Am I Too Sensitive for Fatherhood?

So Erin and I announced on the World Wide Web that we are going to become parents the other day. First, we just want to thank everyone for the messages and support we have received on our Facebook page. It means so much to us, keep it coming, because everyone knows how much I love getting adulation.

I started thinking about this future life as a daddy. Am I too sensitive for this role? I mean, one of the things I know about myself is that I am a pretty sensitive guy, am I gonna be able to handle it when my kid tells me to "shut up" and that they hate me because I won't buy them a toy? People who know me can tell you that my feelings can get hurt rather quickly - I'm kind of soft in that regards.

Ever since I was a boy I've been a little too sensitive for the things normal kids take for granted. My mother kept me out of little league when I was a kid because she knew I couldn't handle getting berated by a coach. She was right! Good looking out Mom.

We're talking about a guy who forced his Grandpop to drive his crying ass all the way from Atlantic City back to New York in the middle of the night because he got so homesick he started dry heaving. (Oh, hyper-ventilating was my specialty. Shoot, the school nurse had to re-stock paper bags on my behalf.) I'm Sens-O-Tive!!!

You don't believe me? Take a look at this

This is me crying like a little sissy on my wedding day. I always cry at weddings, what the hell is wrong with me? This wasn't the only time I cried that day, I was a wreck. Now how am I gonna handle my kid saying mean and hurtful things when they are angry at me. On top of that, you can't cry in front of your children, mommies can, but daddies can't. Never once did I see my father cry, because that is the un-written rule of fatherhood - Don't Cry.

The good news is that I haven't cried over pain for a long time. Earlier today, I split my head open at work, true story. It required 12 stitches and I didn't cry once; in fact, I almost made the nurse sign an affidavit confirming that I didn't cry. She thought I was nuts.

So I don't know what the future has in store for me when it comes to being a parent. I'm sure I'll develop a thick skin and tough it out like men are suppose to, but I do know this. When our baby is born, I'm gonna be crying like a baby too.

First Time (Dog) Mommy

As we announced on Facebook yesterday (being the hip Gen Xers that we are), Mike and I are going to have a baby! Mike's most recent post and my own impending motherhood have got me thinking about the ways that getting a puppy kind of broke me in as a new parent. Some people say getting a dog is good practice for having a child... and indeed I was able to practice being a crazy, neurotic, Supermom on poor Russell.

Having a dog was something I'd always longed to do, but tried not to think too hard about before it was a realistic option. Kind of like when women of a certain age start to come down with baby fever but know the timing isn't quite right - I'd ogle puppies on the street but try to push it quickly out of my mind. So when Mike suggested it was time - time for us to get a dog of our very own - I was over the moon. And then I went totally overboard.

Picking out a puppy awakened the neurotic first time mommy inside me. If I was going to have a dog, he was going to be the healthiest, happiest, most well trained and well behaved dog on the planet. He would be perfectly groomed all the time. He would know a wide variety of cute tricks in addition to all of the basic commands. He would come to work with me and lay quietly by my side until quitting time. He would volunteer his time on the weekends by comforting old people in nursing homes and sick children in hospitals. He was going to be perfect, because anything less would make me a big, huge, failure of a dog mommy!

First, of course, I had to figure out what to feed him. If you ever want to explore an issue that's more emotionally charged and controversial than abortion rights or race in America, take a gander sometime at the topic of what to feed your family dog. If you want to feel the wrath of a thousand angry strangers, go to a message board about dogs and say that you feed your dog Iams. I dare you. I'm poking fun, but truthfully, The Dog Food Project is a great resource and I do recommend it.

Once I'd figured out what to feed my young pup, I OBVIOUSLY had to get him into the best possible puppy kindergarten as soon as possible. Yes, there is such a thing as puppy kindergarten, and god help you if you don't get your puppy in there during its "optimal socialization window," which some say only lasts until 10 weeks, because if you don't... well. God help you. Since Russell was already 8 weeks when we got him, I had great anxiety about managing to get him into a good school as soon as possible. Luckily, some friends of ours were looking for a puppy kindergarten too, so we all enrolled together.

Russell wasn't even 9 weeks when we got him into school - whew! At the beginning of our puppy classes, we owners all sat in a circle and went around introducing our dogs and explaining where they were at in terms of potty training, obedience training, and overall behavior. There is the same simmering sense of competition in a puppy kindergarten as I imagine there is among parents of human children. Some people in the circle smugly point out that their 8 week old hasn't messed in the house once, and others confess in a near-panic state that the dog is 10 weeks old and still pooping EVERYWHERE IS THAT NORMAL WHAT DO WE DO???

The reality of puppy kindegarten is about as laughable as it sounds. Teaching 2 month old puppies to sit, lie down, and come is about as constructive, and absurd, as teaching 6 month old human babies to read. But oh, we were earnest. I was all wound up about how well Russell was doing in class, whether he was playing nicely with the other puppies during free time, whether he would potty during potty time or just pee on the classroom floor like some of those other mouth-breathers in class, whether he was focusing properly, whether the rowdy dogs in class were bad influences, whether we had good communication with each other. Meanwhile, Russell's thought process was something along the lines of PUPPIES PEOPLE PEOPLE TREATS PEEPEE TREATS TREATS PUPPIES POOP!

The sleep deprivation and all-night feedings of human babies also have an analog in puppy raising, and that is in the insanity of housetraining. Russell was two months old when he came to us, and it took an astonishing three months to get to the point of not having regular accidents in the house. The gist of our method was taking him out often enough that he couldn't possibly have to pee in between scheduled walks, and making sure that he pottied while we were out there. On top of it, we lived in the city and were not allowed to use the yard for a dog potty. So we are talking more than three months of walking the dog down the street every 2-3 hours, starting at roughly 6am and ending around 11pm. I can recall walking down the street in the early morning, in my pajamas, in the rain, crying.

Next I fixated on the concept of the bond between dog and owner, and it became an obsession for me: how good was my relationship with Russell? Did he trust me? Was he bonded to me? Suddenly it wasn't enough to have a puppy who behaved well, we had to have a good relationship! But how would I KNOW? I would take him on long walks, let him off leash, call him to me casually although secretly I was testing his love - would he come? would he purposely defy me? totally ignore me? I would feel a surge of relief every time he came back to me, and when he didn't, I would feel a panicky sense that our bond was slipping away.

Eventually, when Russell was closing in on a year old and starting to act more like a friendly family pet and less like a crazed, furry piranha, I too settled down. Over time I realized that I could make mistakes and still my dog would be basically all right. And that in actuality I probably did not have total, Godlike control over his personality, which was the notion that really put me into a near-paralytic state of fear in the early days. I accepted that he would probably always pee on people's feet, and probably always hate puppies, but the world wasn't going to come to a crashing halt because my dog was not perfect.

I would like to think that Russell broke me of my worst, most Crazy Mommy tendencies, and that because of my experiences with him I will more quickly find a path to some kind of intuitive, even-keeled motherhood role. But even as I write that I can hear an internet full of experienced moms laughing at me. Don't worry, I'm sure I will join the chorus sometime next year.

The Ballad of Russell Jones

There is a third member to our family and he has been with us for 4 years now, his name is Russell Jones. Russell is not named after the former drummer of my rocking high school band "Yellow Snow" (I was in so many awesome bands with Craig Russell like "Lunatic Fringe", "Mammoth Pony" and "Big Nose Kate" but "Yellow Snow" was my favorite name for a band). Instead, Russell was named after a late great artist who I will reveal at the end of this story.

Russell came to us via air mail, literally. Now I know this is an UN P.C. thing to do but we bought Russell through the Internet. There is a website out there, which shall not be named, because the chances that puppy mill dogs are being sold here are almost a certainty. It's just so freaking hard to adopt a dog in Boston, that was our first option, but the waiting list is ridiculously long. Besides, our land lord would never have signed a waiver giving us permission to own a dog, better just to spring this crap on her out of the blue.

Russell is a cocker spaniel from the dirty south, Georgia to be exact, we like to imagine that he was this happy-go-lucky farm puppy who played with kids and whistled music from "The Song of the South" (we are pretty confident he was on some sort of farm because he certainly smelled like a farm when we got him). In reality, he was probably subject to neglect and torture and being forced into some sort of puppy mill sex trade even though he was 8 weeks old. We'll never know what his life was like before we met him, but we do know he loves children and has a very personable demeanor.

The day we picked him up from the airport, Erin and I were so nervous, thinking "what have we gotten ourselves into? Are we ready for this? I wonder what he looks like?" (we did see a picture of him before we bought him, we still had no idea whether we were going to get an actual dog or get scammed like when you buy a "video camera" from some guy off the street and it turns out to be a box of rocks). I remember the moment like it was yesterday: here we are as this smelly doggie crate gets placed on the counter at the baggage claim, and inside is this timid, happy little pup who just so happened to make our hearts melt at that very instant. If there ever is love at first sight this was it.

Now granted, Russell is as cute now as ever but maybe some of his charm has worn off. You see, Russell has an issue that makes him a little less charming every day. Russell pees every time he meets someone new. It just a thing that Cocker Spaniels do I guess, they will meet you and they will pee all over the place no matter what. We've learned to bring him outside when we have visitors, but I gotta admit, it kind of turns people off when they meet him for the first time. I guess I can understand but it's not his fault, he's just so freaking happy to see you.

Now for the history of his name. Erin and I wanted to give him a human name because we're "crazy dog people" who think Russell is our son. We decided on Russell under my one condition. It had to be Russell Jones. It has always been a dream of mine that I would introduce Russell Jones to somebody and they would know who that was. They would look up at me and say "nice." I always dreamed that I would meet somebody as nerdy as me. That day has never come. Nobody has ever appreciated my in-depth knowledge of this artist or his group until now. We named Russell Jones after this guy .

We're taking the day off!!!!!

Happy 4th everyone!!!!! No new post today, but here's a link to something that is guaranteed to make you laugh

Happy Birthday U.S.A. of America!!!!!!

All week long Erin and I have been reminded that the 4th of July is this weekend. You see, Erin and I go to bed rather early (9:30 is usually when we turn off the light and say goodnight), yet we have been awoken every night this week to the sound of whistling firecrackers and thunderous explosions. It kind of drives me nuts but at the same time there is nothing I can do about it because I firmly believe this is karma biting me in the ass.

When I was a kid, I, like every kid in my neighborhood, was obsessed with fireworks. There was a span of like 5 or 6 years where all I cared about from late June to mid-July was lighting bottle rockets and setting off firecrackers.

Unfortunately, fireworks were illegal in New York, not that that was gonna stop us. I remember pooling all our money together and sending a pair of missionaries down to Chinatown to bring us back "the goods." We would wait for hours hoping and praying for our neighbors' safe return. When they came back, they always had a story to tell us about some Chinese guy with a whole car trunk full of the most amazing class C explosives you could imagine. Oh how I wished I could have seen the goods inside that trunk - I could only imagine the type of fun the guy with the car trunk was gonna have this 4th.

One year, we had a real panic in the neighborhood. I don't know if it had something to do with Reaganomics or the Cold War but we failed to send anybody down to Chinatown on our quest. It looked pretty bleak for the kids in the neighborhood, what were we gonna do? Light some lame ass sparklers? Watch some "snakes" burn? What were we gonna do? We had no damn fireworks!!!

Luckily, my dad was a cop who had no ethical quarrels with relinquishing some confiscated fireworks from the evidence room. Oh, the joy on my face when my hero of a father started to set off jumping jacks in the street. It started with just a few of us enjoying his little fireworks show, then pretty soon all the kids in the neighborhood gathered around to watch him in action. I could see him feeding off the energy of the crowd... he was definitely the coolest dad on the street that day and he knew it. He was getting real fancy, lighting bottle rockets off two at a time, setting off a whole pack of jumping jacks all at once, he didn't care, hey this was "free shit." Oh, this was so cool: he would light them off with the burnt end of his cigarette. Never in my life did I wish to be a smoker until I saw that you could light fireworks with cigarrettes. He was an anti-smoking campaign's worst nightmare.

Of course this ego trip came to an abrupt halt when my next door neighbor, whose cousin was in town visiting, came walking up the street to watch the show. My dad, who was now throwing the jumping jacks in the air with his eyes closed, never saw this girls kinky, curly, dirty blonde hair coming when he threw what would end up being the last jumping jack of the evening.

As a boy there are always first times for everything, the first time you get in a fist fight, the first time you see your neighbor naked, and the first time you see a girl get her hair lit on fire. I remember it being so fast, yet moving in slow motion at the same time. The blood curdling scream, the smacking of her head and of course the crying. The smell of burnt hair is something to remember too, but it's not nearly as cool as the fire itself. Luckily, an older boy in the neighborhood who ended up becoming a volunteer fireman later on in life was there to pull the jumping jack out of her hair and save the day. I remember my dad nonchalantly walking over to this girl, giving her a once over and telling her she was all right. What he couldn't hide was how pissed he was that this little punk stole his thunder by saving that stupid girl's life. Thanks for nothing, kid.

So remember, have fun this weekend, and don't throw fireworks down a hill while other people are walking up it without looking.

Sleeping around

I can only think of one thing right now, and that's how much I would love to be taking a nap. But instead I have to do my homework. And so, sticking to the theme that's very much on my mind, I bring you the Top Ten places I have slept, in no particular order:

1. In bed. Truly, this is the best location for sleeping.

2. Various couches. Underrated, in my opinion.

3. On the beach, overnight, with no tent. Growing up on an island means that when you are a teenager you can indulge a lot of nonsensical ideas, like, "Why don't we just lay some sleeping bags on the beach and crash out there?" And also, "So we don't have a bottle opener, but we can just bash the necks of these beer bottles into a rock until the tops break off and then try not to drink any glass!"

4. In a tent in the woods, in November, in New England. And yes it was very, very, very cold. One of my friends woke up in the morning with frozen contact lenses. See above for the rationale behind this idea.

5. On a futon on the living room floor, when I was about 4 years old, and woke up to find that my baby brother was standing over me, pee arcing out of the top of his diaper and onto my head.

6. On a ferry boat, headed home to the island. I woke up seconds before the boat was about to head back to the mainland - the last trip of the night - the lesson being, never trust the ferry boat workers to make sure you get off the boat.

7. In the back of a friend's minivan at another friend's overnight party. All the good sleeping spots in the house were taken, but the floor of the van worked okay.

8. The kitchen floor in my apartment. This was not my shiningest moment, but certainly we've all had one night in college where we had a few too many and the cool, hard floor seemed to be the friendliest and least vomit-inducing place to sleep? No? Anyone?

9. The floor of my apartment, for a few months. After college I moved to Boston, and for reasons I can't quite remember, couldn't get my futon bed to the apartment for a while. I slept on a thick comforter on the floor, with some fleece blankets thrown over me. I actually grew to like it once my body adjusted. It was very... austere.

10. On two kitchen chairs, at my brother's* apartment. Again for reasons I can't remember, all the beds and couches were taken on one occasion that I visited his place in Boston (I wasn't living in the city at the time). I somehow found myself being the last one awake and hadn't thought ahead to where I was supposed to sleep. The only thing I could come up with was to pull two kitchen chairs together, curl up on the seats, and cover myself with a jacket. And oh yeah, it was the dead of winter.

*I feel that I should say, in light of his appearing in two of these anecdotes, I hold no grudges. But someday perhaps he will have a baby that will pee on his head and justice will be served.

Making the other dream come true.......

Ever since I was a wee lad I've always been fascinated by big rigs (aren't all little heterosexual boys amazed by trucks? They're just so damn cool). It was always my back-up plan if I didn't win the lottery or marry into money - becoming a truck driver was my safest option.

The day finally came for me to get my shit together. I was ready to make Erin an honest woman and I knew I had to get something going for me that would keep this little birdie around. While I was driving back from a Human family get-together I saw a sign on the back of a trailer saying we will train yo' ass and what not. I decided this was it.

Signing up for truck driving school was rather easy - basically they will take any A-hole's money. No S.A.T.'s for me (whew). The only catch is, in order for you to get a government loan, you have to take a 5 month course. 10 weeks in a classroom, and 10 weeks training in "the yard."

Remember those kids in school who had only one teacher and never switched out or interacted with the other kids? They were just stuck in that one classroom with nowhere to go? Well, those who didn't end up in the army or prison went to truck driving school. This class was like a really UN-clever knock-off of "Welcome back Kotter" and everybody was a comedian. The classroom was chaos, guys walking in and out as they pleased, openly cheating on tests, and just chit-chatting away without a care in the world. On top of that, there was this weird prison atmosphere where one wise comment to the wrong guy could lead to a shiv in your plumbing. It was a little stressful to say the least. I did learn quickly that if you mention "lot lizards" you were guaranteed a raucous ovation ("lot lizards" are truck stop hookers, and never in my life have I heard a more accurate description - those girls are pretty gross, but then again, so is their clientele.)

After my ten weeks were up in "class" I got to go to "the yard." The yard is where you learn all the backing maneuvers that are gonna be on your test. Backing that thing up is a lot harder than it looks, I mean, you have to freaking parallel park that thing!!!! That shit ain't easy. On top of that, you're battling 20 guys to get into the truck just to practice. You end up savoring those moments inside the truck because there are so many guys waiting to boot you out. It goes back to that prison mentality, you have to be ready to throw down in order to protect your turf. I almost got into it one day with some guy I'd never seen in the yard before. This guy thought he was gonna take away my practice time without getting permission from the head of the yard to be there? Hell no. I was ready to get my ass kicked (and I would have too, just ask anyone who's seen me fight).

The time finally came for me to take my test. Talk about pressure. Here you have a State Trooper as your test taker. This guy wants nothing more than to fail you because, I don't know if you know this, but all State Troopers in all 50 states hate truck drivers, it's kind of like the way dogs hate cars - it's just an inherent reaction. Of course I, like 90% of the guys who take this test, failed. Sorry, I can't blind-side parallel park that thing every time I try. Sometimes I need more than 3 tries. My bad. Luckily for me, that was the only part of the test I failed. Other guys just completely blow it, I'm talking about the easy stuff like straight backing and shit. I had to come back a few weeks later and re-take that one part of the test again (which I passed). I also had to take the cop out for a ride and show him I wasn't gonna hurt anyone, which I haven't yet (knock on wood).

So you see kids, dreams do come true. That is, if you set the bar just low enough to hurdle it.