Family
Could I Be The Next Big Mommy Blogger? (Hint: Maybe.)
Apr 10th
So waaaay back when, when I was a stay-at-home dad (which lasted about a month) I started a blog about – wait for it – being a stay-at-home dad.
Today, having had a conversation with some of the editorial staff at a certain family-oriented magazine that shall remain nameless until things are finalized, I received interest in reviving said blog so that it could be featured among their list of mommy bloggers. And obviously I’m not a mommy, but hey! I’m all about breaking the glass ceiling.
When I went back and started reading it, I found many things to laugh at, and I realized it was something I should have kept up all along.
So I’ll be reviving it, and doing my best to keep it at least somewhat current. With five kids (yes, five) this shouldn’t take much effort. If anything, it will encourage me to spend more time with them so I can mine them for good material. Which is strangely utilitarian but also awesome, because they’re great kids and I should be doing that anyway.
I’ll keep you posted on the writing opportunity if and when it materializes. Even if it doesn’t, I’m glad to get back at this. It’s a great way to commemorate the childhood of my munchkins before it slips away into the angsty twilight of adolescence.
My Wife Is Ridiculously Beautiful
Mar 22nd
Seriously. She has no idea how breathtaking she is.
Luckily, I do.
The Perception of Children in a CG World
Feb 2nd
"I'm not a real robot, but I play one on TV."
Children have always been given to flights of imagination. They love a good story, a well-spun fairy tale, a dash off into the woods to fight with unseen, ethereal foes.
But now, perhaps more than ever, Children are unable to grow up with a solid grasp of reality. Movies create such a convincing fiction in the young and inexperienced mind, that’s it’s impossible to distinguish the latest product of Industrial Light and Magic from every other mystery they have yet to experience in the larger world.
I was talking to my 5-year-old son Ivan about robots. About how it would be fun to build one, even though I don’t know how. I saw a look coming into his eyes, and it occurred to me to offer a disclaimer.
“We couldn’t make a robot like in the robot boxing movie,” I said, referencing Real Steel, which we just recently watched. “Robots like that don’t exist.”
“Why not?” He asked.
“Because they’re too advanced. People don’t know how to make them.”
“Why not?”
“They just can’t. The robots you see in movies like that, or in Transformers, they’re made on a computer. Like a video game. It’s not real. They’re not really there with the people.”
As I struggled to explain this, I realized that it was so hard simply because the suspension of disbelief presented in films in the era of photo-realistic CG is total and complete when encountered by a developing mind. This is, I think, both a good thing – it fuels the imagination and presents limitless possibilities as realities – and a bad thing – it confuses the real with the imagined in ways that confound the apprehension of the real.
Those of us who grew up in an age before Photoshop and rendering farms remember the cheesy attempts at computer-altered reality just a decade or so ago, and how hard it was to really fake something. (I remember when this is what passed for really good robot CG.) But now, even the photographs in news stories are sometimes faked, and unless you are tuned in to that sort of thing, you’re not going to see it coming. The seamless integration of dinosaurs, aliens, or 30-foot-tall robots with real actors in films makes early attempts at blending live action and animation (like Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) seem silly by comparison. For adults who suffered through Gremlins, Star Trek, The Dark Crystal, and even the Lucas-man-child-unaltered version of the original Star Wars trilogy remember making the effort to believe that what we were watching was real until we made it real. Go back, though, and watch Arnold Toht melting after looking at the Lost Ark, or Doug Quaid exploding from a space suit air leak on the surface of Total Recall’s Mars, and I challenge you not to think of the California Raisins, or even Jason and the Argonauts. There was a time when claymation was solid-state FX work.
I wonder how this will effect our kids? Their imaginations, their grasp of the possible and impossible, their disappointment when they find out that there are far fewer fantastic creatures in this world than they were led to believe.
And how will it effect their consumption of media? Their ability to be critical viewers? Will it make them more cynical as they come to realize the feast of visual lies they’ve been fed, or will they be filled with wonder, and create things we’ve never seen before?
Going Primal
Jan 28th
The title of this post is about as cliché as it gets for people doing what I’m doing. Google “going primal” and I can only imagine how many blog hits you’ll get. But I can’t think of a better word for it.
After reading about it from Tom Woods (oh look, he uses the same post title!) I decided to look into the book. It didn’t take many reviews before I realized this may really be something worth checking out. I won’t spell out the whole thing (if you want to, check out some of the articles here) but the basic premise, as I understand it, is that our bodies aren’t designed for the diet we eat in modern American life. Known pejoratively as the “Standard American Diet” (or SAD, natch!), our bodies are being cram packed with complex carbohydrates derived from grains, processed or not, and even legumes, which cause insulin spikes, increase appetite, exacerbate inflammation, and even cause conditions like heart disease and diabetes.
Going primal means going back to a diet our ancestors would have recognized. And when I say ancestors, I mean way, way back. Meat, fish, fowl, veggies, seeds, nuts, berries – hunter/gatherer stuff. And since, as the theory goes, our bodies are designed to burn fat, not carbs, all this carb eating is making us get fatter because we can’t deal with all the rapid energy sources we’re putting into our faces. It’s too much pure fuel, and we don’t need it. It’s also bad for us.
Also novel is the idea that saturated fat and cholesterol are really not bad for you, provided they’re not eaten in conjunction with massive amounts of grains. So not only should you have that steak and eggs (with yolks) that you’ve been craving, but go ahead and cook them in butter or coconut oil. Go ahead, it’s good for you.
Considering that fats play a vital role in brain function and in appetite suppression, I can tell you from experience that you don’t need to eat nearly as much as often. And when you need a boost, veggies are what you should reach for. They have the carbs you need in a way you’re meant to process them.
I’m 14 days into the program as of tomorrow. I’ve lost about 9 lbs., though the first 3 came off the week before I started when I went all crazy almost vegetarian for a week just because I was craving natural, non-jalapeno popper foods. I’ve experienced days with huge energy boosts and massive mood enhancement, and I’ve had days when I’ve been headachy and irritable as all hell. I’m walking every day for 30 minutes to an hour, and I’m also throwing in minor amounts of strength exercises, which I rarely seem to find the time or energy for. I have not yet adopted the entire fitness regimen that is part and parcel to the program, but I’m working toward it. What I like about it is that it’s attainable for someone like me.
When I say “someone like me,” I mean it. I’m a big guy, and I’ve never been very active. I have a desk job, and a sedentary life. The government says that at 6’4″, I should weigh in at about 190lbs. I can tell you from experience that 190 is way too skinny on me. My ideal weight is about 220-230lbs. That’s where I was when I started college. When I left college, I was at 245. A year after college (my first year sitting behind a desk) I was up to 275. A year after that, I hit 295. 295 is where I still am today, 8 years later. I’ve gone up (as high as 312 lbs.) and down (as low as 260 lbs.) but I’ve never consistently been able to manage weight and fitness, and much of this owes to the fact that I’m non-athletic, don’t care much for sports, and have always had very low energy levels. I used to always joke that I don’t even have a metabolism.
It’s my hope that this will finally improve, because this isn’t a diet, it’s a life change. Though much of what this way of living recommends contradicts conventional wisdom, the more I read, the more convinced I become that much of what we take for dietary and health science is actually junk science – lots of correlative relationships spun into causal assertions. By and large, this country is full of people eating “healthier” and exercising more than they ever have, and obesity keeps going up. Something isn’t working with the way we’re being told to take care of ourselves.
Time will tell how big of an impact this will have on our lives. I’m not the only one doing this – Jamie and the kids are on board too. I’m seeing changes in everyone – Jamie has seen the most drastic uptick in mood and energy – and I think it’s worth giving this process more than the initial 21 days to assess the final impact.
For my part, I do miss some of the pasta, rice, bread, and sugars, but I’m slugging along. I’m also not drinking much alcohol at all, and seem to be doing fine without it. It’s tempting sometimes, but I’ve noticed the ways in which it sets me back, so I’ll forego it and drink plain ol’ tea.
Or like this morning, I’ll have a decaf coconut milk latte. Not bad. Not bad at all.
In Memory of Gramma Emmons
Dec 13th
Photo Credit: Alicia Skojec
My dear Grandmother passed away today.
There wasn’t any doubt that this was coming. She was sick, and we all knew it, but I never had a sense of how much time she had. The cancer was spreading, I was told, but I didn’t get to see her and I kept forgetting to call. I hadn’t seen her since 2009. I wanted to go. Wanted to pack all the kids in the van and drive up to Binghamton and make her smile. I knew she’d worry – my children subsist on the kind of danger that kept her up at night – but I thought it would be worth it. I just had to make time. Had to deal with getting back on our feet, finding the right house, making the deal, moving in, getting settled. Then I’d go. We’d go. We’d make a trip out of it.
I called her on her birthday. It was last week – December 7th – and it was something I used to do every year. I’d been slipping the last couple of years, though. I’d think of her but never get around to calling. I was too caught up in my own problems, worries, obligations, whatever. These were excuses, I think. Excuses that maybe everyone makes, but excuses nonetheless.
When I talked to her on the phone, it was alarming to hear how she sounded. Tired. Weak. Her speech was slurred. I wondered about the medication she was no doubt on. Was this why? I asked her how she was feeling.
“I’m old, Stephen.” The deadpan answer held both the truth and the jest, inextricably intertwined.
We talked about the weather, and my kids. We talked about the new house. She couldn’t stop worrying about the toadstools she was sure we must have in the woods, and how there had to be some way to keep the kids from eating them. She was always a worrier, but this time it was as if the fear took on a life of its own. Try as I might to change the subject, our conversation kept coming back to toadstools. Eventually, she fell asleep.
I decided it was time. We would go after Christmas. I had time off that I hadn’t used up this year, and I was going to take it. We couldn’t go for long, but we could at least see her one last time.
Tonight, as I was getting ready to leave work, my cell phone rang. It buzzed around on the surface of the heater in my office where I had laid it, and the screen lit up. “Dad,” it said.
Gramma has died, I thought. My dad doesn’t call me out of the blue. He doesn’t ring me up just to chat. Certainly not during evening rush. I answered. He was choked up. He still hadn’t told mom.
At first, it didn’t really hit me. I was calm and emotionless as he told me. I responded with shock, and concern, but it wasn’t hitting me. Not down deep. I thought of the video I had started making as a sort of birthday gift, sitting half-finished on my computer. I had intended to finish it up over the weekend, but I got busy with other things. I scolded myself for wasting time on Sunday night. I should have worked on it then. But how could I have known? I thought I had more time.
I drove home in the dark, and prayed the rosary. I don’t pray the rosary these days. I don’t like praying it. Not tonight. Tonight I prayed the rosary for the repose of her soul, and it didn’t take any effort at all. It’s what she would have done, sitting in her chair in the living room of the house on Vine Street, pulling a wooden-beaded rosary from the small board studded with little finishing nails made into rosary-hooks, just above and to the right of the fireplace. That marble bust of Jesus would sit there, looking out over the room, spreading a sense of peace. The brass and glass fireplace screen would reflect the light from the lamp by her chair, and she’d sit there naming off intentions after she’d finished the mysteries. How many times had I sat in that living room praying the rosary with her? How many times had her home been the one place that felt safe, the one constant place I could go to after another move, another trip, another life change, and it was still the same?
I have the feel of the place in my head. The smell, the look, the sound. The feel of the front door, and the way it would stick a little bit as you opened it. The yellow walls of the living room, the dining room table with its green vinyl tablecloth and frayed linoleum, the kitchen with its faint smell of day-old black percolator coffee and propane seeping slowly from the old match-lit range top. Every detail of that house is ingrained in my memory in exactly the way that every place I’ve ever lived is not. Over and over again, I’d come to visit her, and I would be at home. When I bought our house, the one I plan to raise my children in, one of the things I loved about it is that somewhere, in the essence of the thing, it reminded me of her house.
She and I were always close. I remember the days when we lived hours away from her, and we’d come to visit. My grandfather’s strong, happy voice would fill the room as we would enter from our long trip, my grandmother would see us kids and murmur something about how sweet we were and “Bless their little hearts!” In those moments, her voice took on a bit of the drawl she’d left behind when she’d moved from West Virginia to New York.
I remember Christmases at her house, all of her kids and their kids packing into the long, narrow living room for a second round of gifts on the evening of Christmas day. Everyone would be excited for Uncle Bill and Aunt Jodie to come, because they always brought us the coolest presents. There would be food, laid out on the dining room table. In the early years, that table would get cleared off and the air hockey table would wind up on top, the fans humming as we took turns batting the puck with paddles too big for our hands. Years later, that same table made way for Grampa’s hospice bed after his last series of strokes, and it was there that I held his hand on the last day I ever saw him, and did impersonations of his Indian physician until he tapped his nose with the index finger of his working hand. “On the nose” he was telling me. If he could have grinned, I’m sure he would have.
I remember spending childhood nights in the room at the top of the stairs, the one with the Americana wallpaper and the two twin beds with the white, textured blankets and the old board games stacked high on the shelves. My brother Matt and I would lay in our beds at night and move, letting the static build and crackle until blue and yellow sparks danced through the sheets in the darkness. We’d stare at each other’s faces, obscured by the lack of light, and squeal about how we looked like aliens before hiding again under the covers.
Gramma’s house was always the most Catholic place you could ask for. Statues here and there, holy cards tucked into the frames of mirrors, a holy water font by the front door, the picture of the Sacred Heart gushing blood and water by the mirror coming down the stairs. That picture of Jesus always looked at you – looked right through you – but the look on his face was kind and loving and made me feel welcome and loved. It was the same sort of feeling she always gave, and you knew that she was genuinely happy to see you when you came. As a teenager, after Grampa was gone, I stayed with her often, laughing about the way she’d prop chairs under the handles of the doors at night to keep the bad guys at bay. I’d trip on them in the dark on the way to the kitchen to get some water or a snack, and I’d tease her that if the chairs didn’t keep the burglars out, they’d at least have a heck of a time trying to move through the house with them all piled in the doorways like that.
I used to take her to movies, and for Chinese food. She was particularly fond of lemon chicken. I paid for her to go and see Jurassic Park, and she loved it. I saw it three times that summer, but the time I remember was the time I took her.
The memories coming flooding back, all a jumble, out of order. There were the times she’d come to visit me when I was a small child, and living in the various places we moved to as my Dad got transferred from one store to another. I remember her giving me a little plastic rosary with red beads like rubies, and tape recording me as I said the prayers. She sent that tape to a nun that she knew, living in a cloister. She was so proud of me for being able to do things like that when I was so small. She would always remind me of the time when I was about three years old, and I exclaimed to her that I was “too little to say exaggerated!” Then there was the time that we used the Mr. Peanut grinder we picked up at a garage sale, and made fresh peanut butter in her kitchen. (It wasn’t very good, but I sure had fun doing it.) There was the time we went boating on the Finger Lakes, and Grampa (his eyesight failing) saw her brightly colored plaid shirt as she sat up on the bow and remarked, “Hey look, a hot air balloon!” He begged us not to tell her when he realized his mistake. We of course denied him this simple mercy, and she laughed and laughed.
I have more memories from her home and of her as a part of my life than I could possibly hope to recount. She was essential.
My oldest daughter is now the same age that I was when my Grampa died. I think of how long Gramma waited, longing to be with him. How once he had gone, the flavor simply went out of life, but she took up her cross and kept on living. Her life became, in a sense, simply an anteroom to eternity. I know we’re all supposed to live our lives like it’s our last day, but she truly had her eyes fixed on heaven, and was simply waiting her turn.
I don’t believe in canonizing people the minute that they’re gone. But that woman, more than anyone I’ve ever known, loved God. I mean really loved Him. If the things we believe in are true, and heaven is something we can really attain, then it is almost impossible for me to fathom that she won’t be there soon, if she isn’t already. Nobody I know deserves it more than her. Nobody I know has ever been more devoted. Religion wasn’t a burden for her, or a crutch, or even a particularly unsolvable mystery. Outside of the love she had for my grandfather, her Catholicism was the driving force of her existence, the thing that made her put one foot in front of the other and draw each and every breath. It was the single thing, more than any other, that gave her happiness and purpose. It was a thing that she passed on to all of us, and that we, in turn, have passed on to others.
I hope and I pray that this night, she will be with Him in Paradise. And that when she arrives, my Grandfather will be there to take her up in his arms and hold her again. I know that there is no marriage in heaven, and that the love of God and the Beatific Vision will replace all earthly loves, but I cannot for one moment fathom that there will not be a joyous reunion with the man that brought her to the sacraments, gave her eight children and I don’t even know how many grandchildren and great grandchildren, and has been waiting for her all this time. It would make me so happy to see them together again, and I have to imagine that it would make them awfully happy too.
I love you and I miss you, Gramma Emmons. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you again before you had to go.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon her.
May her soul and all the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.
Hide and Seek
Nov 15th
It was our turn.
They counted on the porch, eyes closed, squinting, their voices louder than they needed to be.
I grabbed Alex, hefted him under one arm, and sprinted as quietly as I could across the nearly grassless expanse of lawn toward the tree line. The sky was pale gray above us, the air cool but not cold, promising rain. His belly was squishy against my hand.
We hurdled the fallen tree that I had partly cut up during an experimental round with my new chain saw. I hoped that the volume of their counting would mask the scruffle of our feet through the peanut-butter colored drifts and dunes of dried leaves, cascading down the hill. There was a big tree, easily three feet in diameter, its rough bark showing rivers of contrast along a smooth trunk unbroken by the jut of branches. We dove behind it, finding cover, nestled down into the underbrush, our backs pressed against its solemn bulk. We laughed quietly and shushed each other, his tiny finger making a line across his wide, smiling mouth. I reminded him again and again to be still and not to move. Oscar, the dog, seemed likely to give us away, but he panted off when he heard the others come running. I was thankful that they didn’t yet know that to look where he was standing was a big clue on where to find their pray.
Seconds passed quickly, and then, out of nowhere, Ivan rounded on us, announcing his victory and waving his arms above his head. Next, Sophie came, and we all sat and laughed in the leaves and breathed in their dry-straw smell, and looked through the thinning branches at the glimmer of the river beyond. This was our hill now, our tree, our game to play as often as we wanted.
And for the first time in a very long time I felt as though I were a child again, filled with wonder, my eyes alight with the magical possibilities of a November forest.
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