Mommy, Daddy, cocaine

The good news is that Quin goes to the bathroom all by himself. The bad news is that he's going to the bathroom by himself. He'll come running at us yelling, "I peed, I peed!" But we have no idea where.

This morning he really nailed it, toilet and all. I got back from the park with Paco and everybody was all smiles and high fives. I thought we’d finally successfully refinanced the house, but it was even bigger. Quin had told mom he needed to go, and all the proper protocol was followed to the last drop.

To Q’s credit, he’s been interested in the toilet for a long time, it’s just his mom and dad are too weary and too strapped for time to always follow through. His daycare provider said she was ready to go with a program that involves dropping his shorts and taking him to the toilet every fifteen minutes. And then presumably you stand there until he goes, or the fifteen minutes is up. And then I guess the plus side is you’re all set to do it again.

Our issue is that with the new baby and Sarah back at work we’re always in a hurry and only frightening the little guy during a very important developmental phase. (If we ever get too high on our place in the food chain just recall that learning how to poop can mess us up for life.)

But Q is close. And it won’t be long before he’s all set with the toilet thing. And yes I just knocked on wood.

Today Sarah and I discussed doing cocaine. It makes sense why people do it. I want to stay up late and write. Sarah is getting up once or twice a night to feed Otto. We figured we could do it at night to get more done. But then we realized we’d need it in the morning to wake up. There goes the whole addiction thing.

So I think illicit drugs are off the table (barring my mad pining for diet soda and coffee). Sadly, however, Sarah and I ended this evening's conversation with the conclusion that sleep is just a waste of time. We’d like to be up to finish our house and clean whatever in the hell is so sticky on the kitchen floor. There’s just not enough time to get things done.

I’m struck by how strange it is that our brains, part of the very vehicle that needs sleep, has decided that sleep is only a detriment to our day. What in the hell is wrong with us? Did our potty training go terribly wrong?

It’s just a thought. I know I’ll be out cold in about twenty minutes. Although with Q getting up before six and Otto ready to eat at all hours, our children do their best to make it a reality.

Q Tip O' The Day: Work hard. Have fun.

small talk

It’s day one for Sarah back at work. The summer briefly flashed itself and we’re standing in the September chill wondering what it was we saw. When Otto was born in June I thought Sarah’s 12 weeks would be a long time. It wasn’t long enough. This morning was chaos. I tried to get Quin to eat while Sarah simultaneously fed Otto and folded onsies. The change is hard on me, mostly because if the kids aren’t with Sarah I have these terrifying attacks wondering where I put them, but it’s really tough on Sarah. Luckily, her emails from work have been more observational than emotional:

On Tue, Sep 8, 2009 at 8:48 AM, sarah ewy wrote:

sarah ewy
to me
subject I am here

This is just surreal. I had forgotten the sound of the elevators dinging and the hum of industrial A/C.
It is SO quiet...it feels like I am in a dream.

Love you,
Sarah

from jared ewy
to sarah ewy
date Tue, Sep 8, 2009 at 9:37 AM

You're right. Well said. It isn't really real. It's all made up to give people something to do. But enjoy...reality will be ready to run, jump, play, fall, poop, scream this evening!

Jared Ewy

sarah ewy
to me
subject Re: I am here

That is perfect. And someone just asked me how it was getting back to the real world. They have no idea.
Can't wait to get back to the chaos of home.
I just had a little of the chile casserole on toast. Orange is gone, and apple is half gone. Kashi bar is the next victim.
How is your day going?
I am off to the storage room.

She’s off to the storage room to pump. She’ll be harnessing the leche de vida sitting on a case of soda and leaning against a stack of office supplies. It’s not quite the romantic picture of child rearing, but at least she can take claim for producing the most organic product ever for corporate America.

Meanwhile, back at my work, my hiding in a closet and tugging at my nipples is frowned upon. So I was at the soda machine and in the bazillionth (it never gets old though) conversation with a woman who asked me how our baby is doing. I told her of Otto’s smile and Q’s exemplary work as a big brother. I then inquired about her family with the increasing pitch of a questionable question. I wasn’t sure if she had one. However, her son is off to college and her daughter is fifteen and might as well live somewhere else. She had an awful marriage to a tyrant who put her off to men for many years. However, she’s finally out and dating. She’s had five dates over the past month and she’s thrilled to know all men aren’t like her ex. She wants to call him and tell him that. As I spun away with my diet coke I asked what I thought would be a light and fun exit question. “So what qualifies a man as a good date these days?”

“I’m just looking for a companion,” she said with a shrug. “I’d just like someone to ask ‘how are you doing’ when I get home from work.

Now that sounds easy. It might also sound a little desperate.

But it offers vital information to my project in wife comforting.

It’s something about asking questions. It’s something I’ve learned…gradually…because…

Girls and guys have many differences. One being that guys always want to fix things. I’m not sure exactly what girls want to do in a crisis, but I know part of it is hoping to god their guy doesn’t try to fix it. Some things, it turns out, can’t be fixed. And trying only makes it worse. Like, for example, my operating on my mom probably would have been bad. Another scenario would be a wonderful wife and mother going through ridiculous life change, unable to drink and loaded with hormones having to spend part of the day away from the loin-ripping cherubs of innocence, joy and total goodness. I can’t fix that.

When she went to work after Quin's birth, I didn’t know what was going to happen. It was emotional. I was scared. Futility frightens me; neuters me into a paralyzed state of village idiotness. Sarah had to leave the home with very little comforting. When she rode the train downtown people gave her that he-beats-you-doesn’t-he look. I don’t, but Sarah said she would have preferred it.

So what in the hell does a guy do? You don’t—I repeat, don’t—interrupt her tearful dissertations with things you’ll do to make things better. They can’t be made better, especially not by the once-cute boyfriend-turned-husband-turned-father who would now be the last person rescued in a house fire.

All you can do is ask, “How are you doing?” And then you have to stay and listen, too.

In our email exchange today I was relieved to hear her voice. It was bona fide Sarah and not one cajoled out of her by one of my many misguided attempts at comfort. But it also reminded me of our partnership. We’re a team, and one that we think would be really darn good on The Amazing Race. We’re also music enthusiasts when we actually listen to some and we really like quirky people who invent practical, energy-saving devices. We’re not early morning adversaries bicker-fighting over the whereabouts of the burp rags. OK, we’re that too, but it’s all about versatility, and crawling above it all for a little conversation.

Tomato Pie

We have tomatoes out the hoohaw. Our lips are dyed red and Quin is attracting aphids. We eat tomatoes not just everyday but for every meal. I've never had so much cottage cheese. So now we're on the market for good tomato recipes. My friend Bronwen gave us this one. At first it scared me, and I'll tell you why, but first here's how you do it:

Ingredients:

9" Pie Shell
3 medium tomatoes sliced thick (although we did five and threw in some little ones on the verge of too ripe)
1/2 teaspoon salt (this can either be added to the mix or sprinkled over the tomatoes)
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon basil
1/4 cup chopped chives (forgot these)
1/4 cup mayo
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar (we always go Tillamook Extra Sharp)

Bake crust @ 425 for 5 minutes. While that's happening slice tomatoes and lay out on a rack. Here's where you can salt them and sprinkle with seasoning and chives. Fill pie shell with tomatoes. Combine mayo and cheese. Spread evenly over the top. Bake for 30 minutes at 400.


That's it. I was a little worried because:

1) The recipe giver is Welsh and you don't often hear people say, "I'm going to Wales for the fine dining."

2) She also lives in a male-majority household and men have tendency to dilute the palate until Hot Pockets suffice for dinner. I could have gone with just the cheese, but I have the family to think about.

3) The mayonnaise. Ever since a frightening dinner incident at a Midwestern household that included two emptied jars and the phrase, "There's more mayo if you need it," I've been wary of any recipe other than a ham sandwich that calls for anymore than a dollop.

But darn, it was good. We have enough tomatoes to make about hundred more. Just give me a heads up and there'll be one in the window.

The Boys 9/6/09

I can finally thank Quin for getting up at six this morning. At six this morning it was difficult to appreciate his zeal for life. But now, sixteen hours later, it seems like today has been at least three days, and while I feel 80 and that I might pee blood, I’m happy he could extend our holiday weekend by about a week. Saturday was several days as well. By the end of tomorrow I'll be begging for the serenity of the workplace.

But even though I’m tired and I want the children to sleep, whenever I do anything with the boys it is the best time I’ve ever had doing it. Yesterday I had fun being a migrant worker. I don’t think that’s something I’d ever say before Quin.

I will lavish praise on Quin and then it's Otto's turn. For Otto has risen. The sign of the O is nigh. First, however, Q should be lauded for having more focus than most adults. Yesterday we went to a big organic farm where they let you pick all the fruit and vegetables you want. For me it was heaven, getting away from the city and mowing down a strawberry patch. Quin had business to do. As we walked down the narrow highway to the farm, Q noticed water in a ditch next to the road. From atop my shoulders he declared, “I splash.” That, in Quintanamos, means, “I’m going to throw rocks until I’m restrained and dragged away.”

I told him we would have to wait. He was okay with that, because what I didn’t know is he’d formulated a plan. Wherever we ended up, he was packing up his pebbles and going back to the ditch.

About a half a mile and a tractor ride later, we were out in the middle of a Brighton, Colorado field. One of our adult buddies, Ray, and myself picked berries and learned to appreciate undocumented workers more than ever before. Quin was only mildly interested. He grabbed some fruit out of my bucket and took off. He was going back to the ditch. Ray and I ate strawberries and watched him. I shouted some classic parental guilt and fear lines. “Uh, son, we miss you!” I said. He continued through a thicket of corn. When he got on an old road I tried again. “Quin, we’re just going to go ahead and leave you here!” It didn't faze him, except for unsettling a couple of nearby mothers.

It took me about a hundred yards to catch up to him, and when I did, his mouth was flush with strawberry and his hands were full of rocks. And to think I drove thirty miles to entertain him at a farm when all I had to do is put him on the bike and ride to the river. That’s what we did today, or at least on the second day of today, just after the first day of playground/breakfast/Wii/snack/basketball/book/book/Play-Doh. By then it was 9:30 a. m.

And now Otto.

When he was born I wasn’t quite ready for another child. Sarah’s labor was so easy (relative to Quin and yes I have no idea) that I didn’t have the 24 hours of trauma Quin’s labor did to help me for fatherhood. Otto just showed up, and it didn’t help that he looks like his brother, because in the hospital I had this crazy idea that maybe we’d only dreamt the past two years and he WAS Quin.

When we got home from the hospital most of my duties fell in Quin’s realm. We did all our cool guy stuff while Otto ate and ate and ate and vomited. And ate again. I used to look at Otto and wonder what he could possibly do to arrest me as successfully as Q has. Could it be that this new guy would know all the tricks of the wily veteran? Apparently, they’re both wired for charm. Otto has flipped the switch. The tractor beam is active. When he smiles at me before I leave for work I just want to go eat some bad meat or run on a wet floor just so I can stay home. He’s got that look, that one that says, “Oh, it’s you! I like you! I know only good things about you! Please, tickle me.”

I hope I don’t mess him up, but I often scold him. Stop with the cute, buddy. Just stop. Quin’s already ripped my heart out and tossed into the creek. What can you do to make it worse? But no matter how foreboding I try to be, Otto just kicks and waves. Often punching himself in the face. You can’t but love a guy who when he sees you gets so excited he whacks himself in the head.

It’s unadulterated, unconditional and, thankfully, mostly uneducated. One day they’ll know too much about me and it’ll all be over. But it’s a good reminder that smiles, hugs and hucking rocks are pretty much all that matters. You got any problems you can nap on it, and by the time you get up it will be a whole new day.

Things That Make us Sound Like Parents

Some years ago a friend and I were putting together a display booth for a real estate company when he dropped a pair of pliers. When the tool hit the floor he said, "whoop!" in kind of a kid-friendly "oh crap" way. I didn't think much of it until he followed by saying, "Isn't it weird when you start making the little noises your father used to make?"

Yes. It is. You never know when a moment will come along to torment your consciousness. And like the hum from the TV, I hadn't thought much about it until he mentioned it. I mean I know I do things like my dad. I grunt when I eat, I walk with fists clenched, and I pound the earth, the floor, or whatever surface has the misfortune of me stomping across it with the heel-grinding zeal of somebody in a B-movie gorilla suit. I know these things. I think about them as much as possible, and sometimes, when clutching my beverage with one hand and shoveling taco salad in my head with another, I get glimpses of me as my father. And now this.

My dad had a lot of things he did/said while we worked together. Do I do them...let's see:

Cussing at inanimate objects. Check.
Talking to the dogs/kids in doggie/kiddie voice. Check.
Harassing the dogs/kids in doggie/kiddie voice. Check.
Making up songs. Check.
Stopping for no reason to space out at horizon. Check.
Taking sudden interest in small, inconsequential detail that suddenly must be altered no matter how late/cold/painful. Check!

Funny little noises. Check.

Drop something and I'll go "huuulp!" It's like creepy Muppet. Dammit, exorcise me!

This is compounded by several other recent parental sightings. Sarah and I noticed both our parents when Paco was found digging up our newly planted bushes. I said, "we can't have anything nice around here!" Sarah looked at me and said, "serious?" Yah, that was a question, but the statement was loud and clear: "You are older than the sky."

And then yesterday Quin wouldn't stay at the dinner table. I demoted him from his big person seat and pulled out his high chair. He was ticked. But I sat and waited until he calmed down long enough to eat a few bites. The whole ordeal might have been ten minutes, but I aged about fifty years. There I was, some old guy who used to be me, making a younger version eat something he didn't want. If there were a plug I might ask you to pull it.

But somebody's got to clean up around here.