Gamer Tags

I am 40.

I am a father.

I am a son.

I am a nerd.

I am a gamer.

I am not a gamer.

Do I play COD or WoW or know what the difference is between a Hunter and a Promethean Knight is?  Can I perform a 360 no scope?  No.   But so what?  You don’t get to give me a tag of gamer or not.   That is not for you to decide.  Now, I would never call myself a soldier because I’ve never been in the armed forces or trained in the military.  That is an entirely different thing. The reason you don’t get to call me a gamer, or not a gamer, is because you aren’t the governing body of video games.  You are not a part of some hierarchy of video game admins that decide who or what defines me as a player of video games.  You are a gamer or you are not a gamer, by your own definition.

Let’s face it, video games have been around a lot longer than some of you who consider yourself to be MLG.  And, by using that term alone I sound like an old man, I know.  But I also know that video games are older than I am, which makes whatever you think of my gaming ability to be irrelevant.  You have no idea what being a gamer or not being a gamer is.   You’ve never stood in an arcade, with your quarter sitting on the rim of the bezel, waiting for your turn as some geek stands there, their eyes darting back and forth as they move left, right, down, and up to avoid pixelated enemies, knowing that there is no save point or continue.  One quarter.  One shot.  

Now, you may also wish to contend that the games of old, back in the days of the arcade, were simplistic.   All it took was memorization of some pattern or repetitive moments to be good.  Sure, go ahead and keep believing that.  I dare you to even try to keep up with someone like Billy Mitchell.  

Video games have come a long way.   From text adventures to monochromatic 2D sprites to isometric RPGs to millions of polygons per second rendering on the screen, we’ve seen games that have told stories of searching an underground kingdom to saving a princess in another castle to surviving the night in a haunted pizza restaurant and sometimes, it’s not even a game by traditional standards, but an unfolding tale of lost loves from car accidents or cancer.   We simulate everything from amusement parks to prisons to farms.  We blast aliens and fruit.  We build vehicles contraptions and even other video games.

Playing one specific type of game does not make someone a “gamer”.   It’s an understanding of many disciplines and it doesn’t mean you have to be any good.   You don’t have to compete in tournaments or carry your own custom controller and gear.  You can sit in a café and play across a network connection with someone next door or across the world. 

And when someone else says they are a gamer or not a gamer.  If someone plays video games they can consider themselves whatever they want to be.   They can be old, young, male, female, Christian, Muslim, or Jewish.   The fact that they play, that they care, gives them the right to call themselves whatever they want.

This idea that you have to be a male with a Gamerscore over 20,000 to be a “gamer” is ridiculous.  Who cares?  I don’t have a Gamerscore.   My daughter plays video games.  She records videos.  She’s under the age of 10.   She can be a gamer if she so chooses to be called one.   This shaming and violently attacking others for playing games is a ridiculous practice that needs to stop, yesterday.  Are there problems in the world of gaming in way of gender exclusion and objectifying of a gender?  You betcha.   I remember the Nude Raider mod for Tomb Raider, Strip Poker on the Commodore 64.  Come on, we need to grow up.  We need to start acting like human beings.  

Gaming is an outlet for expression and creativity and we should embrace anyone that wants to be a part of that.  We should nurture the desire to figure out what makes games work.  We should engage in a community that doesn’t hate someone because they don’t know how to play a particular game, but helps them learn so they can enjoy the same thing we do.   When you tell someone that you play video games or that you like video games what is their reaction?  Do they roll their eyes or do they continue a conversation, invested in your attachment to the activity?  Maybe if they understood it like you do, had your passion, they would be more open to accept that you like to play video games and don’t brush it off as something juvenile or a waste of time.   With that in mind, why would ever try to dissuade someone from joining your ranks as a person who appreciates and partakes in the playing of video games?  We need more people in this club.  We need help from all walks of life.   We can’t make this idea exclusive to who we feel is deemed worthy to wear the tag of Gamer or whatever is an appropriate title. 

Father

Son

Nerd

Gamer

Not a gamer

Human Being

A Letter To My Daughter For When She's Old Enough To Date

I am writing this in protest because you will never be allowed to date.  But I know you will, so I better at least acknowledge it.

When I was younger and thought about the eventuality of having kids, I always wanted a son.  I know that's a really bad outlook.  It's just that I didn't understand girls.  I still don't.  I just figured it would be easier, ya know.

And even while you were still unborn and camera shy at the sonograms, I thought, "Maybe it will be a boy.  You never know."  I'd drive around in the car and have these philosophical discussions, with an empty backseat where you'd one day be, dispensing all my worldly knowledge about whatever it is I'm supposed to know at my age.  Guess what?  It isn't much.  When I say "I don't know" to you, I really don't know the answers.

But, when you were actually born and I held you, knowing full well you were a girl, I died that day.  I died and in the ashes was a rebirth of a man.  And this man was a father of a beautiful baby girl and he was never more in love with any creature on this Earth than you.  My heart hurt so much with love that I couldn't breathe.  And I was scared, too.  What the hell was I going to do with a girl, turn her over and say, "Yep, she's yours... figure out, other woman"?  Was I going to lock you up from the world and hope that a boy wouldn't dare take one step onto our lawn?

No, I couldn't do any of that because I wasn't always going to be able to.   My biggest problem in life is that I've tried to just solve the issues in our lives and not actually let someone figure them out themselves.   Instead of giving a general idea of what needs to be done, it was just easier for me to say, "Just give it here."  I can't be the answer for everything, so you need to know how to take care of yourself.  That's why I am so damn hard on you all the time.  That's why I constantly say take a hands off approach and try to let you figure certain things out.  Turns out, it works to a fault.  You're smarter than me and can do more than I ever could at your age and it gets you into trouble when you shouldn't attempt certain things.

So, in about a decade, you're going to attempt something else that I can't control or figure out.  Dating.

It's something I never could do right, then, and I still can't, now.  It's probably why I didn't do it that often, when I was a teen, and pretty much gave up on trying to figure it out when I got out of college.

In that way, I can't give you advice on how to date or how to find love.  That's something else you'll have to figure out on your own, and with any luck, you'll be better at than I was.  I pretty much know you will be, so no worries.

But, what I will say to you is something someone once told me about this kind of thing.

Be in something extraordinary.  Don't settle.  If they're not the best person for you, then you shouldn't be with them.  But remember this, too.  Guys don't know anything more than you do.  So, you have to be careful, but you also have to be better.

Now, I've made it as a personal mission to make sure you don't grow up just being a girl.  If you choose the tea parties and princesses route, I won't love you any less.  But, I know you, and you're rough and tumble just as much as you are tiaras and tutus.  I've hated how gender biased toys are in this world and you can be a scientist or a beauty queen with equal chance for success.  But what you need to realize is that with boys, we are pretty much stupid.  We need things spelled out for us but don't think we don't like you because we don't say it.  Sometimes we're just afraid you'll laugh at us.  So, give us a chance to show you before you break our hearts.

Also, don't let a boy hold the door for you, if he wouldn't do it for anyone else who isn't a girl.  Don't let him pick up the check if it means that much to pay your own way.  But talk about it.  Let him know why you would rather him not, if you so choose.  Then, let him pay anyway, just so he knows it's not an invitation for anything else.  You're not obligated to do anything.  You are far too independent to be coddled and even though chivalry is a nice concept, you are certainly no one's damsel in distress.

Definitely don't let a guy treat you badly and don't ever accept that you deserve it.  Just as you should never treat a guy that way.  As I have tried to raise you to be just as equal in strength and character as a boy, they are just as sensitive and vulnerable as girls.  But there are some men AND WOMEN out there that feel that people should be treated a certain way for whatever reason and it's not right.  You will never happiness at the receiving end of a harsh word or fist.  Also realize that it works both ways, too.

Be clear with a boy, because chances are more of them are going to fall madly in love with you than you will with them.  If you're not into them, let them know up front.  Be decent enough to explain that you don't feel that way.  Believe me, it will be a lot easier on the both of you let him down easy and early.   If not, he might shower you with praise and affection until you want to crawl out of your skin and he won't understand why it's not working.  Worse yet, he might overstep boundaries because he felt you were a tease.  I just don't have the money to bail you out of jail when you kick his ass for stepping over the line.

If you like a boy, and there's a chance he likes you, tell him.  Don't play games.  Don't make him pass tests and try to figure out his intentions.  The worst thing that ever happened by telling someone how you feel was for them to not return the sentiment.  No harm. No foul.  It's embarrassing and will probably hurt for a bit, but being honest is better and you might find it works a lot more.

Oh, boy... when it comes to um... being intimate....OK, man, pull it together, respect yourself.  I cannot stop you from having physical needs and I just hope you are safe and healthy about it.  Don't ever, EVER, think that you will make someone love you more because you give into them physically.  If you are not ready, then you are not ready.  And, don't pressure them because you think that they need to show you how they feel by being intimate.   And this will probably get me in trouble because, well, I'm a guy and it's still different, but you can say no at any time and it's not wrong to do so.  Any man worth your time will immediately understand and comply.

However, understand that even though you have every right to say no, that word may fall on deaf ears.  It's not you, it's them.  You should never be ashamed for being who you are, but sometimes, people are assholes and usually, it's someone you trust.  Don't ever forget that no matter how strong you are, there is always someone stronger.  I will never blame you for something happening, but you cannot expect everyone to be the best possible person in every scenario.  That being said, I will go Liam Nesson on their ass.  Just understand that you have a power that isn't fully quite understandable by you or others who are interested in you.

And eventually, you will probably find yourself with someone you love enough to want to marry.  For all that is decent and holy, let's not have a huge wedding.  I mean if you really want one I will do whatever I can to give it to you but realize that your wedding day is never for you.  It's always for other people.  It's for a DJ or band to be heard.  It's for a photographer to add to their portfolio.  It's for a caterer to drum up business.  It's for family and friends to share in your day or get free food and drink at the cost of a crock pot.   If you want a day for you, do whatever it is that makes you happy.  And that means finding someone who makes you happy, too.

Find someone who you will never get tired of in life.  Find someone who surprises you every day with something new and unexpected.  Find someone who will fight with you as much as for you.  Find someone who isn't afraid to cry because you hurt them or astound them.  Find someone who makes your heart break just like you broke mine on that very first day.  Find someone who pushes you to be better and will be better because of you.  Find someone you can talk to about anything.  Find someone that doesn't just like everything you like but likes their own things and appreciates that you like yours.  And be the same way.  You don't have to adopt every little thing they love, just love them for loving it.

And for all the love in the world, find someone you love as they are, not as you want them to be.  Don't try and change someone.  Don't try and save someone.   Find the man you want, not the man you need.  Because, quite frankly, you don't need a man.  You need a partner.  You need a teammate.  You need an anchor.  You want a love.  You want a family.  You want someone to complete you.   You want to find someone that even when they are at their worst, they are still better than everyone else.  You want someone that even when the world falls apart, they will be right there with you and you'll both save each other.  You want someone extraordinary.  You want someone better than me.  You need that, too.  But, no matter who you pick, they are the lucky one.  Because you picked me once and I am the luckiest man on Earth and I will always love you no matter who you love: man, woman, or whatever.

Just do it all after I'm dead.  OK?  Because the day you come home and tell me you're in love, it will probably kill me. 

I love you sweetie.

 

Walton's Moving Castle

Yesterday was my daughter’s fourth birthday. Because she was born right after Independence Day we find ourselves double planning her birthday; one for the weekend, which usually involves a cookout of some sort and one for her actual birth date.

This year, her birthday fell on a Tuesday, so we asked her what she wanted for dinner on her birthday. She said pancakes. Funny kid. I was fine with this and asked if she wanted to go to Bob Evans. She said she wanted to go to the ‘other’ pancake place. At first, I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. She doesn’t exactly have all the skills of reading under her belt, but she can identify a place by the signage. For instance, she calls McDonald’s, Old McDonald’s and Dairy Queen, Women’s. So, when she says the ‘Other Pancake Place’ she can only mean IHOP.

We’ve only taken her to IHOP three times in her life, but it has made an impression on her. In fact, we only get to go maybe once a year because it’s on our way to the beach. We usually stop off at one around Fredericksburg, VA, off of I-95. The closest IHOP to our house is 45 minutes away in Uniontown or Robinson Township.

My wife and I have been lobbying for one to be put in Irwin for years. They bulldozed a local restaurant/bar/six pack shop called Angelo’s a few years back and while we hoped against hope for an IHOP, they built a Howard Hanna office, instead. This was right after the housing bubble had collapsed and baffled me.

Still, I was up for driving 45 minutes for some Butter Pecan syrup and after all, it was my kid’s birthday. Why not?

Now, my wife asked me if I knew how to get to the one in Uniontown. I said, “Sure, it’s right next to Walmart.” Growing up, I had gone to that shopping plaza off of Mcclellandtown Rd. a number of times. There was an Italian Oven right off the highway and across from it was Cherry Tree Square and the Walmart. Of course, I hadn’t been there in about 20 years but still, how hard is it to remember how to get there? And besides, it’s Walmart. Can’t be hard to find.

After driving 45 minutes, I finally reached the shopping plaza and could not find Walmart. It was baffling to me. I could already see the steam rising off my wife’s ears because we have been under the gun to get the house in order for the cook out party, this Saturday. Wasting an evening, driving around Fayette Nam was not her idea of fun, especially with the ninjas out there sneaking around.

I decided to stop into Kmart and ask where the IHOP was. I felt bad asking a Kmart employee where the Walmart was. She said, go back out here, make a right, go up and make another right. I said, “Right by the Walmart.” She said, “Yes.”

See, I knew it was there.

After a couple of wrong turns and a detour around the Uniontown Mall parking lot, we finally found Walmart. It looked nothing like I remembered. Granted, my memory isn’t what it used to be, but honestly, how hard is it to find a Walmart in Fayette County. There should be huge neon signs with spot lights and wacky waving arm inflatable tube men pointing the way. It’s like Mecca. Yet, this store sat out in a field like Beaver Stadium at Penn State’s Campus. Imagine a huge stadium rising out of a cow field where you literally walk off of the pasture and onto the concrete steps. Same thing here. It was like Field of Rollbacks. If you build it and sell cheap Chinese manufactured products, they will come.

My wife was all, “See, you had no idea where it was.”

I told her, “It was right next to the Walmart, like I said.”

“But you didn’t know where the Walmart was.” She shouted back.

“Honestly, it was not here last time I came up here. They must have moved it.”

I know how dumb that sounded but honestly, they have done that. The Greensburg Walmart got torn down years ago and they moved it further down Route 30 East. In its place they put a Sam’s Club. It was possible.

Once we got inside, I asked the server if I was nuts. Turns out, they moved the Walmart about a year ago, according to our server. “See! I’m not nuts. They moved it. How the hell could I have known that? It just happened.”

In any case, I got my Butter Pecan syrup, my kid got her pancakes and she ate for free because it was Tuesday because she was under 12 and it was between 4-8pm. And, yes, they did move the Walmart. Huzzah!

The First Day Of School

And so it begins. Tuesday was my daughter’s first day of school. Well, preschool / daycare if you want to be academically accurate, and half day if you want to be chronologically correct. I took an extra day off for the Labor Day weekend so that I could be there for moral support. Had things been different, my wife would have had her mother riding shotgun on our daughter’s first trip to school. Sadly, her mother died this past Spring and I felt that I needed to be there, even if I was a poor substitute, to make sure everything went smoothly since my wife was a little apprehensive about this. She felt a little guilty sending the little one off to school. She felt she should be at home with her instead of leaving her in daycare. But, with October around the corner, it’s getting to be that time of the year and that means she’ll be back to work at the local farmers’ market she’s been working at for the last 16 years. We had originally thought about holding off a year since our daughter will be going into Kindergarten after she’s already turned five. She’s a July baby, after all.

The truth is, I’m glad. Not because she’s out of the house. I’m at work so I don’t get any benefit from her being in preschool. Besides, we have to pay for her to be there and that pretty much makes whatever my wife makes at her job a wash. It’s been a little rough the past few months. With my wife’s mother passing away in April we’ve kind of taken a hit in the wallet. It’s purely on us, though. I’m not blaming anyone but myself. We don’t cook much and when we do, we cook for my father-in-law as well. You see, before April, we spent close to three or four nights a week eating dinner with my in-laws at their house. Again, we don’t cook much. We’d also go out to eat at least three nights a week with them. Since April, we’ve been going out a lot more or cooking for her Dad. It doesn’t seem like a lot but it started to add up.

So, my wife decided that she needed to go back to work, if for anything to have money for Christmas. The only reason she’s even doing Christmas this year is for our daughter. Now, we could easily make three changes that would save us enough money to not have to worry about Daycare but we’re lazy. Sometimes, when you get home from working an eight hour day and you spend the next three hours teaching piano lessons you would rather just go out to eat instead of cooking dinner. But all of this is neither here nor there and my going off on that tangent was just as bad as that cliché I threw out there at the beginning of this sentence, so we’re moving on with the story.

Needless to say, my wife had to go back to work and that caused my daughter to have to go to some form of preschool or daycare. My father-in-law picked up more projects at work and has been going every day and cannot watch her like he had. That was Grammy’s job before she died since she was “retired” [read: job was eliminated] The concept of putting our daughter in preschool so my wife could work which was necessary to pay for the preschool is a snake eating its own tail puzzle. Still, socializing the child with other kids, her age, and allowing her to pretty much play in the Petri dish that is preschool would help her immune system. The kid already has a few strikes against her in the heredity department. Both our family histories are riddled with issues from cancer to MS to diabetes. Thankfully, she has been very healthy in her first three years and hopefully she inherits my immune system.

So, all of this build up and tangent taking and misdirection hasn’t caused you to flip over to ICANHASCHEEZBURGER for a mind numbing kitteh fest? Ok, I’ll get to it. First day went off without a hitch. We got to scope out the place last Friday and the munchkin seemed to be ready to stay there all weekend. She was a little upset with having to get up early on Tuesday and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to wear her pajamas to school. I told her save that for college. When we walked her in we had to drop off her paperwork and while my wife dealt with that I was having my arm pulled out of my socket by my kid trying to get into the classroom. We were told that it was best if parents said goodbye and then went away because hanging around might give the child a sense of anxiety if she saw the parent having a problem letting go. So, we said goodbye and she gave us a kiss and never missed a beat going back into playing. Apparently, it would be OK.

We both decided to grab some breakfast and went back to the house. Here I was, home from work, free to do whatever I wanted for the next four hours and I was bored out of my skull. I watched a little TV, played a little PS3, and basically surfed the Internet for awhile with no real direction. I even got a progress report in my email box from the school. The little one was completely acclimated to her surroundings. They couldn’t even tell that it was her first day. She even made fun of one of the boys in her class. “Aw, she’s just like her mother,” I thought.

Actually, I’d venture to guess she was more like me. I never shied away from a social gathering when I was a kid. I was all about being in the mix. Granted, I have become embittered by the world around me in my older age and lead a somewhat hermetic existence. Offline, that is. But growing up I learned to roll with the punches and adjust to the situation. I explained to my wife how my first day of school went. I realized within five minutes of entering the classroom on my first day of Kindergarten that I needed to keep a low profile when it came to fear and anxiety. Now, I had some preschool under my belt and some might say I was the scourge of the classroom. I led a few revolts and even enlisted the aid of another classmate in a black ops campaign which resulted in the flushing of another classmate’s sandwich down the toilet. I don’t know why we did it but I apologize immensely for it happening. Anyway, since I had some schooling beforehand I wasn’t walking blindly into the fray but I was a bit nervous. It was only a half day but it was every day. And it wasn’t just for fun, there was actual learning to be done and the class was a bit bigger than what I was used to. All of this added up to me feeling a little scared when I walked in but I kept it hidden.

However, there was a moment that solidified my thoughts on how to handle myself in these types of situations. I had walked across the room and my mother was still standing in the doorway, just in case I needed an escape plan. I turned to make a decision, feeling a little overwhelmed, and then it happened. There was a blood curdling scream coming from the door. Another boy had shown up and he was not exactly prepared for his mother to leave. She let go of his hand and was turning to exit and he went four alarm kablooey. It was like a train wreck but I wasn’t watching him. I was watching everyone else watching him. That was the moment I realized I needed to play it cool. If for anything else, it’s 30 years later and I still remember that moment and I remember the kid’s name. I would like to be remembered in 30 years but not because I had a complete meltdown my first day of school. I simply looked at my mother and we both shared an unspoken moment that went like this.

MOM: What do you think?
ME: I’ll be fine.
MOM: You sure?
ME: Are you nuts? Did you see what just happened?
MOM: Right. I’ll see you in a few hours.

Now, it’s day number two for my kid and it’s a full day at that. I got the progress report from my wife and everything went just fine. I have yet to hear the Silent Hill like sirens blaring overhead so I will take that as a good sign that she's behaving well and having a good day.  I think the parents have more hang-ups about their kids going off to school than the kids do. Although, considering the display put on, by that kid back in Kindergarten, I could only imagine what his mom did out in the parking lot. She might have spontaneously combusted right there in her station wagon. I at least waited until I got out of the parking lot to shed one lone internal tear. No one saw it and that’s 30 years of conditioning still going strong.
Class dismissed.

Balloons For Kevin

I’m slowly beginning to be able to write this stuff down without going all completely kablooey. Eventually, I will put down something more substantial that really gives you the sense of what took place in our lives last month. I just can’t do it right now. However, because I am the unbelievable prick that I am and I know that my wife and her family can appreciate my sense of humor, even in the saddest of times, I feel I can at least share how I managed to cope with a pretty emotional event. More on that later.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Wow, thanks Captain Obvious. And I usually find an opportunity to at least visit if not spend the evening with my own mother. This year was a different. My wife just lost her mother the week after Easter and it’s been pretty rough. I’m not going to go into the whole back story, but my regular 4.2 readers know of what I speak. So, I took the munchkin up to see my mother on Friday night for a little Grammy Time. Then on Sunday we visited with her other Grammy, who is no longer here.

Now, I am nowhere near what you would call a churchgoer but for the sake of my daughter I talk the talk in order to kind of help with explaining what exactly has happened. She’s very smart and we would rather be upfront with what happened.

If we tell her that Grammy is sleeping but will never wake up she might be afraid to go to sleep at night. If we say Grammy had to go away and never come back, she might be afraid of us going anywhere without her. So, we were honest and told her that “Grammy had a boo boo that the doctors could not fix and she died. Her body is buried at the cemetery but the part of her that made her your Grammy is heaven now and that’s why we are sad because we can’t see her anymore.” She surprisingly gets it and understands completely what happened. But I don’t think she quite understands the feeling of loss and sadness she feels.

However, the kid is so her father’s daughter. On the way to the hospital to say goodbye to my mother-in-law we began to explain where Grammy was going. “Now, we are going to go say goodbye to Grammy. She is going to go live with Jesus now.” My daughter then looked up at my wife and asked, “Well, is Jesus friendly?” At this point I began to tear up because I knew that this was it. “Oh, yes,” my wife said, “He’s the friendliest person you’ll ever meet.” My daughter then deadpanned, “Good, because I’ll kick him in the balls.” Both my wife and I were simultaneously crying and laughing at honesty my daughter had with her intentions. She’s not even three yet. Now, this isn’t the first time she’s made that statement and for the life of me, I can’t figure out where she got it. My wife wanted to blame me but I live in a house with her and our daughter along with four cats, three of which are female and the one boy was neutered before we got him. Who the hell am saying “I’ll kick you in the balls” to?

We can always count on our daughter to provide a little perspective to the situation. And that’s why Sunday was another opportunity to smile through the pain. We had been planning for three weeks to go to the cemetery on Mother’s Day and release balloons with little notes attached. We were going to “Send them to Grammy.” Now, we prefaced Mother’s Day with ample amount of warning to my daughter that these balloons were going to be let go to fly up to heaven. She’s a balloon junkie and is very adamant about getting balloons. So, we figured there might be some resistance on finally letting the balloons go. But she did good. She even kept asking my wife if it was Mother’s Day yet because she wanted to “Send balloons to Kevin.”

At first we didn’t get it. Who the hell was Kevin? Of course, this malapropism was her thinking that heaven was Kevin but where she learned the name Kevin, I don’t know. But we kind of went with it and said “We’re going to go send balloons to Kevin, now.” So, as we stood there and released the balloons I found it hard not to find some humor in this moment. I thought about putting an email address on the cards attached to the balloons. Since they were made of Mylar they would probably last a lot longer than traditional latex ones, even at a higher altitude. I suspect they won’t make it very far and will end up no more than a twenty or thirty miles away before they hit something and end up tangled in a tree. But it would have been nice if the person who found these notes attached to balloons were to send a message. So, in that vein my sister-in-law said. “Who is going to write you, Jesus? Do you think he has the email address, Jesus@aol.com?” I said, “Of course, but the bastard will probably try to sell me Viagara.” “Yeah, I got spammed by Jesus. Oh, and now he wants to be friend on Facebook. Hey, everybody. I just poked Jesus. That and he keeps asking me to join his mafia.” Like I said, I can be a prick, but at least the humor can be appreciated. Now, if you excuse me, there is a lightning bolt coming towards me from the direction of Kevin’s. Avenge me, daughter. Go kick Kevin in the balls.

I'm Dreaming of a Dark Christmas

In my 34 years on this Earth, there have been more forgotten Christmases than ones I can remember. The first three are a bit hazy, for sure. Sure, there was the year I got the Millennium Falcon and immediately broke off the radar dish. Something that foreshadowed the events of Return of the Jedi. Then, there was the year we got an Atari, although to be totally accurate it was the Sears Tele-Games version that came with the darker word grain finish and Target Fun instead of Combat. But for the most part, Christmas seems to come and go without a memorable event that makes it stand out against the mosaic of all Christmases combined. That was, until this year. Perhaps the two most remembered quotes of the holiday will be “Remember Caillou” and “Fire! Fire! I need a grown up!”

To start I should back up to Christmas Eve. Our two year old and a half year old is starting to get the idea of Christmas and we wanted to record the act of putting out cookies and milk for Santa. Of course, my daughter is all about quality assurance and immediately checked the cookies for suitable eating after she put them down on the stool in front of the tree. We also put some carrots out on the front porch in case the reindeer get tired of waiting on the roof. After lights out, we made sure Santa had enough space to put out all the presents. In fact, Santa became quite the vandal as he left messages on our back door, front door and refrigerator in red washable ink. It was something of a cross between Danny Torrance’s “REDRUM” and John McClane’s message about having a machine gun, "Ho, Ho, Ho." From the scrawling penmanship, I felt Santa was a sadistic bastard who didn't realize how hard it would be to clean up the mess after all was said and done.

The next morning, my in laws came over to watch the joy and awe like effect Christmas morning has on a child. The night before she was able to open one present and her excitement for that told us that a room full of presents should be a big deal. I stood in the living room, camera at the ready, and she waltzed down the hallway. She walked into the living room, right past the tree and over to an end table where her gift from the night before was sitting. She proceeded to stand there and show it to her grandmother, reveling in its coolness. Meanwhile, the blazing tree and multitude of gifts, that stood not two feet from her, went unnoticed. She didn’t even bat an eye at the cookie crumbs or gnawed carrot bits on the front porch. Looks like Christmas memories for her will be few and far between as well these first few years.

After we coaxed her into opening at least three of her gifts, we managed to clean up the discarded boxes and torn paper and prepared for a trip to my parents. It’s always hard to travel with children. They get so worked up because of the holiday and then you have to do all this travelling which just exhausts everyone. Not to mention, all kids want to do is play with their toys after they open them and to rip them from that playtime and trot them off to another person's house is not pleasing, even if that person also has presents for them. Since, my child was oblivious to presents at this point I figured it shouldn't be a problem. Although, it’s nice if we can work in a nap for her before we leave. She was already excited, not because she would be opening more presents but because she would be able to play with her cousin.

Now, we haven’t really seen a white Christmas around here for years. They are usually rainy and cold, but not white. This year was no exception, adding wind to the mix. It was hard at times to keep the new minivan on the road. Center of gravity was the one thing I hadn’t considered when replacing my low to the ground coupe. The car shimmied all over the road as the wind whipped over the hills and onto the turnpike. As we pulled into my parents’ driveway we could see the pine trees, that lined the driveway, bend and sway in the breeze. We took a few minutes to sit in the new sun room, which they had just added, and watched the closest pine almost kiss the glass more than once on the large windows.

About ten minutes before we were ready to eat, the power went out. My wife and I were standing in the living room with our daughter when it happened. I immediately called out to her to stand still as I walked over to try and find her in the darkness. Even if the outage had been confined to our house, alone, there would have been no outside lights to even give off the faintest glow through the windows. My parents live on the outskirts of town in a semi rural area, surrounded by farms and small housing plans. The only lights you get out there are from other houses and the occasional street light. We were pretty much in total darkness. Once I had gotten a hold of my kid, I picked her up while others worked on getting flashlights and candles. Once we had some light to go around, I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it straight at the ceiling. The white ceiling acted as a reflector bouncing the light around the room creating enough light to see but not enough to blind you from pointing a light in your face.

Luckily, my mother had finished cooking and was just getting ready to serve dinner when this happened or we may have been reduced to eating a Christmas dinner that was smiling at us. "Fa Ra Ra Ra Ra..." Now, I half expected my daughter to be in hysterics at this point. After all, she has issues with the dark in our house. But instead, she kept repeating the same thing over and over in the darkness. “Remember Caillou?” and then she would trail off into toddler incoherency. For those of you without small children, Caillou is a Canadian kids' cartoon on Sprout, based off of books. It’s about a little bald headed boy named Caillou. One of the episodes centered around a storm that caused the power to go out. She made it a point to tell everyone in “This one time at Band Camp” fashion “Remember Caillou, when the lights went out?” This went on for a least 30 minutes.

Dinner was excellent as always and afterwards we retired to the sun room to open presents. Usually, we would all just open simultaneously but due to conditions we took turns. One person would hold a flashlight while the other would open and vice versa. My father who claims that he doesn’t need or want anything for Christmas was actually jazzed for one present he opened this year. It was an LED lighted head band. It was practical and easily applicable in our current situation. We had candles around the room and a few oil lamps but this thing threw off a lot of light. He even hung it on the ceiling fan shining enough light for everyone. Even in perfect conditions we would have had trouble navigating from one side of the room to the other with all the presents. Because of the outage it was twice as tricky and this little bugger helped out a lot. At times, we couldn’t tell what exactly we had opened or who it was from, but we all enjoyed ourselves.

After presents, traditionally came pumpkin pie, but for some of us Tylenol would have been welcome. A couple of us began complaining of slight headaches and a bit of dizziness. We didn’t realize that maybe three oil lanterns would be a hazard. We decided to forgo the lamps during pie and coffee and I opted to wear the new most excellent Christmas present since Ralphie got his Red Ryder B.B. gun. The light was great if you needed to shine directly in front of you but in this case you could blind someone. So, I flipped it upside down and allowed the light to point upwards. I walked out into the living room where my daughter was playing and heard my nephew calling from the kitchen. He had taken up residence at the kitchen table with his new Nintendo DS while waiting for desert.

On the table, a gel based candle had finally reached its flash point and the gel caught fire, creating a larger flame. “Fire. Fire” He called out, calmly, while still playing the game system. My wife and sister in law stood in the kitchen and assessed the fire. It didn’t look that bad but it soon became bigger. “Fire. Fire” he called again, “I need a grown up!” They rushed over and I made my way around the living room and into the kitchen. Both my wife and sister in law had begun blowing on the table which was now engulfing the entire candle and with every blow threatened to spread. They both seemed sort of stunned and a bit alarmed at the growing threat. I calmly walked over and grabbed one of the pie plates. In what looked like my ignorance of the situation, in order to save the pie from disaster, was actually methodical. I merely placed the plate on top of the candle, snuffing out the oxygen supply. Both women looked at me like I had just grew antlers.

With the fire out, we proceeded with desert which deteriorated into fits of giggling and uncontrollable laughter brought on by what I can only figure was exposure to the oil lamps. My brother asked what my father used for fuel to which my father said, "Some can in the garage." I followed up asking if the can had a dirty old rag for a cap. All the while, I wore the head band lamp upside down on my head shining upward at the ceiling. My head nodded as I laughed at the littlest of things causing the light to create a strobe effect. My wife, who had really felt the downturn of the holidays this year declared that this would be the most memorable Christmases ever. With that, my daughter looked up with a whip cream goatee and said, “Remember Caillou?” Once again, we broke up into hysterics.

But my wife was right. I admit, this season was a bit of a downer. After all, 2009 was pretty unfavorable in that we had more valleys to navigate than peaks in terms of moods. Her mom battled cancer most of the year, beginning with surgery to remove a brain tumor, moved onto pulmonary emboli and a diagnosis of ovarian cancer, that ended with her having additional surgery and chemotherapy. She lost her job due to redundancy from a merger/acquisition in her company and her home was flooded during heavy rains in June. Her usual spunky attitude towards Christmas was dour with thoughts of having to wear a wig or shell out money for repairs and Christmas presents from her savings instead of regular pay. In the end, she came out on the winning side but had taken a lot of lumps to get there and it showed. We should be thankful that we get another Christmas with a woman that should have been dead 13 years ago. That’s 13 Christmases that were unremarkable just because no one was missing. Had it gone the other way, my wife would have probably done everything she could have to forget the holiday.

Still, she was right, this was the best Christmas ever. Thankfully we weren’t all too hopped up on diesel fumes and could remember it….and Caillou.

$9.99 For the Toilet Parts $150 For the ER Stay and X-Ray

My issues with home ownership are strewn all over the blog. Just look up the label and you’ll see them. Recently, we had issues with a toilet in our upstairs bathroom. I am by no means a plumber and have very little desire to be on my hands and knees in a cramped space with no room to work. However, the water just stopped flowing one night. The tank will eventually fill up over time but you have to schedule time in the bathroom over the period of the day or grab a jug and fill up the tank. Needless to say, I needed to get to work on it.

We thought the problem was originally because of my daughter, who is becoming more and more obstinate and independent. She is in potty training boot camp which usually consists of her wanting to use the bathroom usually before bath and bedtime. It used to be that she would walk into the bathroom, drop her drawers, and rip off her diaper like it was a parachute ripcord. I imagine the puffed out diaper deploying like the chute of a Looney Tunes character after the hapless cartoon animal hits the ground. Once de-pants she would saddle up to her potty, finish up, ask for paper and then wait for my wife or I to empty the contents into the toilet and then she would flush and close the lid. That was the case for about the first week. Come week two, we are using the potty as a step stool to sit on the insert that goes on the toilet seat. She is now in the minor leagues. Same protocol as before for cleaning up. Now, she wants to do it all by herself, without the insert, and content to just sit over the edge of the seat, teetering like Humpty Dumpty. If you try to get the insert or move the stool, she gets very upset to the point that she will toss the insert aside and move the stool back to its spot across the floor and move it back, all by herself. It’s safe to say the terrible twos are in full swing.

So, this week, after much debate and raised voices, she sat there and waved off my wife from trying to steady her and kerplunk she went into the bowl. That’s not why the toilet won’t flush but it occurred the same night. Turns out the fill valve in the tank is probably shot and needs replaced. Off to the evil blue store I go. I have no problem in admitting that I hate that big blue beacon of corporate retail. I lost some very good stores in my area thanks to it. It’s also creeping into my neighborhood in its attempt at global domination which will most likely increase traffic in an already burgeoning area, which is already congested and beyond road load capacity. Still, I was in need of parts and we were already near one.

My daughter, being little miss independent, doesn’t want to ride in a cart or hold your hand. We insist on it because, quite frankly, if my kid was going to get snatched up by some sicko, it would be here. However, she loves to go shopping and gets very haughty if we don’t all go in, if only for one item. My wife, on the other hand, can’t help but look at everything in the store, even though I have a specific item in mind and only plan on spending five minutes in the store. Can you tell I really did not want to be here? But, it was early in the evening and the thought of finishing up dinner, nightly chores and bath time before 9 PM was enticing enough to me to make the trip out. That’s usually when you find out that your night is going to turn out completely different.

Everything was pretty good up until checkout time. Yes, there was the embarrassing moment when walking through the bra isle, my daughter looked up and yelled “Booby Traps” loud enough that the couple in front of me turned to look and laugh at the comment and my blushing face. Still, for the most part she was being a pretty good girl. After switching guard detail a few times, it was my turn to hold her hand and my wife’s turn to push the cart. I informed my daughter that she had to hold my hand and could not let go. “Someone could take you,” I said. In my mind I remembered why they called the code for missing child Code*Adam. I remember growing up and watching the movie Adam on television. Mostly, I wanted to see it because at the age of seven, I watched Hill Street Blues and knew that Captain Furillo was playing John Walsh. Not knowing that this movie was based on a real story and after the fact, I kept waiting for them to find little Adam Walsh alive. It was the first time in my life I realized that kids were not indestructible and could be hurt and even killed. I suddenly realized that I am mortal and have an expiration date. As my thoughts from little Adam Walsh turned back to the little girl holding my hand, it happened.

It was all so fast. Her independence got the better of her and she tried to pull her hand away from mine. When she couldn’t succeed and started to spin around I knew that I was going to have to pick her up and carry her, cries for freedom be damned. Before I could bend down to pick her up she decided that her best course of action was to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes. That’s when I felt the pop. She started to cry. Usually, when she doesn’t get her way, she cries. But it’s the cry without tears, the one for effect. The drama queen takes center stage and wants her way, announcing, “I do it myself.” But that didn’t happen here. After the pop, she immediately cried with real tears and grabbed her arm. At first, I didn’t think anything of it and picked her up. But the fact that she didn’t calm down made me wonder. Was she really putting on the act or was there something else. I set her down and she continued to cry, clutching her arm. Soon, my heart sank. She was wearing a coat and sweatshirt so I couldn’t a good look at her arm. It didn’t feel like anything was wrong and I kept squeezing little bits up and down to see if I could notice anything. Then I thought I was making it worse.

I tried to soothe her and get her arm out of the coat and sweatshirt to make sure my fears were unfounded. There was no sign of anything wrong, yet she continued to cry and clutch at it. That’s when it became worse. I asked her what happened and she looked at me, with those big puffy, teary and reddened eyes and said, “Daddy hurt me.” I wanted to throw up right there. I’m standing in the middle of the store with my kid, clutching her arm, declaring that her father hurt her. Immediately I felt my ears burn and the daggers of a hundred eyes piercing my body. I was that guy. I was the guy that beat his kid. It didn’t matter that I didn’t do it. I was merely holding her hand and she dropped to the ground. Perception is reality and in this day and age, when it comes to kids I am guilty until proven culpable.

Think of this. Twenty years ago, if you were to get on a plane and sit next to a passenger wearing a head wrap, what would you think? Nothing. But sit next to that same person after 9/11 and what do you think? I don’t care if you are the most objective and unbiased person in the world. You will ultimately profile that person as a terrorist, if only for a second. This is what we have become as a society and sometimes we need to be that observant. Other times we jump to conclusions and assume the worst of a person. Remember Henry Louis Gates, Jr.? Exactly. Here I was, a grown man, standing in the store holding his crying kid who just declared that her Daddy hurt her. I felt guilty. I informed my wife and headed to the car as she finished up in the checkout. She was livid. The first thing she said was, “What did you do?” I felt ashamed, sickened, and responsible. I explained what happened as we drove to the ER.

We checked her in and those stares, albeit in my mind, persisted. We headed back to a cubicle and the doctor came in to look at her. My daughter, crying more than I had ever heard her cry was being poked and prodded. My looked at me and this same grown man was reduced to a quivering ball of goo. My eyes, beet red and swelled up, dripped profusely. The sight of my little girl being in pain is hard enough, but to think that I broke her arm made me lose it, completely. I was waiting for a police officer to come in and separate me from my family. I was thinking that I was going to be in so much trouble. I felt guilty.

I stayed towards the back of the cubicle, trying to compose myself. I realize that my daughter’s fears and pain were exacerbated by my appearance and I needed to pull myself together. My wife was in charge of her at this point. I could hear the various voices through the ones in my head. “All better now. It’s fixed.” If it was, why is she still crying and not using her arm. The staff asked me repeatedly what had happened and in every instance I was told the following things, “It’s common”, “It’s nothing serious” and “It’s easy to fix” Ok, then why is she still crying. Why am I?

Soon, the crying stopped and she was clutching a Popsicle, the purple juice flowing down her tear streaked chin and onto her shirt. She still didn’t move her arm and touching it set her off on another cry. The doctor brought stickers and asked her to grab them. She was holding the Popsicle with her good arm and wouldn’t relinquish it. “It’s like a big ice cube,” she said. When asked to use her other arm to take the stickers she said, “No, thank you.” Another member of the staff asked her how old she was, hoping she would use her affected arm to indicate the peace sign that also meant two. “I’m a big girl,” she said. My kid is way too smart for you people, I thought. My wife even stuck the stickers on her unaffected shoulder, thinking she would use the other hand to grab them. She loves stickers, but would not budge, instead using her same hand to reach up onto that shoulder to grab the sticker, letting her hurt one dangle. In a last ditch effort we put the stickers on the bed and expected her to use both hands to peel them off the sheet. Nope, after she did not get any help from us, she used her teeth to hold the sheet and peeled away.

The doctor said he heard the pop and said it should be OK. He said that she would forget that it was hurt and use it again, but after an hour of being touchy about it, he suggested an X-Ray. The X-Ray technician was a friendly face. She was the parents of two of my wife’s piano students and knew us enough to know that we would never do anything to hurt our kid. Finally, I could relax a little because she looked at me and knew how I felt and reassured me that I did nothing wrong. Coming from her, I believed it.

The pictures came back fine, but they wouldn’t release her until she used that arm, much to her resistance. The doctor took one last look, bending and turning the arm, causing my daughter to write in pain and tears. Then, almost instantly, she rolled over on the bed, pulling the hurt arm away from him and supported her weight on it. He looked at me, smiling in a sarcastic way, “It’s a miracle.” Usually, an attitude like that was uncalled for, but I knew he was referring to her being alright and only crying for effect. Once again, perception is reality. We were cleared to take her home.

The official word was a new one for my vocabulary. Radial head subluxation or nurse maid’s elbow. Basically, all those times your parents said they were going to pull your arm out of its socket for being bad was not just an urban legend. I still felt like such an asshat for letting it happen. By the time we got home, the little one was laughing and playing and using her arm like nothing happened. We got ready for bed and she sat on the edge of the toilet, teetering again, but letting me steady her. I told her I loved her and that I was sorry. She said, “It’s OK. Sometimes, I get a boo boo.” At last, my heart went back into my chest. I no longer felt like some monster. She wasn’t crying at me and saying I hurt her, anymore. I understand that I have a temper. I see it in my kid. On her good days, she is the best of what make up myself and my wife. On her bad days, she’s the worst of us. So, I see how I am when it comes to temper. My wife used to say I was the most patient person in the world. Parenthood wiped that out and it fluctuates. I need to learn to calm down and relax and this whole incident was proof. I am, what the name implies, Mongo. I have all the dexterity of an oven mitt and am clumsy to boot. I break shovels and rakes just but doing basic yard work. Ask my family, my brother had no good toys left because I broke them all.

So, to think that Mongo broke his kid’s arm, accidental or otherwise is a bit of a wakeup call. I need to relearn that bit of patience my wife used to think I had. Now, in this case, it was totally a fluke but my wife knows how I am. Even with all the medical professionals around telling us that this was a common thing and that I didn’t hurt her, she still had that look in her eye. “Mongo strikes again.” Of course, I didn’t help with my breakdown. But at least my kid is OK and she loves her Daddy again. After she said that , I told her, “That’s why you have to hold Mommy and Daddy’s hand and not let go. And even if you want to, you can’t just drop to the floor like that because you can get hurt.” She looked at me and said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” She then finished brushing her teeth and we were off to bed. Then I went back into the bathroom and used a gallon jug to flush the toilet. Perhaps tomorrow, I can get that fixed, without another trip to the hospital.

I told her, “That’s why you have to hold Mommy and Daddy’s hand and not let go. And even if you want to, you can’t just drop to the floor like that because you can get hurt.” She looked at me and said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” She then finished brushing her teeth and we were off to bed. Then I went back into the bathroom and used a gallon jug to flush the toilet. Perhaps tomorrow, I can get that fixed, without another trip to the hospital.

Bride and Prejudice

I wrote this out in my head on a synaptic cocktail napkin while attending my cousin’s wedding in York, PA. I had planned a whole series on weddings involving tips and other anecdotes for couples looking to get married but decided against it in favor of a little advice and wisdom to my two year old who is dancing with her cousin to a God awful Dance House remix version of Journey's “Don’t Stop Believing.”

I know. It’s blasphemous. I expected more from a DJ chosen by a couple who first met at a hardcore punk concert called, “Kill Your Idols” and now culminated their courtship by entering into the reception hall to Joey Ramone’s cover of “What a Wonderful World.” While the bride and her attendants were more traditional, the guys donned red Chucks to match their red ties.

Song and shoe selections, aside, I have only a few pieces of Fatherly wisdom for my little one as I dread the years to come that will be filled with boys and men and headaches and heartaches. If only I could lock her away until she’s 30. Undoubtedly, being my child, she’ll be able to figure a way out using a bobby pin and a duct tape.

First off, little one, as I refer to her in the blogosphere, elope. We’ll give you the money from the wedding to start off on your new life together or at least put a sizable down payment on a house.
Weddings have been done to death. You spend a lot of money and time trying to find all the pieces to this ornate puzzle and it all gets ruined by some weird thing. Not to mention you don’t even get to enjoy the day because you are being pulled in so many different directions that when all is said and done, you don’t even remember those pictures of you being taken. Go, get married on a beach or in a small ceremony and enjoy a nice time alone. These days, weddings are more a show for family and friends than they are about commemorating an event. If you are dead set on a ceremony then fine, but if there is a hint of doubt, I’ll try my best to save you and that boy the anguish of all that planning gone to waste.

If you do plan on going through with a ceremony, do it in the early to mid Fall. Everyone and their sister gets married in the summer. It’s hard enough trying to schedule everything as it is, having to deal with the peak wedding season is ridiculous. Also, it’s freaking hot, although the Summer of 2009 panned out to be unseasonably cool and wet. If you wait until Fall you get cooler temperatures and better colors with the foliage. That is if you plan on getting married around here. The wedding we were just at was at a place called Lauxmont Farms in Wrightsville, PA. It was a beautiful reception in their Rotunda but at three hours away, we were ready to make you walk home after being a little cranky for two straight days.

Don’t get hung up on the details. Before you know it the deal is done and you don’t remember any of it, anyway. Hell, I remember going through the whole ceremony only to suddenly forget my left from my right when it came time to put the rings on. I handed your mother the wrong hand and she didn’t even think twice about it. It wasn’t until we went down to hand the flowers to both sets of parents that my Father laughingly whispered into my ear, “ You’ve got the ring on the wrong hand, genius.” I covered but if he noticed, I’m sure someone else did.

Let’s just realize that bridesmaid’s dresses are perhaps the ugliest thing in the world no matter how you slice it. Again, I bring you back to point one as it is a stupid dress that no one will ever wear after the wedding day. You can’t take them back and you can’t resell them because who in their right mind would want such an ugly dress. So, just remember, you are the star and you don’t need to make everyone else around you look worse by dressing them in loud colors with unflattering angles.

Go on your honeymoon and don’t skimp. Your Mother and I opted to try and be a little frugal by going to Niagara Falls for four days since we were a month from Christmas. She spent most of the time sick as a dog in bed and the weather was cold in Canada in November….go figure. It’s been five years and since you came along, the odds of us being able to go on that official honeymoon I promised her are about as good as your Grandmother actually having that yard sales she keeps saying she’ll have. Honestly, my mother has loads of boxes in the garage labeled “Yard Sale” They’ve lived in that house 25 years and those boxes were from 20 years ago.

Lastly, do me a favor and marry someone you can feel comfortable with before you get married. Realize that while 50% of marriages may end in divorce, a good percentage of the ones that do survive do so out of fear of being a statistic. Settling for someone is never an answer and anything that you find intolerable as a couple before you get married won’t change afterwards. Men and women go through life letting their parents’ set the tone for how they perceive a partner. “You have to train a man.” “Remember, he’s dumb and doesn’t get it.” “You’re the one who is really in charge.” “Women are too concerned with the little things.” “Women shop and aren’t very smart about things.” These are stereotypes that are a product of all us growing up in the shadow of our parents. While your Mother and I are not exactly carbon cutouts of our parents, I believe we got the best parts and will try to at least pass that onto you. Just remember, it’s easy to get married, it’s hard to stay that way.

So, as I sit here watching you twirl around on your toes to this horrible version of a beloved classic I am saddened that someday you will grow up and you will get married. Although, I’ll be happy that you’ve found someone to love and that loves you, the sting of being replaced as the man in your life will hurt all the same, if not more. I can only hope that we can teach you well in this world and that you find that one person that gets you and can make you happy. My parting advice is this. Treat each other with respect, be friends first then lovers, and for the sake of all involved, don’t subject us to the Electric Slide.

A Job More Important Than Brain Surgeon

I haven’t been posting with my normal frequency. A couple of posts back I went into great detail about my Mother-in-Law’s diagnosis with a brain tumor. For any of those of you who are wondering, the prognosis is good. Let me start off by giving a big thanks and kudos to the staff and doctors of UPMC Shadyside. Anyone familiar with medicine and hospital care has probably heard of the UPMC Health System. Being a resident of the Southwestern Pennsylvania area, we have access to some of the most cutting edge technology in hospitals. Granted, there are bigger and more advanced facilities but we hold our own here. The care my Mother-In-Law received was excellent and the staff should be commended on their skills. I’d also like to send a big shout out to Wendy’s for their Baconator Combo Meal and PBS Kids Sprout, but more on that later.

Last I had stated, my wife’s Mother went through an MRI and was admitted to hospital for testing. Two days in the ER and two days in the Neurosurgery wing later, she came home and prepared for surgery. They had given her steroids to reduce the swelling which had caused the loopy behavior. Now, they were going to go in and remove a tumor, roughly 5 cm in size. She was going to endure about four hours of surgery, three to four days of recovery in the hospital and two weeks’ worth of home recovery before going back to work. Truthfully, that’s not too bad. They don’t expect any rehabilitation or adverse effects from poking her in the head. They’re were off on their estimates.

Now before you start to sink and think the worst, realize I said they were off on their estimates. I didn’t say how. It turns out she was in surgery for little more than an hour and a half and was awake immediately after. She spent Wednesday evening and most of Thursday in ICU recovery and then got moved to a room in the Neurosurgery wing. She came home on Friday. The only hurdle we have left to clear is the two weeks of home recovery. See, no doom and gloom.

While I can’t go into any great details about her experience I can give you a glimpse into what it is like as a spectator to the event. Because, as you know, it’s all about me. From my perspective, I’ve had to watch from the outside looking in on the ups and downs of my Mother-in-Law’s health issues. Only recently have I become a more active player but the recent events have been more of an exercise in child management than moral support.

When I got the call from my MIL, as she will be referenced here on out, I was sitting at my desk like always. I had been conversing with her cousin about her impeding MRI and she had mentioned about my MIL stopping at mailboxes and running red lights on the way there. She had been acting rather distant and confused for a month. She seemed meek and this is a woman that is a mama bear. She will knock you down and tell you like it is. For her to have this look of confusion on her face when trying to eat her dinner, you know something is wrong.

And the MRI almost didn’t happen. She had an appointment with her PCP and was planning on telling them everything was fine. My wife, a new mama bear on her way to full membership, was going with her to make sure they understood what was really happening. She helped to get the MRI in the works. Then, my MIL coworkers kept the wheel spinning when my MIL decided she was going to just cancel or reschedule the MRI because she felt fine. They forced her to go…but nobody offered to drive, unfortunately.

So, there I am twiddling away the afternoon when I got the call. “You need to go home now. I need to go to the ER and you won’t have a babysitter for the afternoon.” I didn’t really understand how it all worked. I just did what I was told. I left work, and started home. She called me on my cell and asked if I was on my way. I missed part of the message. Originally, I thought I was going home as her husband, our babysitter, was going to be on his way to pick her up for the trip to the ER. Apparently, I was to take her home, first. Luckily, I was only at the other end of the road her office is on and turned around.

In the car, she quickly tried to contact some people and seemed with it more than usual. I asked her if her or her husband had told my wife, yet. They hadn’t and I specifically told them not to. I would take care of it when I got there. My fear was that one of them would call and tell her on the phone while our daughter was in her presence. Knowing my wife, I was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face and her distressed look would upset the baby. Since our daughter is still less than two years old, she doesn’t quite understand what is about to happen but she does sense tension and despair and her empathic ability carries over into her mood. Her world was going to be thrown upside down and I wanted it to try and stay clear of the debris.

I dropped my MIL off and headed home. The three minute drive from one house to the other wasn’t long enough in my opinion. Here I was about to tell my wife that her Mother was going to the ER and that she needed to contact her oncologist and have him consult with a neurosurgeon. There’s no easy way to cram all that medical jargon into a more digestible chunk without sounding insincere or flippant. I practiced again and again how I would tell her. Not to mention, I was going to have to somehow deliver the bad news with a smile and upbeat demeanor so that my daughter doesn’t catch onto it. I decided to wing it as I pulled into the driveway. My wife was just getting out of the shower and was puzzled as to why I was there instead of her Dad. She had already sensed something was wrong and I immediately asked her if the baby was napping. Luckily, she had just gone down and my wife had every opportunity to act naturally.

She only caught three words out of my entire speech. “ER”, “Oncologist” and “Neurosurgeon.” Everything else was white noise. She began wandering around the house not making any logical motions. Putting things away that didn’t present any issue being out. Trying to get ready to teach lessons that she was going to have to cancel because she was going to go to the hospital. I asked her if she wanted me to take her or to stay with our daughter while she went. She needed me to be there so, I called my Mother to come and sit with the baby. While my wife called her students, I made every possible provision to ensure a smooth stay for my Mom because I didn’t know when we’d be back. I filled up the gas in our car so that if she had to travel, she had a baby seat. I moved all of the cats, their food and their litter box into our room. She’s allergic. I got out different foods and snacks for them to have for dinner and I started listing all of our cell numbers and what hospital we’d be at on the refrigerator.

Our daughter woke up right before my Mother arrived which is nice because she sees us first. That keeps her life simple and normal. We left for the ER and found out that there was some kind of mass on my MIL’s brain and that they needed to reduce the swelling first. This was the cause for her mental state. That state seemed fine to me as she and the nurse attending to her in the ER had a very upbeat and snappy banter about needle sticks, health care, and all around bedside manner. I don’t know if she was using humor and snarky comments as a defense mechanism but it worked. The nurse was laughing hysterically as were we.

After three more days in the hospital, my MIL came home with a plan of action. The surgeon was confident about procedure and she was scheduled for a Wednesday surgery. I took off work for the last half of the week and got the marching orders.

Wednesday: My wife and FIL were going down with my MIL for surgery. I was staying home until the baby awoke and then will transport her to my parents and join my wife at the hospital.
Thursday: My daughter had a doctor’s appointment, so I was going to be with her, then probably wouldn’t see my wife until late.
Friday: Everything was probably just status quo in recovery and I could go to work and then take over watching the little one while my wife goes to the hospital.
Weekend: Play by ear.

I did what I could to keep busy in the quiet of my house while my daughter slept. I fiddled with my computer, caught up on my DVR recordings and generally became bored out of my mind. Meanwhile, my MIL was having her head cracked open like a walnut so that they could look inside for something that didn’t belong. Once the baby was up, I fed her, packed her whole world into the car and left for my 40 minute drive to my parents. After running down the list of things I could remember, I parted with my daughter and headed for Pittsburgh. One thing I will share with you about this experience. I’ve acquired some new skills. I am now able to eat a full meal from Wendy’s, including a frosty, while driving 65 mph on the Turnpike. Previously, I had always required two hands to eat a Frosty. They require a fork. A straw just doesn’t cut it. I managed to be able to place it in the cup holder and spoon out the frosty goodness without dripping. Both Friday of the last week and today I had to grab my lunch on the go from Wendy’s and I have gained a huge love of the Baconator sandwich. I highly recommend picking up one…or three.

I got to the hospital around 4pm and sat with my extended family in the ICU family lounge. As I stated earlier, surgery was abnormally quick. It was the kind of situation where you think the worst. The kind where the doctor informs you that there was no way to do the operation because of the tumor or that she arrested before they could even get it all out. Seeing a doctor that quick is enough to make your stomach fall out of your ass. Luckily, it was just a quick surgery.

We were allowed to see her in ICU soon after and she looked like a reject from a punk show or someone that had passed out at a party before removing their shoes. Her hair was all messed up with red and yellow patches of color and there was marker writing near her temple. I couldn’t read what was written but in my sick and twisted sense of humor I asked if that was where they notated to “DO NOT CUT” or “CUT LEFT OF HERE.” She had a pounding headache which was normal but had very good cognitive skills.

My wife was a bundle of nerves and constantly needled the doctors for more information prompting my FIL to ask for some Duct Tape. I could understand her state of mind. She and her Mother are very close and ever since her first diagnosis of renal cell cancer in 97, she has become very attached to her. I fear one day it will be very, very hard. I just hope that it’s a situation where she goes in her sleep as a very old woman from natural causes. It’s never easy to lose a parent but this is a connection that transcends normal Mother-Daughter relationships. You have to admire that. One of the aspects of this family that I have grown to love is how Daughters take care of their Mothers, young and old alike.

Finally allowing her to get some much needed rest, we went to pick up our Daughter to get some normalcy in our evening. She was very good for my parents and my wife decided and her parents recommended that she needed to stay home on Thursday as nothing new was going to happen. No test results were going to come in on the tissue that was removed. She wasn’t going to have any changes in care. She needed to just rest and my wife needed to let her. She also needed to go with me to our Daughter’s doctor appointment as I am still a novice when it comes to handling all the particulars.

Come Friday, my wife was simply going in with her Father to help get her Mother home. This was a highly improbable event. After having major brain surgery on Wednesday, she was coming home on Friday. I understand that patient turnaround in a major hospital is essential to maintain, but I just couldn’t believe that she was cleared for this. Granted, when my wife was in for the birth of our child, she opted to come home a day early because she was ready to climb the walls. This was something she regretted as she really needed another day of recovery in a hospital setting. You live and you learn. However, cesarean births and brain surgery are two different matters, yet my wife was in the hospital longer than her Mother in this respect.

While my wife got her Mother settled in and cleaned up around the house in preparation for the inevitable guests and well wishers to arrive, I stayed home once again and watched our Daughter. Since I wasn’t going to be dropping her off anywhere it was just a Daddy-Daughter day and we watched television. First there was Zaboomafoo. Then there was Barney & Friends. Next, was Play With Me, Sesame. Finally, there was Caillou. My Daughter was enthralled and sat on my lap with her “Blangy” (Blanket) and her “BaJoose” (Bottle of Juice) during most of the block of kids programming. Otherwise, she was playing with her Mrs. Potato Head or other toys scattered about our living room.

By Saturday, things were returning to normal. My wife was slowly getting back into her routine. My MIL was slowly recovering all her faculties. And I was slowly recovering from all the junk food and Baconators I had been eating over the last week. Wanting to do something special for me in all this, my wife said we should go shopping and said it was time to get the Wii. This is the same Wii I have mentioned in Free Wii 4 Me: Parts One and Two. I finally got it and boy are my arms tired.

So, while I wasn’t an active participant in all my wife’s family drama concerning her Mother and the tumor, I played, what I felt was an equally important and vital role. Because sometimes, the biggest impact and contribution you can make in any stressful and complex situation is to just keep the status quo for the smallest of affected individuals. In any crisis there needs to be that one person who maintains a unified front, calming those who need it the most, even if it’s just being a chauffeur or a television buddy. That was me. You may be the brain surgeon, but I am the Daddy and that makes me more important here.