a love for white vans

Last weekend I introduced the Jackal to water balloons. I honestly can't believe it took me so long to turn him on to this staple of my childhood summers. Well I guess the obvious reason is that we don't have balloons just laying around the house. For my birthday our wonderful nanny decorated the house with balloons and some of the Jackal's finger-painted masterpieces to surprise me when I returned from work. On a day when it was dog-breath hot outside and he was kicking it in his trailer-trash baby pool in the back yard, I stumbled upon a bag of unused balloons, and the table was set.

I dropped the first one from the deck above, and it exploded on the patio next to the Jackal's feet. Of course this elicited a symphony of giggles followed by a request for more. I obliged him with a couple of targeted tosses at Baci, our chocolate lab, who seemed to have mixed emotions about this activity. While he didn't like the concept of objects being hurled at him, he did not seem to mind the cooling splash of water that came with it.

Not that I needed more encouragement, but the Jackal egged me on, and I was suddenly at the faucet creating a nice arsenal, which lasted about a minute once we got busy throwing them all over the patio. Then, to my wife's chagrin but not to her surprise, I took it a step too far and asked the Jackal if I should throw one at the garage at the back of the yard. It was a rhetorical question, but he still replied with a charged "Yeah!!!"

I was aiming for the roof but evidently didn't put enough mustard on it, so when it hit the window pane on the door, water was not the only thing that splashed everywhere. It's all fun and games until daddy breaks a window, or at least that was the case on this particular day.

If I had a handy bone in my body, this would probably not be a big deal. Since I don't, it would not be a stretch to say that window could remain broken for a couple of years. Okay, that won't happen because I am resourceful enough to dial up someone I can pay to repair it. Still, it's just another task on the seemingly endless list of jobs that keep getting put off because I don't posses the skills or interest in dusting off the toolbox to tackle them. Hell, we have lived in this new house for 8 months and our walls remain naked because I have not drummed up the drive to hang a single piece of art work, so add that to the list as well.

Literally, the prospect of handyman work gives me angst. On the rare occasion that I decide to take on a dreadful chore, it turns into what my wife and I have come to call a "sideshow," marked by no shortage of curse words, plenty of huffing & puffing, and sometimes the birth of some petty argument between us, started by me. It's a hoot, let me tell you.

All that being said, when I look into my crystal ball, I see a white van parked outside our house and that quells the angst, at least until the the Jackal or I break something else, which is absolutely bound to happen.

intimations on a second pregnancy

I want my wife back. For that matter, I believe my wife wants herself back. Pregnancy this time around is more of a job, less of an adventure. That's not to say we take for granted that we are fortunate enough to have a kid. One unexpected lesson I have learned as I edge deeper into adulthood is that attaining pregnancy can be a major challenge. I have several friends who have jumped through hoops with fertility specialists in their quest to have kids. Some have succeeded; some have not. Remember how you approached your sex life in college (assuming you had one) with the abominable fear of knocking someone up (or getting knocked up)? Then when you actually want to have a kid, you realize it can be a hell of a lot easier said than done.

Candidly, we're tired of it. Bring on the next kid and let's complete this family unit. No more kids for this brood. Don't get me wrong -- I love the Jackal and kids in general. It's just that I love my wife, my best friend, and am pining for some solid time with her. I've said this before -- women are much stronger than men. I can't imagine having to put my life on hold or making major adjustments for 9 to 12 months the way pregnant women do. I recognize how sad it sounds to imply that adjusting to life without alcohol is all gloom and doom. Still, can you imagine? I just can't. Pathetic...

Last night after dinner I sat on the back patio with a Scotch and smoke while she tended to the Jackal's bed time ritual, and I planned in my head every little detail of our first big night out together in, say, February. Then I thought, If we're lucky, and her body bounces back, I'll get to see her carving the eff out of some mountain on her snowboard as soon as March. I'm also thinking of taking her back to Napa for a long weekend. The cheap thrills right now come from planning ahead for all the lost time.

Other than that, the highlight of this 40 week trial is coming in about a week -- an ultrasound to tell us whether the next baby will stand up or sit down to pee.

Birthday Blog

Today is my 34th birthday. I don't want to force too much symbolism less than 12 hours into my 34th year, but I can't help wondering whether there's some meaning in the fact that I woke up in the Jackal's big boy bed this morning. Maybe this is the year I step up and act like a man. Or maybe this year I stop labeling events attended by people 5 years and older than me as "grownup" parties and accept the fact that I am supposed to be a "grownup." Maybe...

Regardless, I think I woke up on the wrong side of the big boy bed this morning. Since the Jackal moved into said bed over a week ago, the nights have been touch and go. It's not completely unusual for me to stumble into his room to comfort him when he cries out only to wake up later confused and slightly out of sorts. It's a bittersweet dynamic really. On one hand, the transition to big boy bed has taken us back in time to the first 3 months of his life when bed time was way more hands-on. On the other, it's wonderful and heart warming to lay there and watch him go through the stages of drifting into peaceful slumber. And when he looks at me in the darkness and says, "I love you," I absolutely melt.

All that being said, I went to bed last night with this romantic idea of sleeping in on my birthday. By sleeping in, I was thinking 7:30 or 8ish. Around 5am I woke up to find him whimpering in our doorway, so I took him to his room and crashed in his bed. Anyone who drinks Scotch now and then knows that no matter how much you brush and gargle, the taste can show up later in the night. Laying there next to him while he tossed and turned and kicked me in the groin, I sensed the taste and flashed forward to the Jackal being on some couch telling some shrink how his old man used to pass out in his big boy bed reeking of Scotch.

By 6:30 or so, I gave up on sleeping and succumbed to the reality that a dull headache will be part of my day. My mood has lightened by now though. The office crew just filed into my office and serenaded me with "Happy Birthday" and cookies. I'm also getting some fun birthday wishes via email. One of my favorites came from my friend Joe, suggesting that I tell everyone "it's going to be the hottest day of the year for the hottest guy." I heard the heat index is going to hit 107 in DC today, so that tag line works for me.

At the end of the day, I'm actually impressed and thrilled to have made it this far. There's one way into this world and infinite ways out. Every day I make it home to my wife and the Jackal, it's an accomplishment. And every night, as I read Goodnight Moon for the millionth time to him in the big boy bed, I truly feel alive and well. Here's to another day, maybe another year, and whatever's around the corner.

howlee nugget

A friend who put in about 10 years as an expatriate once shared with me that 3 "M"s can be used to describe the personalities of those who choose that lifestyle. He spelled them out -


Missionary: you do it because your heart's in the cause, because you truly believe in it.

Mercenary: the money's great, so you make a killing plus stipend in some foreign place.

Misfit: you are an outcast at home anyway, so a remote spot is just as good.


Another friend who I have mentioned before, JT, recently took a job in Hilo, Hawaii. "Howlee" bombs will be thrown at the new CEO of the local mental facility in Hilo. Apparently that's a racial slur thrown at Caucasians from the continental states there. It doesn't phase him.

He 's leaving Mansfield, OH -- a town where you might stop to get gas on a road trip, and never look back as you jump back onto the I-70 entrance ramp. His flight is tomorrow morning. On the eve of his departure I find myself wondering which of these "m"s applies to him. Maybe he's 33.3% of each.

Bon voyage, my howlee friend! Please stay in touch early and often so that we can talk shit on people.

pushing (toilet)paper

The coffee was not cutting it today, so I just gave myself a nice jolt of adrenaline to jump start. I can't really understand why I am worth less than a warm cup of piss since I only had two glasses of wine last night. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for some unknown sap, I found an impulse to act upon, and as a result, I am born again. It's a good thing too because this Friday reeks of a Monday, as clients are coming at me from all angles with various blunt objects.

Here's how it all went down...

When I shuffled into the men's room, a funk kicked me in the nuts and singed my throat. I seriously had to fight passing out, like some late night trucker nodding off on the road to nowhere. Under normal circumstances, had I not bloated myself with coffee to the point where my bladder pressed against my eyeballs, I would have u-turned immediately and waited for the air to clear. Instead I pulled my shirt over my nose, a completely futile approach, and took care of business at the urinal. The impulse hit me as I washed my hands, and since it made my heart race, I went with it.

I must have unreeled half a roll of toilet paper. It barely fit into the sink, but it melded together very nicely once I soaked it with water. Over my shoulder I heard the crinkle of newspaper pages, as I shaped the mess into a soggy orb. Then, with silent 1-2-3 count, I threw a strike that splattered with a tremendous echo on the tile above the stall and bolted out of there. In my wake I heard the guy yell something like, "Mike - you prick! I'm gonna get you."

I have no clue who Mike is, but that's his problem, whoever he is. All I know is I that little incident gave me mad game, and I will finish this day (and this week) with some electricity in my veins, even if it's on an immature note.

Now back to the salt mines.

here we go again

My wife has experienced a number of ailments the past 3 months, none of which are necessarily rooted in the fact that she's carrying our second bambino. She happens to be a little over 3 months pregnant, but the ailments are sort of coincidental. Bronchitis hit her for the first month of pregnancy. A pinched nerve is the latest plague on her existence. Needless to say, she has had a rough go at it this time around, though we are both thankful that morning sickness didn't make an appearance.

Our suspicions of a bun in the oven were born on a trip to Chicago. She was about a week late but wrote it off to the onset of what turned out to be bronchitis, saying illness has induced tardiness before. She knows her cycles, so I was not about to question it. On our last day there, we checked out of the hotel and killed some time meandering around downtown. On a quick Jewel/Osco fly-by for a bottle of water, we found ourselves in the pregnancy test aisle and decided to set the table for the moment of truth. Back on the streets, near a construction site I noticed a row of portable restrooms and urged her to administer the test in one of them. Sure it was a tongue-in-cheek request, but it would have made a good story. Naturally she brushed me off and administered the test when we returned home.

The announcement was not akin to any major event. I was chasing the Jackal around the house and almost ran her over when I turned the corner into the kitchen. The Jackal giggled and tore out of there, leaving the two of us alone.

"You okay?"

"Yeah and pregnant."

Naturally we hugged, kissed, smiled -- all the motions you go through when some wonderful news hits. Truth be told, the news was a shock, and we were not prepared for it. Still, hugging it out felt right, regardless of our initial feelings.

The aforementioned bronchitis made that first month a real challenge for her and left me wondering about my ability to be a long term caregiver. Whether we want to admit this or not (and it's not like I focus on it), as husbands and wives, a time is likely to come when one of us will have to play the residential nurse role for our spouse. It's one of those vows you make, one of those things you say in your wedding ceremony that you really don't grasp at the time. During her bout with bronchitis, my wife was a full scale symphony of coughs and gasps. I'm embarrassed to admit that after a couple weeks of this, there were times, at the onset of a coughing fit, when I would look the other way and bite my lip, cringe, or roll my eyes. Or for example, if she needed me to fetch a bottle of water from downstairs, I wouldn't always tackle the task with a jump in my step, a sparkle in my eye.

What does that say about me? I struggled with this question constantly that month. On one hand it says I'm an ass. On the other, maybe it says I'm human? I mean, I don't recall the vows instructing how to carry myself when confronted with the "sickness/health" deal. Don't get me wrong -- it's not like I loathed taking care of her by any stretch or that I was enslaved by the cause. I am really just saying that after a long stretch it was a drag. The fact that she didn't ask for this illness was not lost on me either. I think much frustration is born out of wanting your wife to get better so you can feel like a normal couple again.

Here's the thing -- this was just a case of bronchitis. If it were a longer haul, I wring my hands over how I would handle it.

Sadly, I have known a handful of people who have some first hand experience with this. In one particular case, the wife, for all intents and purposes, bailed on the husband when he got his eviction notice, and he didn't have her hand to hold as he skidded out of this world. Naturally all family and friends viewed this as completely objectionable, and it was. In another instance, a husband stuck with his perpetually ill wife for close to 15 years and became an alcoholic prick in the process. This is speculation, but I think he stewed and grew resentful over the sacrifices he made until he alienated other family and friends with his hateful actions and words.

Which of these is worse? One spouse bailed; the other became a monster. From the cheap seats it's easy to judge and cast sometimes self-righteous opinions. When you're living it, paying with your grit and tears, it's a different story.

At the end of the day, we can define ourselves or let others define us. The list of adjectives that we use to describe each other can be endless. Generally speaking I guess they all add up to one inescapable description: human. Being human is both objectionable and forgivable. What a raw deal! Sometimes it makes me wish I was a dog.

In closing, I can't help noting that this might be the most morbid vessel for announcing a new baby in the cards for us. Truthfully, I am excited and so in love with my glowing wife. It's true what they say about that glow. After watching her go through 15 hours of labor, without the aid of pain medication, to bring Jack into our lives, she became my hero. It absoultely squashed any questions I might have ever had about how much sense it would make for a woman to be POTUS. Face it, guys, women are way more advanced, and we're just arm candy.

acting my shoe size

Friday night I experienced an epiphany of sorts and it's been nagging me ever since.

It was around dusk when we returned from dinner in Chevy Chase at Indique Heights -- the less hip sibling of Cleveland Park's Indique. As I pulled up to the house I saw two kids, probably 14 years old, in our front yard looking guilty as hell. When I parked they had darted across the street, up a ridiculously steep hill, into Lafayette Park. Impulsively I gave immediate chase and surprisingly scaled the hill with ease. By the time I reached the field, however, they were at least 50 yards away, and at that point I should have bailed on my pursuit. I didn't.

Instead I sprinted, in dress shoes and jeans, until the Indian food in my gut turned to fire works and my leg muscles cramped up. What was I thinking? There was no way I would ever catch them. Even if I did catch them, then what? It's not like I'm going to lay hands on them.

The truth is I admired these kids and wished I could be on their side of this chase, where I had spent so many years of my life in the wake of trouble. It occurred to me as I leaned over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air, that when I dashed into that park I crossed a threshold. I was an old man chasing his youth and failing to reel it in.

Collecting myself, I took one last look at them -- two atomic specs on the horizon, arms and legs flinging wildly -- and nodded in acceptance.