Macy B. is right - don't waste a minute

My father had many words to live by as I was growing up, but the one expression he was probably most famous* for was one he said every year to the kids at summer camp: "Don't waste a minute."

This was great advice, especially for kids trying to pack a year's worth of sexual experience into four short weeks at camp (not anyone I know, of course), and it has been words Hilary and I have tried to live by this summer as we head towards the birth of our first child.

* One of my favorite stories ever is the time I was at dinner in Philadelphia with my cousins Frank and Mary, their daughter Francie, and her college roommates. Frank asked two people at the table what it was like growing up with a famous father, looking at me and one of Francie's friends. I started blathering about whether or not my dad is actually famous (he's not), and who might consider him famous (a selection of Southern Jews and Delta employees), and the one time he was featured in the New York Times (it did have a front-page blurb, to be fair), yada yada yada. I must have talked for ten minutes, easy. Then I turned to her roommate to ask who her father was, to which she simply replied: "Dean Smith". Not much of a sports fan, my cousin.

The end of summer 2K11 coincides with the approximate date that Hilary can no longer travel long distances, so over the past month or so we have tried to take advantage as much as we could of our ability to travel free and unfettered.

Two weeks ago we went to Boston to visit my sister, who is due the day before Hilary, and her family. It was a lot of fun, and a glimpse into our relatively-near future as they have a two-and-a-half-year-old son who is a nonstop ball of energy from sunrise to sundown. I don't know how they keep up with him on a daily basis, but I guess I will freak out find out soon enough.

This past weekend we went to Austin (not to be confused with Boston), a city very near and dear to my heart but a place I really haven't gotten to spend quality time in with Hilary. We've been once together, but that was for a friend's wedding when most of our time was spoken for. Her other visit was to see her sister who lived there at the time, and they ate at Cheesecake Factory, and that's all you really need to know about it.

This was my chance to show her the Austin I knew, which is to say, OH MY GOD WE HAVE TO EAT AT LIKE FIFTEEN DIFFERENT PLACES IN 48 HOURS!

Fortunately with Hilary being very pregnant and it being a billion degrees outside (I'm only exaggerating slightly - it was 110 degrees on Saturday), eating was just about the only thing we could do. For those who know these sorts of things, we ate at El Arroyo, Kerbey Lane, Texadelphia, Guero's, South Congress Cafe, and last but not least, the Salt Lick. Kids, if you read this someday, daddy promises to take you to all of them.

Both trips were great, but the whole time I couldn't help but feel like a death row inmate eating his last meal. Is that a bit morbid? Let me put it more like this:

My last semester of college, I had the time of my life. At the same time I was completely aware that college was a special time I would miss greatly once it was over. Life wasn't going to end, it was just going to be different**. I feel much the same way now, and more and more so as our son's birth draws nearer. I am sure once we are on the other side of this thing I'll look back on this point of view and laugh, but for now it's still something I just cannot fathom. Responsibility. How can we be old enough to be ready to care for another life?

** Example - my first job in Boston it was raining one day, and I got soaked walking to work because I didn't own an umbrella. Someone asked me why I didn't have one, and I answered that when I was in college, if it rained, I just didn't go to class.

This coming weekend we are going to Jackson to celebrate my grandfather's 95th birthday, and once we come back from that we are done traveling until this baby is out.

The countdown is on, whether we are ready or not. We better make the last couple months count.

The build-up continues

Hilary at 26 weeks*

We passed 26 weeks on Friday. While there is still a good amount of time before Hilary is due, we are trying to get out in front of a few things we want to accomplish before the baby comes. And by we I mean Hilary wants them done, and I have no choice but to acquiesce because she is pregnant.

One of those things is re-painting the baby's room. On the one hand, the room is a perfectly-acceptable light blue color, typical for a baby boy (says I). On the other hand, it has sailboats as a border around the top of the room, and, well, see the previous paragraph.

So, with help from Uncle Will, we set out yesterday to repaint the room in a light yellowish-green, and despite my sister's disparaging remarks about our painting talents, I think we did a pretty decent job.

It's not totally finished yet (it's further along than the above pictures), but so far I'd say it almost looks like it wasn't done by a couple of complete idiots. Suck it, Hannah.

* This photo reminds me of those "Spot the five differences" games from Highlights Magazine and game consoles at the local pub (though their respective content is, ummm, slightly different). Here's what one of those might look like. Can you spot the five differences?

Watch what you say?

In addition to thinking about how our lives are going to change in the immediate aftermath of having a baby, I have also started contemplating what it's going to be like when our child (and future children) becomes an actual person and we have to try to shape his future behavior.

I have been thinking about what we want to teach our child - which things are important, and which really aren't.

For example: I find cursing to be perfectly acceptable. I curse slightly less than the cast of Deadwood, and I have absolutely no problem with profanity being used in any social setting. Yet seemingly, once our son reaches an age where he can parrot back the words we use, I'm going to have to start watching my language, right?

I'm not stupid; I understand why, from a social standpoint, it isn't wise to allow your six-year old to drop F-bombs with impunity. But I don't like having to pretend something is bad when I myself believe otherwise. To me, cursing is not like alcohol or drugs - there is no danger of physical harm when used improperly or in excess.

This came up the other night in a discussion at a friend's house, when I was announcing my intention that from now on, the popular new children's book Go The F@#$ To Sleep would be my baby gift of choice*.

*I'm totally serious. Any of my friends and family expecting a baby in the future, you can also expect this tome in the mail shortly. No thank you note required.

My friend maintained that she would never read that book to her child, no matter his age, whereas I would not only read it, I would relish reading it. It's amusing! He'll never know the difference, so what does it matter? I could read him Penthouse Forum letters as an infant, and as long as it helps lull him to sleep I'd consider it fair game.

Then again, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. Maybe curse words are wonderful precisely because they are illicit:



If our son never learns these words are any different, maybe he will be denied a helpful tool in his communicative box. Plus, I'd hate to deprive him of a watershed moment of his childhood - the first time you remember hearing your parents swear**.


We were in Long Beach, MS, for a friend's bar mitzvah. The hotel we were staying at was also hosting a high school math competition, which meant tons of high school students looking for mischief. At around 3:00 in the morning the phone rang, which my mom answered wearily. To the best of my recollection, this was the conversation:

Mom: "Hello?"
Caller: "Do you have any potato chips?"
Mom: "What?"
Caller: "Do you have any potato chips**?"
Mom: FUCK you. (Slams phone)

This was roughly my reaction. 

And by the way, potato chips? I guess that's what passes for a prank call at a high school math convention.

I love that memory. I cherish the fuck out of that memory. Who am I to deprive my son that kind of momentous occasion***?

*** If I had to wager, I'd say his first memory of foul language will come either from watching sports with his papa or (more likely) driving in traffic with his mama.

Regardless of the relative merit of individual terms, what I most want to instill in our son is that while words are important, it's the meaning behind them that matters much, much more.

And as long as he knows that, I'm content to allow him to exercise his first amendment rights.