Tuesday, November 23, 2010
They are, after all, here to replace us
I sat down with Quin the other night and told him, "You're a great guy, and I love you, but you're making me want to check myself into prison."
We were told by many parents that the 'Terrible Twos" thing was overrated. It was three that was lurking to destroy us.
About 90 percent of the day Quin is a very good kid. It's that other ten percent where you're wondering what's so wrong about kennel training. Just a little cage where they can be safe, yet wrapped in soundproofing and somewhere under the house. People say he's "pushing boundaries." If he needs more room the Alaskan Wilderness is very big.
I try to ignore most of the outbursts, but our reaction ranges from wanting to toss the child out the window, to laughing. It's hard not to burst into giggles when this little human you've let into your home insists that he doesn't need help, and then loses his mind when you don't help him. Or maybe it's vice versa. I don't know, it's so insane that if an animal acted that way you'd have it put down.
Tonight Quin refused to eat, and then threw and broke a dinner plate. I grabbed he and his chair and set him at the end of a dark hall. Sarah was certain I was going to shotput the whole package. And, to be honest, I wasn't quiet conscious until I found myself with nowhere to go holding a child on a dining room chair.
I'm not experienced enough to be doling out advice, but I'm pretty sure you shouldn't kill a child. Aside from that, I have two rules I try to stick to: say as little as possible and don't give them options. I'm always breaking my own rules and kicking myself as each self-inflicted infraction spirals the tantrum into something from Silence of the Lambs.
Limiting the verbiage is huge. When Q loses his nut, I just walk away and avoid him. Or I try, but often I get this inkling that it could be a learning moment, and that talking over the screams of a little person wearing nothing but Spiderman shoes is going to make an impression. It never does, and I always lose.
Choices. Screw them. Kids should not have them. Don't ask them what they want for lunch or what they want to wear or if they'd like to breathe. They love an opportunity to say "NO" and shove that parental authority up the chimney. But, of course, I get giddy thinking that I'm giving my child a chance to exercise his cognition. He does--not to make an educated decision about PBJ over roast beef, but to become one of the seven princes of Hell.
What really scares me is that right now he doesn't know how to storm out of the house and steal the car. I mean sometimes I feel so helpless that I want to fake a heart attack. What happens when they're big and pulling the same tricks? No, really, what happens?
And one other question: Is a Toddler Taser a bad idea?
Growing up I wasn't the bad kid, at least as far as my parents knew. My brother paved the road to poor decisions and back. I learned from his mistakes and found how to conduct most of my badness without inconveniencing the family with knowledge of it. Over Quin's yelling I've been able to shout at Otto, "Learn from this buddy and your life will be a breeze." I haven't made any mention about running carefree through school before starving on a meager diet of charm and deception on the cold climb up the insurmountable mountain of opportunity. But, you know, fewer words.
The thing is that after smashing an heirloom and igniting their father, both the boys bounce back pretty well. Although it's hard to take their hugs and "I love you daddies" seriously when it's clear they're preying on your weakness. Tonight, after his mother coaxed him from his dark exile, Quin came out to the kitchen and apologized. That's when you can't help but hug the bejesus out of them...while trying to squeeze in some important tips on saving everybody's sanity. "Quin, you know that eating two more bites is a lot easier and faster than twenty minutes of screaming?"
Of course he does. That's why he does it.
We were told by many parents that the 'Terrible Twos" thing was overrated. It was three that was lurking to destroy us.
About 90 percent of the day Quin is a very good kid. It's that other ten percent where you're wondering what's so wrong about kennel training. Just a little cage where they can be safe, yet wrapped in soundproofing and somewhere under the house. People say he's "pushing boundaries." If he needs more room the Alaskan Wilderness is very big.
I try to ignore most of the outbursts, but our reaction ranges from wanting to toss the child out the window, to laughing. It's hard not to burst into giggles when this little human you've let into your home insists that he doesn't need help, and then loses his mind when you don't help him. Or maybe it's vice versa. I don't know, it's so insane that if an animal acted that way you'd have it put down.
Tonight Quin refused to eat, and then threw and broke a dinner plate. I grabbed he and his chair and set him at the end of a dark hall. Sarah was certain I was going to shotput the whole package. And, to be honest, I wasn't quiet conscious until I found myself with nowhere to go holding a child on a dining room chair.
I'm not experienced enough to be doling out advice, but I'm pretty sure you shouldn't kill a child. Aside from that, I have two rules I try to stick to: say as little as possible and don't give them options. I'm always breaking my own rules and kicking myself as each self-inflicted infraction spirals the tantrum into something from Silence of the Lambs.
Limiting the verbiage is huge. When Q loses his nut, I just walk away and avoid him. Or I try, but often I get this inkling that it could be a learning moment, and that talking over the screams of a little person wearing nothing but Spiderman shoes is going to make an impression. It never does, and I always lose.
Choices. Screw them. Kids should not have them. Don't ask them what they want for lunch or what they want to wear or if they'd like to breathe. They love an opportunity to say "NO" and shove that parental authority up the chimney. But, of course, I get giddy thinking that I'm giving my child a chance to exercise his cognition. He does--not to make an educated decision about PBJ over roast beef, but to become one of the seven princes of Hell.
What really scares me is that right now he doesn't know how to storm out of the house and steal the car. I mean sometimes I feel so helpless that I want to fake a heart attack. What happens when they're big and pulling the same tricks? No, really, what happens?
And one other question: Is a Toddler Taser a bad idea?
Growing up I wasn't the bad kid, at least as far as my parents knew. My brother paved the road to poor decisions and back. I learned from his mistakes and found how to conduct most of my badness without inconveniencing the family with knowledge of it. Over Quin's yelling I've been able to shout at Otto, "Learn from this buddy and your life will be a breeze." I haven't made any mention about running carefree through school before starving on a meager diet of charm and deception on the cold climb up the insurmountable mountain of opportunity. But, you know, fewer words.
The thing is that after smashing an heirloom and igniting their father, both the boys bounce back pretty well. Although it's hard to take their hugs and "I love you daddies" seriously when it's clear they're preying on your weakness. Tonight, after his mother coaxed him from his dark exile, Quin came out to the kitchen and apologized. That's when you can't help but hug the bejesus out of them...while trying to squeeze in some important tips on saving everybody's sanity. "Quin, you know that eating two more bites is a lot easier and faster than twenty minutes of screaming?"
Of course he does. That's why he does it.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Decision Day 2002
Eight years ago tonight, on what was also an election's eve, I was sitting on the floor in a worker's union building. I can't remember which union it was, but they'd lent their space to the 2002 Democratic Coordinated Campaign.
There were many reasons why I was on the floor. I hadn't slept in two days. I was working three jobs. My wife and I had quit our careers, gotten married, moved to a different city and bought a house. That all took place in a month.
And our guy for US Senate was down in the polls. He's what they call in the biz "a good candidate". He is tall, handsome in an 80s Magnum PI sort of way, and he belongs to a major law firm. But the week prior he'd talked himself into a hole on national TV. I remember watching and believing he could pull it off, but every word fell deeper into a well of confusion. He was stuck trying to explain the three legs of America's financial stability. He'd gotten out two, but struggled deciphering the third. With is hands he gestured what looked to be the shape of a a leg, maybe one that belonged to a short stool. Accompanying the pantomime was a smattering of words, none of them really wanting to be together. It was hard to watch.
A few days later I would be talking to voters and one guy would say, "You've got balls. Didn't you see him on Meet the Press?" I tried to focus on the compliment part of it.
It was tough. Aside from the 80-hour-a-week campaign, I was writing radio copy for four stations and deejaying weekend evenings for another. My working hours sometimes reached into the 110/120 range. My new wife spent a lot of evenings at home, alone, and revisiting that "or worse" part of the wedding conversation.
But I wasn't sitting on the floor because of any of that. I was on the floor because I could no longer physically stand. Trust me, it would have been the best time in my life to be drunk, but I didn't have time for it. I was high on something else, if you can call it that. What I didn't know was that I was being killed by carbon monoxide.
You always hear how people go to sleep and just slip into their death. They have a headache but it's been a stressful day so they do what anyone would want to do: They crash. I had the benefit of being a "Volunteer Coordinator" for hundreds of people who in a few hours were going to fill the very hall in which I sat alone. This meant there was no sleeping until all the preparations were done. Dying couldn't get in the way.
And let me just say this about working for a campaign. It starts as just a job, or as something you'll just dabble in a bit. But soon you've forsaken sex and food for knocking on a stranger's door. You start to believe the rhetoric and, despite two hundred-plus years proving the opposite, believe that one person can feed the poor and make your nipples shoot rainbows. You really have no choice: if for one second you doubt the momentum, you'll fall off the treadmill and get trampled by five hundred people with Blackberries. Every third day or so, just when you think you can't tolerate another drop of coffee, someone you barely know tells you if you stick it out there will "be a spot on his staff." Rarely is that positive, but in politics staff spots are offered in lieu of money, and reality. Because he has to elected first, and that's why you must work harder. And you're off again, swilling caffeine and surrounded by doers and shakers and suspicious, fat men who buy you beers and swear one day you'll go somewhere. Plus there's media involved, and a spitting, blowing maelstrom of rumors and mud. When you're in the middle, in the huddle of camaraderie and like-minded hugs, you don't want to get out. So on some Saturday, when a boatload of hot, wealthy yoga moms are taking three hours to help you litter the town with your candidate's picture, and you're the frontman for a bevy of beautiful college kids all fresh faced and ready to devour your carcass, you soldier on.
On this day, my college kids weren't so hungry anymore. Three young women and a guy helped stuff fliers into bags and call potential voters. We were a good team until I found two of the three females lying on the floor.
"What's the matter?" I growled, trying to make my disappointment sound more like friendly sarcasm.
They had headaches. They were dizzy.
I told them to eat something and drink some water. They said they had. I was going to implore my cohort, the third woman, to motivate her friends, until I found her slumped over a desk.
"Sick?" I delivered the icy tone.
She nodded and got up. She and her friends were going to go home. I couldn't believe it. After they walked out I turned and rolled my eyes at Brian, the other guy. He tried to match my incredulity, but was busy crying.
To be fair, he wasn't Steel Magnolias weeping, but his eyes were watery and red. He worked a little bit longer, but things weren't going his way. He'd roll up an informational piece and, while reaching for a rubber band, it would unroll. Then he'd drop the rubber band while trying to roll up the sheet again. Finally he walked up to me. He kept walking until all the personal space was gone. A few inches from my face he blinked some tears and talked in slow motion about needing to leave.
I kind of took on a martyr role. I told him it was fine. I'd manage to get everything done. I stormed around the office, drinking bottle after bottle of water. I'm usually a thirsty guy, but now I was going to wash away my pain. And then, at some point, I sat down and started thinking about everybody going home. The two girls who were sick first were petite. And the third was just as thin. Brian was bigger, but at least eighty pounds lighter than me. I wondered if we all had the same thing, but because I was the thickest of the group, it was taking me longer to succumb. And then I crawled outside.
In kind of a plain rainbow, the bright florescent of the union hall streaked into the dim yellow of the street. I would have a hard time dialing 911. I got to my knees and took a deep breath of outside air. I closed one eye, and focused on the numbers. I wobbled. If I were to die, my final act would be drunk dialing emergency services.
Other than growing up in a wood-heated home where breathing smoke at least meant you were warm, I had never had any experience with carbon monoxide poisoning. It wasn't until the firefighters hoisted me into the truck that I realized how lucky I was to be alive. It helped that one of them actually said, "You're lucky to be alive."
One of the guys walked around the room with a CO2 detector. It beeped rapidly and he agreed. It was off the charts. I spent the rest of the early morning leading an ambulance around to find the other four. Turns out they all were OK, but Brian and I had to spend a few hours in the hospital for oxygenating.
One of the firefighters said that the building's exhaust had been blocked with a mound of old clothes. It was intentional, but I never heard any followup as to an investigation. I did however recall our candidate baffling Tim Russert by trying to finger draw furniture in the air, and I wondered if someone had done it to his house, too.
That night, at the big election party, I got a little recognition. It was Tuesday and I hadn't slept since Sunday. My wife was getting to spend some quality time with a sleepless prick at a depressing event for a losing candidate. On his way to his concession speech, the candidate stopped and pointed at me. He leaned into me and shouted against the noise, "I lost but you're still alive."
I'm pretty sure it wasn't spite. Like "oh god, not both!" I didn't want to ask him to try and explain. It was simple, it was true and it was as right as any politician had ever been.
There were many reasons why I was on the floor. I hadn't slept in two days. I was working three jobs. My wife and I had quit our careers, gotten married, moved to a different city and bought a house. That all took place in a month.
And our guy for US Senate was down in the polls. He's what they call in the biz "a good candidate". He is tall, handsome in an 80s Magnum PI sort of way, and he belongs to a major law firm. But the week prior he'd talked himself into a hole on national TV. I remember watching and believing he could pull it off, but every word fell deeper into a well of confusion. He was stuck trying to explain the three legs of America's financial stability. He'd gotten out two, but struggled deciphering the third. With is hands he gestured what looked to be the shape of a a leg, maybe one that belonged to a short stool. Accompanying the pantomime was a smattering of words, none of them really wanting to be together. It was hard to watch.
A few days later I would be talking to voters and one guy would say, "You've got balls. Didn't you see him on Meet the Press?" I tried to focus on the compliment part of it.
It was tough. Aside from the 80-hour-a-week campaign, I was writing radio copy for four stations and deejaying weekend evenings for another. My working hours sometimes reached into the 110/120 range. My new wife spent a lot of evenings at home, alone, and revisiting that "or worse" part of the wedding conversation.
But I wasn't sitting on the floor because of any of that. I was on the floor because I could no longer physically stand. Trust me, it would have been the best time in my life to be drunk, but I didn't have time for it. I was high on something else, if you can call it that. What I didn't know was that I was being killed by carbon monoxide.
You always hear how people go to sleep and just slip into their death. They have a headache but it's been a stressful day so they do what anyone would want to do: They crash. I had the benefit of being a "Volunteer Coordinator" for hundreds of people who in a few hours were going to fill the very hall in which I sat alone. This meant there was no sleeping until all the preparations were done. Dying couldn't get in the way.
And let me just say this about working for a campaign. It starts as just a job, or as something you'll just dabble in a bit. But soon you've forsaken sex and food for knocking on a stranger's door. You start to believe the rhetoric and, despite two hundred-plus years proving the opposite, believe that one person can feed the poor and make your nipples shoot rainbows. You really have no choice: if for one second you doubt the momentum, you'll fall off the treadmill and get trampled by five hundred people with Blackberries. Every third day or so, just when you think you can't tolerate another drop of coffee, someone you barely know tells you if you stick it out there will "be a spot on his staff." Rarely is that positive, but in politics staff spots are offered in lieu of money, and reality. Because he has to elected first, and that's why you must work harder. And you're off again, swilling caffeine and surrounded by doers and shakers and suspicious, fat men who buy you beers and swear one day you'll go somewhere. Plus there's media involved, and a spitting, blowing maelstrom of rumors and mud. When you're in the middle, in the huddle of camaraderie and like-minded hugs, you don't want to get out. So on some Saturday, when a boatload of hot, wealthy yoga moms are taking three hours to help you litter the town with your candidate's picture, and you're the frontman for a bevy of beautiful college kids all fresh faced and ready to devour your carcass, you soldier on.
On this day, my college kids weren't so hungry anymore. Three young women and a guy helped stuff fliers into bags and call potential voters. We were a good team until I found two of the three females lying on the floor.
"What's the matter?" I growled, trying to make my disappointment sound more like friendly sarcasm.
They had headaches. They were dizzy.
I told them to eat something and drink some water. They said they had. I was going to implore my cohort, the third woman, to motivate her friends, until I found her slumped over a desk.
"Sick?" I delivered the icy tone.
She nodded and got up. She and her friends were going to go home. I couldn't believe it. After they walked out I turned and rolled my eyes at Brian, the other guy. He tried to match my incredulity, but was busy crying.
To be fair, he wasn't Steel Magnolias weeping, but his eyes were watery and red. He worked a little bit longer, but things weren't going his way. He'd roll up an informational piece and, while reaching for a rubber band, it would unroll. Then he'd drop the rubber band while trying to roll up the sheet again. Finally he walked up to me. He kept walking until all the personal space was gone. A few inches from my face he blinked some tears and talked in slow motion about needing to leave.
I kind of took on a martyr role. I told him it was fine. I'd manage to get everything done. I stormed around the office, drinking bottle after bottle of water. I'm usually a thirsty guy, but now I was going to wash away my pain. And then, at some point, I sat down and started thinking about everybody going home. The two girls who were sick first were petite. And the third was just as thin. Brian was bigger, but at least eighty pounds lighter than me. I wondered if we all had the same thing, but because I was the thickest of the group, it was taking me longer to succumb. And then I crawled outside.
In kind of a plain rainbow, the bright florescent of the union hall streaked into the dim yellow of the street. I would have a hard time dialing 911. I got to my knees and took a deep breath of outside air. I closed one eye, and focused on the numbers. I wobbled. If I were to die, my final act would be drunk dialing emergency services.
Other than growing up in a wood-heated home where breathing smoke at least meant you were warm, I had never had any experience with carbon monoxide poisoning. It wasn't until the firefighters hoisted me into the truck that I realized how lucky I was to be alive. It helped that one of them actually said, "You're lucky to be alive."
One of the guys walked around the room with a CO2 detector. It beeped rapidly and he agreed. It was off the charts. I spent the rest of the early morning leading an ambulance around to find the other four. Turns out they all were OK, but Brian and I had to spend a few hours in the hospital for oxygenating.
One of the firefighters said that the building's exhaust had been blocked with a mound of old clothes. It was intentional, but I never heard any followup as to an investigation. I did however recall our candidate baffling Tim Russert by trying to finger draw furniture in the air, and I wondered if someone had done it to his house, too.
That night, at the big election party, I got a little recognition. It was Tuesday and I hadn't slept since Sunday. My wife was getting to spend some quality time with a sleepless prick at a depressing event for a losing candidate. On his way to his concession speech, the candidate stopped and pointed at me. He leaned into me and shouted against the noise, "I lost but you're still alive."
I'm pretty sure it wasn't spite. Like "oh god, not both!" I didn't want to ask him to try and explain. It was simple, it was true and it was as right as any politician had ever been.
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