On human bonding

Fatherhood, , ,


When we learned Erin would need a C-section to give birth to our daughter, I experienced several emotions, many tied to our original plans for natural childbirth: fear, disappointment, sadness but also a large measure of relief. Erin had been in active labor for approximately 20 hours prior not to mention the few days of contractions before that. As we were told I would accompany Abigail into the nursery while Erin was stitched up and moved into recovery, I experienced another emotion:

Selfish elation.

The way I saw it, Erin spent the last nine months in a tight bond with Abigail – though admittedly I’d been there too as we talked to her, read her stories and played music for her in utero. And since we’d be breastfeeding after she was born Erin had more built-in bonding time coming in a way I’d be hard-pressed to match. So this was my chance to play catch-up on some of that.

None of this is rational thought. But from what I understand of it this early in the process, raising kids usually means you pass the exit for Rationality more often than not as you take the off-ramp to Emotional Reaction before turning around and heading back to Rationality, wondering how you always miss that exit time and again.

In tangential defense of my baby-hoggery, I spent Erin’s entire pregnancy trying to ensure she and Abigail are both happy and comfortable (I know: “You’re supposed to, jerk.” Still.) both in general and with each other. In fact, while we were still in the operating room – with Erin still in mid-surgery – I was already taking cell phone pictures of Abigail to show Erin (“That’s our little girl! You did it!”) even before the nurses brought her over so she could look in Abigail’s eyes herself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to get in the way of their bonding. I know about postpartum blues.

But in the hospital nursery? Knowing it would be just Abigail and I before Erin and the rest of the world got involved? I was practically rubbing my hands together with glee.

I’m not proud of the self-centeredness I felt and knew those minutes would be little more than crying, staring, peeing and thrashing around. (Abigail would probably be doing that, too.) Her little eyes wouldn’t register my face and while her ears might think my voice might sound a little like the one reading her Winnie-The-Pooh a few months back, it’s not as if she’d be lying there in the nursery giving me baby high-fives now that we’d finally met.

Still, I wanted those moments and took full advantage. I sang to her, told her how Erin and I met, described where we lived, mentioned she already had a dog at home and explained she had many adventures awaiting her in the world. I reached my index finger out to her and she grabbed it. It was the most relaxed time I’ve had with my daughter since her birth and it was awesome. Mostly because I was the one receiving all the benefits. Meanwhile, she was probably thinking “Christ, it’s cold out here. And can we do something about these lights?”

Like I said, selfish.

The days since then have been wonderful, but hard. Bonding with her hasn’t been as easy either. Don’t get me wrong: there are many, many joyful moments even when it’s all unmoving silence. But keeping Abigail safe, happy and comfortable is challenging. Taking care of our daughter is like a puzzle for which we have all the pieces but no picture on the box as a guide. Do we feed her now? Or change her? Or soothe her? Or all three? And just breastfeed or breast and bottle? And I’m holding her but damnit she’s still crying so…ah ha!…if I put my left hand on her butt and right hand on her head and keep walking around the room at exactly this pace she’ll be quiet…so long as I keep moving and holding her like this. I’m like a shark parent.

And then there’s Erin who once again has lapped me in the strength and determination department what with recovering from major abdominal surgery, not getting any sleep and providing nutrition to our child among her other minor tasks. The bond she has with Abigail that I knew would develop so quickly – she was able to successfully breastfeed her before she was even out of recovery – is a double-edged sword. Yes, it means I can spend an hour trying and failing to soothe our daughter only to have Erin swoop in, hold her close for 30 seconds and watch as Abigail quiets down immediately and sighs. It also means Erin has many physical and emotional reminders of her responsibility to our daughter than I just don’t have. How she isn’t frequently overwhelmed by it all, I don’t know.

I’ve never been particularly patient and the things I like doing are often the things over which I exercise a high degree of skill. Right now, Abigail’s sleeping, gaining weight, filling her diaper and still alive. All good measures of skill. But my soothing percentage has been below average and that’s annoying. (Not to mention sleep-depriving.)

The relaxed moments I spent with Abigail in the hospital have been tough to recreate but we’re getting closer. In the try-anything-once effort that is the hallmark of new parents, today I strapped on Erin’s purple Sleepy Wrap, which looks like this and has been a surefire way to calm Abigail. I had my shirt off because skin-to-skin is supposed to be effective, too. Once I had the thing on I was glad I hadn’t ordered one for myself. I looked like I was either stretching out someone’s super-fun blouse or marching in a pirates-only gay pride parade. Of course a few minutes after Abigail snuggled into the wrap she was fast asleep.

There’s no doubt in my mind she and I will soon be thick as thieves.

In brightest day, in blackest night

Fatherhood, ,

[A quick note here: The following is a truncated account of our labor and delivery. It’s very much from my point of view. I’m sure Erin will give you her perspective at some point but just know I’m skipping some parts to get at a specific narrative. [UPDATE: Erin’s posted something here.] Also “and then Erin had another contraction” would have gotten old by about the 457th time.]

Nothing about our daughter’s birth went according to plan. The original plan, that is. But plans are about choices made based on available facts. So whatever plans you make for your life ought to have room enough for change should new facts present themselves. Since we started trying to have a kid, new facts presented themselves often:

Fact: We’re having trouble conceiving children
Choice: Go get tested; try harder

Fact: Conception difficulties solved due to trying more frequently
Choice: Start rehabbing the upstairs so we have a nursery

Fact: We prefer a natural childbirth experience through hypnobirthing
Choice: Read, read, read; go to classes; hire a doula

Fact: Erin’s now-former OB-GYN didn’t care much for hypnobirthing
Choice: Find a lovely group of midwives

[By the way, if you need a doula, let me recommend Tricia Fitzgerald, our hypnobirthing doula. She is incredible and as you’ll soon read pretty much saved me from losing my mind during delivery. Hiring a doula – and Tricia in particular – was the smartest thing we did during our pregnancy and as a first time parent it made the whole experience much less stressful. Our midwives group, West Suburban Midwives, also comes recommended by me, especially Cynthia Mason who worked with us. As a former OU student, I chalk up Cynthia’s awesomeness to her Ohio upbringing.]

All of this is just to say our birth plans changed a couple times before our due date arrived. As it is, most due dates are guarantees of a change of plans. Ours was. We were five days “late” though Erin had off and on contractions that whole time. Eventually, we got to active labor around 9pm the night before we were ended up delivering. I figured the five-minute-between mark meant go-time but the midwives and the doula know from what and what involves a dilated cervix of 4 centimeters which our five-minutes-apart contractions are no sign of at all. Instead of spiriting ourselves to the hospital we spent some time birthing at home.

As with the rest of our pregnancy, Erin takes the lion’s share of the efforts: sitting on a large rubber ball to encourage baby movement, soaking in a warm tub to relieve birthing pain, squatting in various ways to let gravity do its thing. Meanwhile, I do many supportive husband things like offer encouraging birth prompts, massage her back and fetch towels. I’m eager to leave for the hospital – we’ve had the car packed for the better part of a month – but our doula counsels us that time spent laboring at home is far better than in the hospital triage unit. I’m quiet through most of this time. I’d been running birth prompts with Erin all weekend so I’m happy to let our doula take that role for a bit. Frankly, I think Erin’s tired of the sound of my voice and could use a break from associating it with abdominal pain. Plus, my usual coping mechanism – cracking jokes – got on Erin’s nerves pretty quick. So I shut up and go for the strong, silent partner routine.

Finally, we’re consistently 2-3 minutes apart. By now it’s 4:30am and we’ve been in active labor since 9pm the night before, nevermind the four days of off and on contractions prior to this and an incident two weeks prior that had us thinking our new plan would involve a medically-necessary inducement. Long story short: We’re finally ready.

Here’s where things started to unravel. Into the car we go with Erin on her hands and knees in the back, leaning over the baby’s car seat for support. With all my thoughts and concerns on Erin, I jump in and start a very cautious 40mph down 95th street with our doula following close behind only to remember through a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled haze that I have not only forgotten to set our burglar alarm but I’ve also forgotten to lock the front door or even bother to close it at all. Yes, we were a quarter of the way to the hospital before I realized someone – anyone – could waltz right into our house.

Thinking about it a few days later, I know this was the moment when I let fear creep into my head. For months prior I’d been training myself mentally for this event, adopting Hal Jordan as the Green Lantern for my “spirit animal.” My life was about to change completely and I knew keeping my wife and unborn child safe would be too much to bear unless I could overcome fear. Jordan was called the greatest Green Lantern because of his ability to do the same. So in addition to reading books on pregnancy and a baby’s first year I’d been ritually reading Green Lantern comics for weeks and even carrying a small plastic Lantern ring as a talisman of sorts. I was up to the challenge. I’d be able to acknowledge the fear to overcome it, just like Hal.

Then I left that door open…how am I supposed to care for my wife and daughter if I can’t even close a fucking door? I can’t do this. I can’t keep my wife and child safe. I can make all the well-laid plans in the world but I can’t keep them safe…I’m going to throw up…

A frantic series of calls to Erin’s sister and mine follows before my sister says she can run over and put the alarm on. And, you know, close the front door. Problem solved inside of half an hour and the house is secure again but the fear keeps tingling in the back of my brain. Knowing how silly it seems even as I’m doing it, I quietly recite the Green Lantern oath over and over, mantra-like, to keep from barfing all over the dashboard as we arrive at the hospital and…I make a wrong turn and miss the entrance. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get it together, Scott. I turn around and park at the entrance. Our doula – who I’m now more grateful for than ever – escorts Erin into triage while I park and grab our bags. I can’t make jokes. I don’t know how to deal with all of our plans changing…

Triage presents new challenges. We labored at home, according to our plan, but based on Erin’s condition – she’s making clear “I’m about to give birth” noises and is 8-9 centimeters dilated – the nurse and our doula are saying she might not make it into the birth center. We might be giving birth right here in the triage center.

Damnit! This isn’t right, I knew we should have left earlier. We shouldn’t have labored at home for so long. This isn’t the plan. Erin needs to be comfortable, this isn’t right. The baby needs to be safe in the birthing center.

I lose it. I start crying. Not so much because of the fear – but boy is it there! – but because I look at Erin and see how amazing and strong she is. The contrast between the woman in front of me and my inner turmoil is striking.
She’s been in active labor for half a day and having contractions for days before that but she isn’t complaining, she’s focused on the goal and I realize I have married the most amazing woman in the world.

Gathering my mental faculties together for her sake, I learn we have enough time to get into the birth center and we get settled. The way everyone’s been talking about this imminent birth I assume we’re minutes away from seeing my daughter’s face but things seem to be progressing slowly. We get Erin into the bathtub to relieve some of the pressure and the midwife arrives. She checks Erin and says she’s…8-9 centimeters dialated.

And so plans change again…

We spend all of Monday morning in the birthing center trying everything we can to move the birth along. Turns out the baby’s head is pointed down but at an odd angle – there’s a term for it but I forget it now – and can’t get past Erin’s cervix. We try different positions, we try the bath again, we try reducing her cervix, nothing. Erin takes it like a champ and keeps apologizing to everyone for everything because she is from the Midwest and that is what we do. Her physical strength astounds me. I didn’t get to see Erin run the half-marathon last year but here’s the proof in front of me that she was up to the challenge. Meanwhile, the pain on her face is enough to make the fear creep back in my gut. I start crying again which makes Erin feel bad.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset, baby,” she says.

Oh nice, Scott. Give your actively-laboring wife something else to be concerned with. You’re supposed to be the tough one in this relationship. You’re the one who overcame fear, remember?

Then I feel the Lantern ring in the front pocket of my jeans. I put it on my finger. In my head I start thinking “I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…” I know this probably means I’ve gone off the deep end but I don’t care. For my wife and child’s sake, I need to recognize this fear to overcome it. I’m going to shut that fucking door now.

“I’m Hal Jordan. I am capable of overcoming great fear…”

I look at my wife and see a woman who, despite being in the worst pain of her life for the past 12 hours, can take the time to console me. I remember who I am. My eyes dry. My head clears.

Then the plan changes again. Our doula, who prefaces what she is about to say with the words “I’m the last one to suggest this kind of intervention but…” says we’ve done everything we can to labor naturally and it’s time to think about some medical assistance in the form of pitocin to move things along. Erin looks up at me and I know what she’s thinking. This isn’t how we planned for things to go. What’s this going to mean? I take Erin’s hand in mine and tell her she’s done everything she possibly could. “You’ve done everything right. You were perfect.” We remind each other that this birth wasn’t about avoiding medical intervention but was about us making the best possible choices based on the facts at hand. And the facts said it was time for some help.

At this point in the story, the pitocin should have done its job, Erin should have given birth and all should have been well. But it didn’t. The pitocin intensified Erin’s contractions but still didn’t get us any further along than 8-9 centimeters. A couple hours later our midwife suggests Erin’s body is probably too tired to give birth right now and we need to give it a break. And an epidural. Erin and I look at each other again. Not according to the plan…but we make an informed decision and say yes. As the anesthesiologist arrives Erin says to me “You might not want to watch this.”

Me: What? Just because a guy cries all morning that makes him some kind of wuss?
Erin: Well you just seem a little sensitive this morning.
Me: I’m over that now.

The epidural allows Erin to take a nap. She and the baby are still healthy so there’s no reason to rush. The doctor ups the pitocin and we wait. But nothing happens. So finally we talk and decide a C-section is the only possible option. In terms of hours spent, Erin’s labored three times over by now. She and the baby did all they could. All the same, a C-section just wasn’t in the plan. It’s the first time in days I see Erin look scared. But after all she’s been through she knows she’s up for it.

Things move fast after that. Within an hour Erin’s in the delivery room and I’m sitting beside her in an outfit that looks like I’ll be leaving immediately after for the international space station. In fifteen minutes, I see the doctor holding a quiet, purplish body and my mind flashes to the APGAR test. Quiet and purple aren’t the ideals. I wonder if…no…everything’s going to be fine. We’re safe. Seconds later, I hear a baby crying and hear someone say “She’s pinkening up.” I turn to Erin and say “That’s our girl.”

Her name is Abigail Grace. Born February 28th at 523pm. Not according to plan, but right on time.

***

It’s two days later as I’m writing this and Erin’s been asleep with Abigail dozing on her chest. We went through our first night of near-constant feedings and diaper changes. I learned what it feels like to exchange sleeping through the night for a disconnected series of naps. I’ve watched Erin and Abigail breastfeed from their first few minutes together like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. And I was reminded again of all the reasons why I love Erin and am so grateful she’s my wife. I know there will be more challenges and difficulties to come but right now everything’s perfect.

Our daughter is amazing. Watching her figure out her little world is the best. I’m not wild about hospitals and I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days but this little bunker of ours is full of love and wonderment and it rules.

As for my freakout, I’m almost glad it happened now. We had plenty of support around and it helped me make peace with something on my mind for weeks. I had to experience a taste of the fear, a bit of the poison so as to fashion an effective vaccine. Fear is just part of the plan.

Post-script: Our daughter is now four days old. One of those days involved Erin and I losing any confidence in ourselves due to bad-but-well-meaning advice and the fear of being bad parents, which I’m sure I’ll write about at some point. Luckily, we seem to have moved past that and gotten back to trusting our instincts. Everyone we’ve talked to says that mindset is better than a thousand books or tips from old vets. [UPDATE: Erin’s written about some of the difficulties of the last couple of days here.]

Tom Petty knew what he was talking about

Fatherhood

This past week, Erin’s been symptomatic of something called cholestasis. Now you could argue Erin’s been symptomatic of cholestasis for the past nine months –

SIDEBAR:
Ladies and gentlemen of Earth, there is a major conspiracy going on surrounding pregnancy. First, women are pregnant for ten months, not nine. Somewhere along the line, human behaviorists must have figured out if a pregnancy were described in double digits then it would reduce the number of people who got pregnant. So they propagated the lie of nine months. I think this also explains why no one mentions that “morning sickness” really lasts for your entire first trimester. The people behind this conspiracy use movies and television to propagate their lies but do not be fooled. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I’ve already said too much. (Except, dudes? If you play your cards right with foot massages and back rubs you can likely parlay the whole nesting thing into a new big-screen TV.)

If I do not survive, know that the Pregnancy Police have come for me in their black helicopters and ferreted me away to Room 101.
END SIDEBAR

– with the nausea, abdomen pain and digestion trouble but she also had itchy hands and feet so off for testing she went. The trick with cholestasis is the method of treatment is to treat whatever’s causing it: alcoholism, sarcoidosis, hepatitis, etc. In Erin’s case what’s causing it is her pregnancy. Treating it means making her not pregnant anymore which means inducing her and getting that thirty-nine-week little girl out of there. So the bags are packed and sitting in the car. The car seat is installed. Tick, tick, tick. Spending an entire day ready to go to Defcon 1 and…

…and then we find out it takes a week to get the results of her lab work.

I’ve tried to get my brain around this, but I can’t. The solution to the problem is to induce pregnancy but it takes a week to know if we have the problem? Shouldn’t you have an interim solution then? I have a computer that fits in my pocket but this we can’t solve?

***

People have been asking us “Are you ready?” and I answer “No. I know we’ll never really be ready to have a kid. Something’s always going to happen.” That hasn’t stopped us from trying, of course. Nor has it meant we’re leaving events solely to chance. But that thought – “Something’s always going to happen” – keeps my mind trained to accept fluidity. I don’t know how you mentally prepare yourself to assume the responsibility of not only keeping a human being safe from harm but also teaching them to live as full a life as possible. They’re just not compatible goals and I’d probably have a breakdown if I thought about it long enough. I have to assume the answer reveals itself over time.

So here I sit, occupying myself with comparatively nothing pressing. The last three weekends were flat-out sprints in the three-month race to turn our upstairs into Smith Family Central. I’m left now with to-do items of no real need like “Set favorites on car radio” and “Fix weird outlet in the living room.” I’ll likely do a couple hours of work to stay ahead during my time off. Maybe review the stages of labor or something.

***

We really thought Friday was going to be The Day. I figured I’d go to work in the morning and by noon I’d hear from Erin we were positive for cholestasis and I’d be off to the hospital. The night before I poured myself a glass of our best scotch and watched a couple episodes of “Chuck”, enjoying what I was sure would be the last moments of guilt-free selfishness for a good long while.

And then…nope.

Like that other Smith of some renown, I love it when a plan comes together. Not escaping my notice is how inducing Erin’s pregnancy means hypnobirthing and our plans for natural childbirth get tossed around a bit. We’ll still be able to use our hypnobirthing techniques and stick to most aspects of our birth plan but we’ll be getting a push – so to speak – at the start. We’ve said from the beginning that we’d do whatever we needed to do for a healthy birth for Erin and the baby. Our strategy remains the same but the execution has changed.

There’s little else to do now. We have a house, a nursery, a crib, a changing table, and many, many onesies and diapers. Our bags are packed, I know the route to the hospital and even familiarized myself with methods of “sleep training” so we might help our little girl avoid difficulties with colic. As far as I know, we’re all set.

We’re just waiting for something to happen.

(As a reminder, I’m using this space for longer, personal posts every once in a while. But I’m posting a few times a day at my Tumblr blog. Follow me there if you’re so inclined.)

Census, not consensus: Paper Machete, January 9, 2011

Politics, , , , , , ,

I was back at The Paper Machete yesterday to discuss Chicago’s mayoral race.

Every time I attend The Paper Machete, I’m stunned at the level of talent on display. I’ve been to four shows – three of which I performed at – and if there is a show which consistently showcases such an incredibly talented group of writers and musicians of greater intelligence and humor, I haven’t seen it. Christopher Piatt and Allison Weiss put this on weekly, people. WEEKLY! And it’s free. FREE! You’re missing out if you don’t give it a chance. Check out the Facebook page or their podcasts.

A couple notes on this piece: Thanks to some smart feedback from Piatt, I wrote this specifically to be read as a speech rather than as a true essay that would be read. So I’m not sure how well it works just as plain text. If it makes it into the Machete podcast, I’ll link and you’ll see what I mean. UPDATE: The recording of this piece is posted here.

Also, after I performed it I thought it came off too pro-Rahm, which wasn’t my intention (and certainly isn’t reflected in the previous Machete piece I wrote). Chicago’s neighborhoods have many needs and I don’t think a pro-business mayor is what we need right now. But that doesn’t excuse the played-out games our city’s black leaders are engaged in this year. They need to get their collective act together for 2015.

—————————————————

My friends, can I take you into my confidence for a moment? I have a confession to make.

I’ve lived in the Chicago area my whole life and in the city proper for 13 years now. I’m politically aware to the point of being able to tell you roughly how much some of the candidates had in their campaign coffers at the start of this campaign and I’m old enough to not only have been alive when there wasn’t a mayor named Daley but to have actual memories of a few of them.

But for a couple minutes last night while I was working on this piece, I had to look up how a contested Chicago mayoral election works. Isn’t that embarrassing? I’m like one of those people who don’t know there used to be a Meigs Field. Or that Lake Shore used to go around the east side of Soldier Field. Or…something else with a field.

Anyway, I don’t feel too bad for not remembering how mayoral elections work in the post-Daley era since the recent actions of Chicago’s black political leaders showed they don’t seem to remember either what with all their efforts to rally around a consensus candidate.

So just in case you too have a lack of field-related Chicago knowledge, elections in Chicago used to work pretty much how most other elections go: There was a Democratic primary and a Republican primary and the winners of each of those primaries would run against each other in the general election…and the person who was the Democrat won.

But in 1995, the Illinois General Assembly changed the law to do away with primaries in the mayoral election. To understand why they did this involves me explaining the last 35 years of Chicago mayoral political history. You’d think that with 21 of those years involving Daley in the mayor’s office that it would be pretty easy but the 13 years prior to that are a mess of Democratic white guys being so mad at black guys that they were willing to elect a lady and even a white Republican if it meant keeping a black Democrat out of the mayor’s chair. Also, there’s a really bad snowstorm involved. It’s actually really interesting but in an effort to not have us here all day, just trust me when I say the big takeaway is this: Most people think the election of Harold Washington – by the way, he was the black guy – means that in non-Daley years all the black political leaders in Chicago need to do is decide on one black candidate to run for mayor and he or she will win.

Since the four leading four candidates for mayor are Rahm Emanuel, Carol Moseley Braun, Miguel Del Valle, and Gery Chico – or to put it terms of jokes you might hear involving rowboats: a white guy, a black lady and two Hispanic guys – things should be easy-peasy, right? No. They’re uh…hardy-tardy.

See, there’s never been a mayoral election under the non-primary system when Daley wasn’t running. So there’s no real evidence to support the idea that a black candidate could win against a white challenger. Also, the racial makeup of this city isn’t what it used to be.

According to an article in the Chicago News Cooperative, the most recent census estimates available say that “whites and blacks each represent almost one-third of the city’s population, while Hispanics have held steady at about 27 percent and Asians rose slightly to comprise a little more than 5 percent of Chicagoans.”

So first of all: bad news for racist white people: You’re more of a minority than ever but still not eligible to get in on all those fat city contracts for minority-owned businesses. Also, bad news for black political leaders still partying like it’s 1989: the black population has shrunk considerably to the point where it’s no longer feasible to decide on a black consensus candidate and think he or she will be elected mayor.

Ah but not so fast, you say! Just because the city’s population splits evenly down white and black lines doesn’t mean the voter rolls do, you retort in a manner most self-satisfied! Moreover, you say, 2008 voter turnout showed only 37 percent of white people vs. 40 percent of black people and 12.86 percent of Hispanics. And finally, black turnout has always been very strong and so you say good day sir I’ll have no more of your empty punditry.

To which I say, not so fast you jackanapes! We are not just talking about any white person. We are talking about Rahm Emanuel. This is a guy who has a power base of business interests, a ton of money and a mythical persona that’s something like Jewish George Clooney-meets-Ben Kingsley’s character in “Sexy Beast.”

And if we’re just going to look at this purely in racial terms, Emanuel’s been polling well for months among blacks and Hispanics. A recent poll – taken after Braun became the consensus candidate – shows he not only has a 3:1 lead among white voters, but a 16-point lead among Hispanics, too. And here’s the kicker: Braun’s only pulling 43 percent of the black. Emanuel’s pulling 32. So he’s working all sides of the census form.

Things would be different if the black consensus candidate had more universal appeal. Or, let’s face it, was not Carol Moseley Braun. As much as I’d like to see a strong black candidate, were I to enumerate all of the mistakes Carol Moseley Braun has made since she started campaigning – or hell, even just this week – we would be here until the runoff. So I think I’ll just quote Braun’s spokeswoman – a woman who is paid to say nice things about her candidate – who this week said “Am I a little nervous when she starts to talk to people? Yes, I am.”

According to that same recent poll, Braun’s foot in mouth disease has now translated into a 41 percent unfavorable rating. Unfortunately, she also has a 91% name recognition which – according to the pollsters – means she is “a candidate with little ability to grow her vote share.”

Which is why that poll shows Emanuel leading with 42 percent of the vote, Braun with 26, Chico with 10 and Del Valle with 7.

At this point, Rahm Emanuel could change his campaign slogan to “Rahm Emanuel: Lick My Balls” and he’d still probably win.

Here’s the thing most people forget about Harold Washington: he won his first election for mayor – the most racially-charged election in the city’s history – with 20 percent of the white vote. I’ve got concerns with Rahm Emanuel as mayor when we need less of a downtown mayor and more of a neighborhood mayor. But demographically, you could argue that he – not Braun – is the candidate with broad support from all over Chicago. And that’s what it’s going to take to win from now on: not a consensus candidate, but a census candidate.

Here, now, some words about impending fatherhood

Comics, ,

There’ve been several reasons why I haven’t felt like doing any personal writing as of late, most of it having to do with what appeared to be an immovable cold front of Internet crabbiness hovering over Chicago last month, which caused several localized shitstorms. But Erin is leaving me in the dust when it comes to writing about the pregnancy so I need to get back to it.

Rather than knock myself around trying to come up with a proper piece about it all, I’m just going to sloppily jam a few posts into one. I want to apologize now for not going into appropriately significant details on all of this, especially the hypnobirthing stuff. Not doing so may jeopardize my intent in advocating for an alternative point of view but I don’t think I’m ready to devote this space to doing that just yet. (Though I’m happy to do so one-on-one via email or in person for those who want to know more.)

Reading material
This might come off as a blatant plug for work, but if you’re an expectant father or anyone who enjoys good writing, go check out Jeff Ruby’s Push blog. I’m still enjoying Brott’s books because the quiet text is soothing for someone who’s never done this before. But Jeff’s work is a perfect counterpoint due to its passion, honesty and humor. Someone give this man a book deal.

The Kid
We’re about six months in and…God, I can’t wait for this kid to get here. Not because I’m tired of Erin being pregnant but because…I am so excited to meet our daughter.

I didn’t let myself get at all excited for the First Three Months because that’s the part when things are most likely to go wrong. And even though there’s much that could still go wrong, all of our doctor’s appointments have gone well so damnit I’m excited.

We’ve been getting a lot of people asking us whether we’ve picked out a name yet. We’re telling people we’re batting around some names. Technically, this is not a lie. But we’re definitely favoring one in particular and it’s made her seem less a steadily-growing but an invisible-but-for-an-ultrasound presence inside my wife’s uterus and more a real person who already exists and has a personality and enjoys it when I read portions of Winnie-The-Pooh or the script from Superman: The Movie. (I create a narrative from the directions and do all the voices. I’m pretty proud of my Lex Luthor, in fact.)

Speaking of reading to the kid…

Hypnobirthing and doulas
There was a time in my life when I felt everything I knew about myself was wrong. Once I got past that and learned to trust myself again, I was left with both a more refined bullshit detector and a willingness to at least listen to a point of view that I might previously have dismissed.

When my wife told me she wanted to have a natural birth, I was supportive but skeptical. Erin’s what I’d admiringly call a “tough broad” but her tolerance for pain isn’t exactly Viking-like. On the other hand, I wasn’t a fan of pumping all manner of drugs into her system either and that feeling only intensified after watching The Business of Being Born. Still, when Erin mentioned hypnobirthing and a doula, I was again skeptical. Let’s be honest, if you don’t know what those words mean – and I didn’t at that time – it sounds like hippie talk.

I’ll defer to the above link and to Erin (here and here) for a more detailed explanation of what a doula does and what hypnobirthing’s about what we went through but I got on board pretty quick due to our doula’s academic bearing and matter-of-fact view of birthing. Plus, having someone who’s gone through this many, many times before and will be an advocate for us during the birth is a calming force when you’re having your first kid.

As for hypnobirthing and the classes we’re taking, I’m an evidenced-based person when it comes to the world around us and telling me “Well, that’s how it’s always been done” is a guarantee I’ll just do the opposite. So hypnobirthing – despite its basis in hypnosis – is right in my wheelhouse.

It’s also helped us to remain close as a couple, not just two people who will likely be parents in a few months’ time. Part of the process of hypnobirthing involves me reading several paragraphs of text to Erin before she goes to sleep. Not only does it help us end the day together, I think it’s also making my voice more familiar to our in utero’d child which is supposed to be all manner of good.

How we’re approaching the birth is not for everyone, obviously. But it feels right for us just as however someone else approaches birth feels right for them. And that’s all that matters.

Which brings me to…

Green Lantern
At some point during our first class, our doula said something about not apologizing when we tell the doctor exactly what we want in our birth plan (at that point, I didn’t know that’s what you call it, but that’s what it’s called). She may also have mentioned something about not having fear about giving birth or maybe a switch just flipped in my head…

And that’s when I started thinking about Green Lantern.

It’s common knowledge that I’m partial to Superman. And taking Superman as your inspiration can be good and bad. But for the purposes of going through a pregnancy and coming to grips with raising a child, there’s not a lot I’ve been able to draw from Superman. With Superman, you get certainty. But pregnancy and – if I may be so bold – raising a child doesn’t seem to carry with it a lot of certainty.

In the early days of the Green Lantern comics, it was said that Hal Jordan became the greatest of the Green Lanterns because he had no fear. In the more recent stories of the character written by Geoff Johns, it’s made clear that Hal Jordan is the greatest Green Lantern because he overcomes fear through sheer force of will, not because he doesn’t experience it.

There’s plenty of fear to experience in a pregnancy. I was fearful at various points in our first three months, wondering if we’d clear the takeoff part of our flight. A couple weeks ago I feared that maybe we we making a mistake in both of us planning to go back to work after the baby was born. I fear…well, plenty of things. But I’ve been getting through it through sheer force of will. (And the love and support of my wife who’s going through all this and plenty more, too. She is, put simply, a daily example of strength.)

So I decided to stop being afraid of having a kid or raising a kid. Because this isn’t going to be just a kid. This is going to be our kid. And our kid is going to be awesome.

That’s nothing to be afraid of.

2015 – Paper Machete, October 16, 2010

Politics, , , , ,

Been a busy and difficult month and I’m going to make an effort to get back to documenting the pregnancy as there’s been a lot to discuss. But here’s a reading I did yesterday at The Paper Machete, a live weekly magazine show (or a salon in a saloon). If you’re in Chicago’s Lincoln Square neighborhood any given Saturday at 3pm, stop by Ricochet’s for the show. It’s really a great example of Chicago’s living artistic bar culture.

This reading – about the Chicago mayoral race – ended up very much like a blog post due to the way my brain is wired to write about current events like this. So it felt right to post it here, with links. Reading it again, it reads pretty rough on Fioretti and Emanuel but that’s mainly because this is the most important mayoral race in two decades and there’s been little from either of them on issues of crime, poverty, the city budget, etc. so far. As voters, we should demand more.

—

Immediately after Mayor Daley’s September 7th announcement that he would not seek re-election, everything we thought we knew about Chicago politics seemed wrong. Early on, the city seemed destined to become a Rubik’s Cube of shifting coalitions, alliances and power structures: a campaign that wouldn’t be so much a horse race as a rodeo. Typifying this anything-goes mentality was an announcement on September 20th from Alderman Sandi Jackson that both she and her husband Jesse Jackson Jr were each considering a run for mayor…until the Sun-Times ran a story the next day that clotheslined them both with some untoward allegations.

Now, when I say “early on” consider that this happened less than a month ago but seems like such ancient history that if you ask most people what Jackson Jr. was accused of, all they’ll be able to come up with is something akin to a Google search: “Uh…Blagojevich, senate seat, blond in a bikini.”

Since then the field has narrowed considerably but there are still plenty of questions. EarlyandOften.org lists 55 candidates who, in the last month, were either circulating, considering, rumored to be considering or just wanted their name in the papers. MayoralScoreCard.com now has the field down to 12 candidates running and five circulating. Of the candidates who are running, five don’t have any cash on hand and the candidates who are circulating range from Rev. James Meeks and Sheriff Tom Dart – both of whom could cause some momentous shifts in the weeks ahead – to Carol Moseley Braun whose campaign started 262 thousand dollars in the hole so her efforts look less like running for office and more like a bake sale peddling stale Rice Krispie treats.

So with nominating petitions due in little less than a month and those early volcanic predictions far in the rearview, what on paper still seems like a potentially vibrant race is currently giving us two leading declared candidates: 2nd Ward Alderman Robert Fioretti and former Chief of Staff Rahm “Fucking” Emanuel. But even these gentlemens’ campaigns could charitably be described as “still getting their shit together.”

This week, Fioretti announced that he would be out of the game for two weeks because he needed to get his tonsils out. Yes, nothing says “Ready To Lead On Day One” like an image of Fioretti ringing the nurse for some ice cream. Depending on how ridiculous things get, we might end up reading some racially-coded item in Michael Sneed’s column about how Fioretti ordered Neapolitan flavored ice cream because he’s committed to being a mayor for all the people of Chicago be they white, black, brown or strawberry.

As for Rahm Emanuel, NBC’s The Ward Room reported yesterday that the candidate sent his supporters a letter soliciting volunteers to circulate nominating petitions this weekend. The letter began: “Dear First Name.”

The funny thing is, the most interesting things about the Rahm Emanuel campaign are happening online and most of it doesn’t involve the candidate at all. Sure, Rahm’s got 29,000 Likes on Facebook and got out there early with a fancy, but familiar-looking website done up in a style that, if it were a font, would be described as Obama Hope Extra Bold, but that’s somewhat overshadowed by what’s happening on Twitter where the campaign appears to have gone through three Twitter accounts in the last two weeks, losing whatever momentum he built up each time. The lack of a definitive presence in this space means that the fake @MayorEmanuel parody account has four times as many followers as the official @RahmEmanuel account and is beating him on matters of openness and transparency as well: The real Rahm had nothing to say on the “Dear First Name” problem while the fake Rahm said “Dear First Name, Plouffe assures me that we’re going to have an actual fucking communications team in place soon. The intern is a cocktard.”

There’s even a website called rahmfacts.com and even though A) there appear to be only ten facts in total and B) they’re all true they still read as if they’re about a mythical Chuck Norris-ian political figure:

RAHM EMANUEL TELLS PEOPLE TO FUCK OFF BY SHOWING THEM THE SPACE WHERE HIS RIGHT MIDDLE FINGER USED TO BE

WE WOULD ALL HAVE HEALTHCARE IF BILL CLINTON HAD LISTENED TO RAHM EMANUEL’S ADVICE

RAHM EMANUEL REGULARLY CALLS HIS CHILDREN “MESHUGANAS”

This is all Very Exciting…and yet it isn’t. People who are true fans of democracy and reform should be more excited by a rough Chicago election than fake Twitter accounts if change is going to be less of a noun and more of a verb. Before Mayor Daley announced he wouldn’t seek re-election, it looked as if we’d get exactly that. Four long-serving Daley allies in the City Council announced they would not seek re-election and a handful of reform-minded potential candidates including Fioretti, 1st Ward Alderman Manny Flores, 32nd Ward Alderman Scott Waugespack, State Rep John Fritchey, Congressman Mike Quigley and City Inspector General David Hoffman all seemed poised to run.

While there are some hints that Rahm would be a reform candidate, specifically a meeting last month with Fritchey and an announcement that Rahm supports listing the city’s TIF slush funds in the actual budget and not in the traditional second set of cooked books, there’s been little to suggest he wouldn’t continue Daley’s pro-business, big-splash, downtown-based style of rule. Progressives from the SEIU Illinois State Council to Progress Illinois think Rahm would be, at best, a liberal moderate who supports business interests. Money equals power and the former Daley fundraiser and investment banker is toting around about $1.2 million of it right now.

All of which helps explain why Wags, Fritchey, Quigley and Hoffman all pulled a musical chairs and sat down before Fioretti even heard the music stop. This week Flores bowed out and threw his support to former Chicago S
chool Board president Gerry Chico while Congressman Luis Guiterrez declared he wasn’t running either. Ramsin Canon of Gapers Block points out Guiterrez’s announcement came on the heels of a meeting with Dart and there’s still the possibility of a black coalition forming to challenge Rahm. Some of these meetings and deals might amount to something but at this point I’ve seen more stable alliances during three-legged races at church picnics, which means we’ll have a slate of weak candidates and one very strong one. IIf recent history is any indication, Chicago will hold its nose and vote for the Daley-like Rahm because, damnit, Millennium Park is pretty even if it is for tourists and who wants snow on the streets in February?

There are many months left in this campaign but what started out as the most interesting Chicago mayoral race in twenty-three years now looks to be the least interesting race in the next five. That’s probably what Fritchey, Wags and the rest foresaw when they beat a strategic retreat. Most political strategists will tell you that having something to run against is as important as having something to run for. All the people who were rumored to be planning “reform” runs for mayor had something to run against when Daley was still in the race. Now they don’t. A few well-placed stump speeches about money for more cops on the street and the evils of TIFs and Rahm becomes the great white hope. Better for the reform crowd to bide their time now, not waste talent and treasure in a losing campaign, firm up the new coalitions, wait for Rahm to get blamed for most of Daley’s mess then swoop in after a few years and save the day.

But Canon – in the first of a series of posts titled “Modeling An Open Chicago” – argues the best way for Chicagoans to take their city back isn’t for us to wait on a new Harold Washington to lead the disenfranchised into a new coalition in 2015 but to strengthen the neighborhood-based structures that already exist and return economic development back to the neighborhoods.

Of course, this requires much more than voting. It requires attending CAPS meetings, joining local school councils or neighborhood planning associations and stepping foot inside our ward offices for more than just parking permits.

When that happens, a candidate on Twitter who sends out letters addressed to “Dear First Name” will be a leader without followers. And that’s just a guy taking a walk.

—

One last note on this piece: I realized afterward that there were workers from both the Fioretti and Emanuel campaigns in the audience, which…yeah.

UPDATE: Is Rahm Clearing The Field?

Break time

Internet

I realized last night that I need to take a break from Twitter for the weekend.

It’s been a pretty ugly couple of days in certain corners of Chicago’s online world and that’s led to a bout of intense personal stress and anger, in part because I’m too conflicted – personally and professionally – to write about any of it in detail or even do much about it right now. I love, respect and admire pretty much everyone involved, which is what really hurts. My feelings might be ill-informed by reality but after two days of watching good people tear at each other over ill-informed conclusions brought on by a lack of information I can’t help but think “If I could just get everyone together and talk this out, it would be fine.” (I’m a fixer by nature and that’s how your mind works when you’re the oldest child in a divorced family and you have a Superman tattoo on your arm.) Then an e-mail I got Friday afternoon from yet another person I admire and respect – completely unrelated to all this – almost sent me off the deep end because of how territorial it seemed over a battle that was…well, imagined.

I believe Leah Jones once said something to the effect that these electronic tools we use are just that: tools. So if the tools stop working for us, we either need to get new tools or take a step back from them and wonder if we’ve uh…got the wrong blueprints or…we took our measurements wrong? I’ve fallen into a metaphorical hole here but you get what I’m saying.

Anyway, I’m noting this here in defense of the medium. The problems of the last couple days didn’t result from Twitter or blogs or e-mail. They were the result of good people making some bad choices. And if I, Scott Smith, need to take a break from them in order to get some perspective and peace then that’s my thing. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s not Twitter’s fault* or the lead item in a NY Times trend piece about the problem of a society too interconnected for its own good.

I just need a break for a couple days.

* Although I bet I wouldn’t be feeling this way if I had New Twitter by now like everyone else for crying out loud! Seriously, who do you have to screw to get a New Twitter around here?

Comic books are for girls – Essay Fiesta, September 20, 2010

Comics, , , ,

This is the essay I read last night at Essay Fiesta at the Book Cellar in Lincoln Square. Essay Fiesta happens there every third Monday as a benefit for Howard Brown Health Center. The mission of Howard Brown is:

…to promote the well-being of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender persons through the provision of health care and wellness programs, including clinical, educational, social service and research activities. Howard Brown designed these programs to serve gay, lesbian, and bisexual persons in a confidential, supportive, and nurturing environment.

If you’ve ever felt like you had no one to talk to, had a professional or counselor dismiss your health concerns or felt marginalized by a system you thought was set up to protect you then know that Howard Brown has helped someone like you in the past.

If you want to support an organization like that or if you enjoy my work below, please consider making a small gift of $5 to Howard Brown or, if you’re in Chicago, stop in and buy something from a Brown Elephant resale shop. Proceeds from Brown Elephant help pay for the services for the more than 50% of Howard Brown clients who are under- or uninsured.

Big thanks to Alyson and Keith for asking me to read and for doing the work to benefit Howard Brown.

—-

Now that my wife and I are pregnant, there are probably more important things I should be thinking about than comic books.

Quick aside here: I’ve heard more than a few people say “Well…she’s pregnant.” I understand what they’re getting at: It’s entirely clear my wife’s doing the lion’s share of the work when it comes to our pregnancy. But “my wife and I got pregnant” is the best phrasing here. I could say “my wife got pregnant” but then it sounds, at worst, like she was fooling around on me or, at best, like it was an accident. “Yeah, Erin was watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live when Jon Hamm was hosting and then she put on that second D’Angelo record and then next thing you know…”

Also, I’m not complaining here but there’s a lot of weird stuff you have to deal with to support your partner in her pregnancy. Like sleeping next to her as she slumbers in your bed with her arms and legs wrapped around a body pillow that’s one-and-a-half times the size of you and even though you’re happy because it makes sleep more comfortable for her you start to get a little jealous of the thing and even find yourself inexplicably calling the body pillow Maurice for reasons that to this day aren’t quite clear to you…

Let’s just say it’s as much “we” being pregnant as it is “we” who are going to raise our kid. And according to the doctors that kid’s going to be a daughter so I’ve been somewhat obsessed lately with how we’re going to raise her.

Which brings me back to comic books.

Last month, I was in Brainstorm Comics in Wicker Park. I was reinstating my account, which had been on hold during a bout of unemployment. Robert, the guy that runs the place, asked what was new. I told him my wife Erin and I were pregnant. After a hearty “Congratulations!” he said:

“I know I’m going to lose you now…”

At the end of last year when I told Robert I was moving to Beverly on the far South Side of Chicago – a good 20 miles away – he acknowledged in a good-natured way that, due to distance, he might lose me as a customer and reminded me he could always mail me my comics. But I’m cheap and don’t want to pay for postage and since I’m still getting my hair cut on the north side, it’s a quick stop in at Brainstorm on the way home. Even when I put my account on hold when I was unemployed, I told him I’d be back as a regular customer and here I was.

But now I was telling him that I was about to have a kid. Though not a father himself, Robert undoubtedly knows how children alter your sense of what’s important. Perhaps in his view I might, despite all intentions to the contrary, not have the time or extra money for comics. If that was all comic books were to me then he’d probably be right. But inherent in both the content of comic books and the character of Robert’s comic book shop are things I want to teach my daughter about the world.

Ours is a house where we read the news online, watch movies via a Netflix subscription that streams into our Nintendo Wii and listen to music via a laptop or iPod. The only analog forms of mass media in our house are books and magazines and I’m reading more of the latter on an iPad these days. I’m not one of those people who thinks this means the Death of Culture because ask anyone with similar patterns and they’ll likely tell you it means they enjoy a more diverse blend of news, movies and music than they did ten years ago. I also absorb it faster than I would in analog form and for someone who often views life in terms of what he hasn’t done yet, that’s some measure of relief.

Books are a different matter, literally and figuratively. For me, books are the one form where speed is not of the essence. I like watching the left side of the book get fatter while the right side gets thinner, new accomplishments – one page at a time. The same goes double for comics; I’ve tried reading comic books on an iPad and while the best comic e-readers evoke a cinematic aura, I’ve yet to find one that coveys the scope of the best comic art or preserves the context required to communicate the ideas found in the stories.

I’ll admit here to a certain bias toward the superhero genre. Because for titles that specialize in outsize stories that often take place in the far reaches of space, superhero comics are full of characters that have a lot to teach my daughter about humanity: There’s Superman to show her the power in being different from everyone else, Spider-Man on the need for self-imposed responsibility, The Fantastic Four on the importance of family and the Justice League on what it means to work as a team and also why you should never base your home office in Detroit.

Although if she does consume a steady diet of superhero comics, there are some follow up conversations I’ll need to have with her about the portrayal of women. It’s probably going to break her heart to learn polite society will not tolerate a young woman walking around without pants.

Most of all, I want her to know that no matter what others might tell her, her options aren’t limited. A couple weeks before we learned we were having a girl, one of Erin’s relatives told us she hoped we were having a boy as she – owing largely to my fascination with all things Kryptonian – had bought us a few Superman onesies. Not missing a beat, Erin and I said our unborn child’s gender wasn’t an issue in this case as either way our child would wear the shield.

Yet even Erin – a woman who more often than not shares my point of view – said to me at lunch last month “Our daughter might like pink and Barbies” in a tone that left unsaid the words “and that’s OK” as well as “and you might just have to suck it up and deal.”

None of this should suggest I’m set on Turning Our Girl Into A Boy. I want my daughter to be free
to form her own identity, irrespective of the expectations of others, including – or especially – her father. My wish for our daughter is that she would be the human equivalent of an order in a Chinese restaurant: a little from column A and a little from Column B, becoming a well-rounded, thoughtful, multi-talented individual who’s sees nothing in terms of gender and everything in terms of territory to explore at will.

All this brings me back to Brainstorm. If it’s important to have comics in our house then just as important is the source of said comics. I’d once heard most comic book shops unfavorably compared to porn stores as many are dark, poorly-organized and everyone inside seems to be anti-social and somewhat ashamed of their habit. And if a woman enters, she’s treated as a trespasser and given sidelong glances the whole time. I’d deny that’s the case for comic book shops in total but there’s a places in my current neighborhood that is exactly that, so there’s some truth there.

Brainstorm’s never been that way and it’s almost wholly attributable to Robert who shatters every Comic Book Guy stereotype out there: he’s personable, welcoming, enthusiastic and indulgent of everyone who comes in the store, kids especially. Women are as much a presence there as the natural light fills the store. Brainstorm reflects his personality and it’s why I’ve remained a customer through seven years, four jobs and five different neighborhoods.

I’ll continue be a customer at Brainstorm for as long as it’s possible. Because when my daughter sees the inside of a comic store I want her to think “There isn’t anywhere I can’t go.”

—

Note: Sharp-eyed readers will remember that three paragraphs of the above are pulled from a previous post, “Pink.”

My "Who Knew?" Essay for 20×2 10.5

Uncategorized, , ,

20×2 is an annual event (it started in 2001) at Austin’s SXSW with some “half-year” events in other cities. Each 20×2 event asks 20 presenters to answer the same question through video, song, spoken word or some other form of expression.

Last night, I read the following at the first Chicago 20×2 event co-organized by Andrew Huff and Gapers Block and held at Martyrs’ in North Center. I was blown away by how talented everyone was at 20×2 10.5. It makes me so proud to live in a city that can host a stellar event like this. I’m lucky and honored to be counted in their number.

Each presenter was asked to create a two-minute piece that answered the question “Who Knew?” This was what I read:

—

This afternoon, my fellow presenter Claire Zulkey and I were discussing what we were going to perform tonight and I said I was still a bit adrift because I’d discarded my initial idea: reading a fictional letter from Who Knew Reputation Management Services, a company hired by a potential candidate for elected office named Ron Wellington. The letter I was reading was the result of their findings. The main reason I’d stuck with the idea for so long was I had what I thought was a great joke about the company flagging a potential trouble spot for Ron Wellington’s campaign: The fact that he’d liked a Facebook page called “Who Wants To See A Picture Of Ron Wellington’s Balls.” And the kicker was he’d created the page himself.

[By the way, if you’re paying attention, you’ve now realized this was just a cheap way to include the balls joke and still discard everything else. I’m sorry, I have a really juvenile sense of humor and I think the word “balls” is hilarious.]

Anyway, I told Claire I was having trouble coming up with an alternate idea and she suggested Googling the phrase “Who Knew” and using that as inspiration. In doing so, I found a book titled Who Knew: A Continuation of You Never Know: A Memoir which I found really impressive because I didn’t realize you could get two colons in a book subtitle.

But in trying to answer the question “Who Knew?” I kept coming back to what initially sounded like a very pompous answer: “I knew.” And by that I meant “I knew the answer to a question even though I pretended like I didn’t.”

For example, when I asked my first wife if she missed me after we’d spent a few days apart and she said “Mmmmm…no, not really,” I didn’t think I knew. But I knew.

Then when I met a woman who liked drinking Maker’s Mark and thought the word “balls” was funny, I knew. I didn’t think I knew. But I knew.

When I was at Metro and felt this really peculiar rumbling in my stomach and wondered if I should leave the show then, instead of waiting it out and hoping for the best, I knew.

Ten minutes later when I was running like hell down Addison and trying to keep from crapping my pants, I really knew.

The point is: The more you try and distract yourself, the more likely it is that you’re avoiding the answer you already know. And it’s an answer that’s as obvious as a joke about Ron Wellington’s balls.

The fall of summer

Fatherhood, , , , , ,

On Friday, I posted this on Facebook:


Some people “liked” it and others commented. My friend Megan said “There is nothing more awesome than that first time you put on jeans and a sweater without a coat. That means the weather is perfect. Ok, there are a couple more awesome things but you know what I mean.” To which I replied “And then you have a beer. And then it is perfect.” A bunch of other folks chimed in with similar sentiments.

This morning, my friend Marcus posted the following on my Facebook wall:


Leaving aside Marcus’s obvious exaggerations – worst case scenario sees spring return to Chicago in May and I spent many a joyous, sunny, warm afternoon on our back porch during my March to May layoff – I get where he’s coming from on this. The window is small. The days that call out for the beach or the pool are too few. Entire days that leave you thinking “Being outside today was great” are few in number.

And that’s exactly why I’m charging straight into fall.

I used to be a bit of a summer hater. Some of this is due to lifestyle issues; I used to hate wearing shorts and my pale, skinny body wasn’t exactly suited to temperatures and activities that exposed both to the sun or the gaze of others. Plus, when you’re a kid, summer rules. When you’re an adult, not so much. It’s hard to sit in an office and think about all the fun you could be having outside especially when you’re in clothes that are better suited to air conditioning. But last summer was a joke. It truly didn’t get acceptably warm until June and once fall arrived it felt as if the days that psychologically help you to prepare for the long winter ahead barely filled a week, much less a season.

So this year I embraced summer and didn’t complain even as the month of June dumped rainstorm after rainstorm on us and the month of August had me sweating through my button-down shirts as I walked to the train. I didn’t discover Phineas and Ferb until the mid-point of the summer but the theme song was exactly where my head was at:

(I don’t think I saw anything as poetic this summer as those first few seconds when the pages of the calendar drift off into the sun…)

I also started this summer unemployed after a work experience that taught me you can work as hard as you like at a job and it still won’t counterbalance a situation in which you’re set up to fail. I had the support of friends and family and spent that entire time hustling to find a new job. When I started work again two months later, I wondered if I’d misspent some of my time, not taking advantage of the warmth and the willingness of those around me to understand a desire to sit on my ass and do nothing but bask in a day of nothing to do. But I’m not that guy. I’m the guy who says “What are we going to do today?” And I had a great summer for it.

So I’m not celebrating the end of summer at all. But I’m also not going to mourn it either.

Fall tends to be when everything begins anew for me. Fall is when I started high school and resolved to become the person I knew I could be, not the person my junior high classmates thought I was. Fall is when I went to Ohio University after a summer of recovering from a life-threatening infection brought on by appendicitis and fell in with a group of people who became lifelong friends and gave me the chance to be a true leader. Fall is when I first fell in love. Fall is when I got married for the second, and last, time knowing full well I got it right. Fall is when we bought our house.

Then there are all of the lifestyle things about fall. Hot coffee, soup, chili and yes, scotch all go better with fall. I, like Megan, love sweaters and jeans. There’s a lot less sweating in fall and since sitting outside this past August wasn’t much fun on many occasions thanks to the humidity and the omnipresent mosquitoes, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of doing just that and enjoying all of the above.

Yes, fall means winter is coming. Winter in Chicago is rough, no question. Most years it has me cursing my existence come February. But I always consider it the price of admission for living in a city that I love the rest of the year. Of course, this year winter – February, specifically – is going to bring the birth of my daughter. So perhaps I have even more of a desire than others to dive into the next five months.

This summer taught me to embrace what’s right in front of you. As I type this I’m in our upstairs office with the windows open and a teasing breeze is gently making its way through from the open windows. I’m about to go outside and spend the better part of the next two hours tending to my lawn (which, frankly, this summer’s hot temps ravaged all to hell) then sit back and admire a job well done. This afternoon we’re going to a party with some friends. And I’m off of work tomorrow so I’ll sit on my back porch and read a book cover to cover. It’s 70 degrees outside right now and it’s supposed to be 85 tomorrow.

I don’t wish for there to be fewer days like this. I just know all the excitement and possibilities that come from putting them behind me for another year.