Junk in the trunk

What are you talking about Dad, there's plenty of room for luggage in there!

There are many things I never thought I would do in preparation for having a child. Taking a breastfeeding class is probably one*. Repainting a room that was already a boy color (blue) -- that's definitely one.

* We have taken two classes in preparation for childbirth/rearing, and both involved ample images of women's naked breasts. It seems to me the hospitals providing the classes expect us to be adults about it, and outwardly I try to be ... but there is definitely a part of my brain that is still directing my eyes towards them like a sniper taking aim. I may be having a child, but it's clear to me I still haven't grown up.

Cleaning out my car? I didn't think I'd do that for anyone, let alone an infant. After all, who's he going to complain to? But I'm trying to start fresh here, so I set about to clean out my Camry for the first time since I moved to Atlanta in 2004. Oh who am I kidding -- this is the first true cleaning for this car since I got the damn thing in the summer of 2002**.

**What is wrong with me, you ask? It's not just that I'm messy, or even that I'm lazy, though I'm certainly both. It's more that I am ... unaware. If I took two seconds to look at the state of my car I might have done something about it at some point, but it honestly just never crossed my mind. If someone said to me, "What are you doing to do about the mess in your car?", I'd probably stare blankly at them like they'd just asked me what's the best method for growing cherry tomatoes.

I suppose I have cleaned bits and pieces of the interior of the car over the years for the sake of my passengers, but the one area that has been almost completely untouched, save a bunch of sporting goods, is my trunk. Junk, there be in my trunk.

And what useless crap completely necessary items did I find while cleaning it out this weekend?

Take a look:

Someone's going to have to teach our son to be a man, and that someone may be me

Once I found out we were having a son, most of my time spent imagining the future focused on all of the sporting events we would go to one day.

It was only recently it dawned on me that, in addition to teaching my son to swing, kick, shoot, and pass, I'm also going to have to teach him to be a man.

Only one problem with that -- I'm not sure I know how.

Oh sure, I can teach him some of the tricks of the trade: how to play cards, how to get unlimited extra men on Super Mario Brothers, how to treat a lady*.

*And I promise I will do it in a way that is less embarrassing than the instructions my father gave me, which mostly involved ordering for my female friends at Wendy's on the way to Mississippi State basketball games.

But when it comes to the real manly stuff, I am currently feeling a bit out of my depth.

I was reminded of this fact the other night, when Hilary discovered a snake in our garage. This snake wasn't anything for Samuel L. Jackson to shout about; it was perhaps a little over a foot long and maybe a few centimeters thick. It was basically an overgrown worm.

Still, it was a snake, and as the man of the house, it was my responsibility to resolve the situation.

So I did what I always do when faced with a difficult task, be it car, home, or serpent related -- I called my dad**.

** I could have asked my mom, but I have a feeling I already knew her recommendation. One time we were driving out to camp, and she swerved -- violently -- to avoid hitting a squirrel that had just run out onto the road. Several minutes later, a snake appeared on the road. My mom proceeded to run right over it, then backed up and ran over it again. 

My dad is my safety net. And it occurred to me as I was preparing myself for man-on-snake combat, that someday my son may want to do the same thing, and I'm going to want to be able to give him helpful suggestions.

Based on my experience so far, this will consist of two simple words of advice: "Google it."***

***Which is entirely similar to my three-word medical advice: "Drink some water."

Googling has probably saved me well over $1000 dollars this year in repairs to my car and washing machine. But is it manly? I want to be my own Google, capable of providing answers without consult of the Internet. I'm just not sure how I'm going to make that happen, short of signing up for shop class at a local high school.

There is one thing I did learn from the snake-removal process though that I hope to pass along, but before I get to that let me give the play-by-play of how it went down.

My dad's solution to getting rid of the snake was to grab a big broom, then vigorously sweep the snake into the street. That seemed reasonable enough. But not knowing if the snake was poisonous (what am I, an ophiologist?), I wanted to protect myself first. I grabbed my hiking boots, then thought to get my work gloves, but realized they were in the garage. Past the snake.

Shit.

No problem though -- like MacGuyver (or at least MacGruber), I adapt. If I can't get my work gloves, I'll use the next best thing, or at least the next closest thing to me in the kitchen -- oven mitts!

Getting a good mental picture of my look? No? Ok, how about an actual picture:

Snake removal attire (broom sold separately)

Honestly, look at this poor bastard. That's your dad, kids!

Here's the thing though. It got the job done. The score read Micah 1, Snake 0, and I never let the fact that I looked like a complete imbecile slow me down, nor keep me from posting the above photo despite certain-to-follow ridicule. And that's the lesson I hope to impart to our son. If you are comfortable in your own skin, everything else can be dealt with.

Maybe I can't teach him how to build a deck, or rebuild a transmission, or grill the perfect burger (ok, that one I probably need to work on). But if nothing else, hopefully I can teach him to have self-confidence.

Google can take care of the rest.

For Your Consideration -- Thanks

If there is one trait our son (and any future children we may have) seems certain to get from his parents, it's a nasty contrarian streak. Hilary is hard to convince to do anything -- she likes to come to decisions on her own. As for me, I am always questioning why things are done a certain way, and wondering whether a better option might be available.

This is relevant to today's blog post, because I have a been stewing on something for a couple years, and I think it's finally time to spill the beans.

It is time to stop writing thank-you notes.

Have I lost you already? Bear with me. By no means am I saying I want to stop thanking people for giving me (or anyone in my family) gifts. They are certainly not necessary, but certainly ARE appreciated.

No, what I want to do is revolutionize the WAY in which we thank people for their thoughtfulness.

Let's get real here. While there are exceptions to this rule, most thank-you notes are a waste of everyone's time. In the case of weddings/bar mitzvahs/babies, there are typically so many to write that they all become boiler plate:

Dear Gift giver,

Thanks so much for the egg-slicer/fountain pen/woobie. It will really come in handy when we want to make tuna salad/stab a bad guy/figure out what the hell a woobie is. Hope all is well with you!

Love,
Gift receiver

It's poor form, but at the same time, so many do it this way that most people barely glance at the thank-you notes they receive, simply because their expectations are so low.

This may not matter too much when you are thanking people for wedding gifts, but from what we are told once our baby comes we will be short on time for everything we need to get done.

Which is why, at the risk of dealing yet another blow to our already-beleaguered postal service, I unveil my plan to the world:

Skype-you notes

Did I just blow your mind?

Here is how it works: instead of going through the motions of writing a half-hearted note that people will discard and forget immediately, we will set up a time to Skype with the people we want to thank. In this way, we can thank them for their gift in person, and, as a total value-add, they will actually get to SEE THE BABY, otherwise known as the whole reason they got us something in the first place.

That's win-win right there, people. You get the same gratitude for your kindness as before, only now you get a smiling (or, more likely, vomiting) baby instead of three or four completely forgettable sentences.

I realize the elderly not everyone is armed with the latest in technology*, so for those who don't have video Skype as an option, we will still pursue the old fashioned method**.

*Though there is probably a public library very close to your home. I'm just saying.

** Also we will do this if Hilary does not see eye-to-eye with me on this topic. But she should, because I am right.

It's the 21st century. It's time to stand up to the Stationary Industrial Complex. Technology has already allowed us to get rid of landlines, books, and having to face awkward stares at adult video stores. It can do the same for saying thanks.

Thanks.

There's still plenty of time, until there isn't

Hilary is 31 weeks pregnant now. On Saturday we went to Babies R' Us to look at car seats and changing tables, and didn't make a final decision on either. I concluded the trip with my mantra from this pregnancy:

"Don't worry Hilary, we still have plenty of time to make a decision."

This is still true, but on Saturday we both remarked that we are getting darn close to the point where we can't say that anymore.

PANIC!

It's cool though.

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.