition frequently takes control of my simple brain at inopportune times and I do really stupid things.
And so it was that I was awakened from a sound sleep in the early morning by a sound you really don’t want to hear in your bedroom -- your dog retching up bone shards. And yes, friends, those words sound just as ugly as the racket Kebu was making.
Simply appalling.
Enough to make you leap out of bed and rush about like your hair is on fire. Which is just what I did. I tore downstairs with the retching Akita behind me and let her outside, where she continued her upchucking with a look on her face that said, I’m utterly aghast that you have to witness this undignified display, but really, I simply must heave up this last scrap of bone fragment.
So I’m standing out in the freezing rain on January 1st in nothing but my pajama bottoms while the dog I dearly love is gagging up her innards because I was too stupid to take away her bone.
And I thought to myself; “Self, how did we come to be here”?
And my Self answered; “You have screwed up again, Bunkums. And, oh, by the way, your morning is about to get even worse, for once you come in from the dark frigid outdoors, you are gonna have to jump on that dog puke pronto, or you will have a stain in your carpet that will never come up.”
Which is how I ended up on my hands and knees furiously scrubbing up the bile stain from the carpet on New Year’s morn, all my resolutions to be a new and improved Jeff lying shattered on the floor around me – not unlike the splinters of steak bone that I picked from the nap of the carpet.
It was at that precise instant that our darling daughter awoke screaming holy hell as she began to cut four new molars in the back of her mouth. A screeching that has not subsided twenty nine hours later; but who's keeping count?
Welcome to the New Year.
Welcome to my world; the magical land of dog vomit, shrieking babies, dull grey mornings and misaligned hope.
Because my mind inhabits the land of Make Believe, where actual change and self improvement are considered real possibilities, I go to sleep every New Year’s Eve with the vague but misguided hope that when I awaken to the New Year I will be a new and upgraded version of Jeff. This year I was disabused of this notion in near record time, exactly 5 a.m., as I was cleaning dog vomit from the carpet in our bedroom.
You see, I know better than to feed our dog, the noble Kebu, bones and gristle. But since it was a holiday and the season of giving, I suspended my better judgment and gave her a treat, specifically the scraps from my dinner plate. I let her loose on the deck with a steak bone and then went back to whatever football game I was watching at the time and forgot about her.
Big mistake.
When you leave Kebu unsupervised with a bone for an extended period of time she chews the bone down to smithereens and then swallows all of it. And I know this. However, my careless disposition frequently takes control of my simple brain at inopportune times and I do really stupid things.
And so it was that I was awakened from a sound sleep in the early morning by a sound you really don’t want to hear in your bedroom -- your dog retching up bone shards. And yes, friends, those words sound just as ugly as the racket Kebu was making.
Simply appalling.
Enough to make you leap out of bed and rush about like your hair is on fire. Which is just what I did. I tore downstairs with the retching Akita behind me and let her outside, where she continued her upchucking with a look on her face that said, I’m utterly aghast that you have to witness this undignified display, but really, I simply must heave up this last scrap of bone fragment.
So I’m standing out in the freezing rain on January 1st in nothing but my pajama bottoms while the dog I dearly love is gagging up her innards because I was too stupid to take away her bone.
And I thought to myself; “Self, how did we come to be here”?
And my Self answered; “You have screwed up again, Bunkums. And, oh, by the way, your morning is about to get even worse, for once you come in from the dark frigid outdoors, you are gonna have to jump on that dog puke pronto, or you will have a stain in your carpet that will never come up.”
Which is how I ended up on my hands and knees furiously scrubbing up the bile stain from the carpet on New Year’s morn, all my resolutions to be a new and improved Jeff lying shattered on the floor around me – not unlike the splinters of steak bone that I picked from the nap of the carpet.
It was at that precise instant that our darling daughter awoke screaming holy hell as she began to cut four new molars in the back of her mouth. A screeching that has not subsided twenty nine hours later; but who's keeping count?
Welcome to the New Year.
Welcome to my world; the magical land of dog vomit, shrieking babies, dull grey mornings and misaligned hope.
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