I work at the University of N*rth Carlina at Chapel Hill.

If I had gone to work today I’d still be there now, hashing out methods for working with the news media on the story about the tremendous young woman, a student, and was killed yesterday.

Instead, I stayed home. Our babysitter, who’s also a UNC student, started spring break early. Trish was asked to work, so I cashed in a vacation day to spend time with Ella. I’m so glad I did. We slept late, then played with the vacuum cleaner, goofed off for a while. Ella painted the toenails of one foot blue, then wiped it all off and painted them white. I yelled at her when the toenail polish bottle tipped over onto the bathroom’s tile floor. We went to a big playground for a while, met a friend for lunch and took a nice long nap.

But every day thousands of parents wake up to the last day of their child’s life.

Of course I can’t begin to know what that feels like. I don’t want to. I knew a family once who did, and it was awful.

I told my friend at lunch that becoming a dad has been the most amazing experience in my life. I never imagined — couldn’t have imagined — how wonderful it is. I remember Trish, before I was convinced that producing offspring was a good idea, trying to put into perspective what a child means. I only knew about dogs. “If you think those dogs love you, wait until you hear your own child say she loves you.”

She was right. Hearing Ella, a little person who has, most of the time, complete trust in me, says she loves me, it’s indescribable. What did I do to deserve such loyal affection?

But the love I have for her, it’s more than satisfying, more than fulfilling. I told someone the other day that often when I’m about to laugh or marvel or just enjoy something Ella does, I have a physical feeling that I’ve never felt before. It’s like getting a sudden jolt of the chills mixed with butterflies. It happens just above my gut, and it swells into my throat. I’m glad I’m fortunate enough to recognize that feeling.

Of course, the student who was killed was and adult of 22. But she was still someone’s child.

Trish and  Iwonder, how will we ever be able to let Ella go off to camp, or to a friend’s house for a sleepover, much less leave our home and go away to start her own life somewhere. How will we resist the urge to keep her close, protect her? We will, of course.  We’re not the typoe to be helicopter parents. Probably. Maybe.

AWOL

I’ve done it again.

I’ve neglected my blog. But, I’ve spent more time with Ella and Trish.

I’m also a hypocrite. We went to the circus and spent$90 on tickets and $24 on a bag of cotton candy and a snow cone in a plastic cup that looks like an elephant.

Ella was kind enough to share her cold with me. It knocked me out for several days. I had to miss work [ awwww : ( ]

I’ll write more soon. I promise.

Three ring racket

The circus is coming to town. Are we supposed to like the circus these days?

I can’t keep up with what’s politically correct, or considered humane.

I know what’s NOT humane. Clowns.

I remember the  first clown I ever met. My grandparents took me backstage at a Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey Circus in Houston, in about 1972 or 1973. This clown was a big mutha. He towered over my grandfather. Musta been 6-2, 6-3. He was wearing the big red shoes and the goofy fro. The grandparents thought I would like to what goes on behind the curtain, I suppose, but I took a death grip onto my grandfather’s leg and didn’t let go.  The clown was a freak. And he was trying to coerce me. Maybe he just wanted to give me a balloon. But why was he wearing makeup? I remember thinking about that — why would someone want to disguise himself so thoroughly? What was he hiding? And why were they slap-happy all the time? Why were they soooo intent on making me laugh?

Then there was that episode of Fantasy Island. Remember? A little girl had a toy clown that became real and did horrible things. The show added special effects to make it scarier.  The clown was a homicidal maniacs who preyed on little kids. It’s as if clowns are their own species, something twisted and foreign. Like the Jacksons.

Anyway. Clowns are weird. Except rodeo clowns. Those guys kick ass.

Back to the circus … are they to be boycotted because of the way they treat animals? And midgets? Or do they provide a comfortable, secure life for tigers and lions and elephants? Do they give them fulfilling work and engage them in play? Or do they confine them and humiliate them with whips and chains.

Are the people who rage against the circus the same people who rage against zoos? Because I can’t get on board that protest train. Some zoos, sure, they’re horrible. The National Zoo isn’t very nice. But a lot of places now are protecting endangered animals and they’re living on acres and acres of habitat.

Ah. I did a little research. I’m totally opposed to the circus.

Do you know how much it costs? For three tickets in decent seats, plus the ticket handling fee (but if it’s paperless, who’s handling what?) and parking: $100.

That’s not peanuts … they’re probably another $10.

My day will come

I have this thing that I do. I think it’s fun. Trish at least acts amused. Most of the time. In fact, if I suspend doing it for more than a few days she thinks something terrible is wrong with me.

But it’s one of those things that’s going to come back to bite me. Like cursing. In fact, it’s very much like cursing.

Sensitivity alert: If you were offended by “Superbad” you might want to stop reading, because this thing I do is highly sophomoric. Very juvenile. However, unlike the Superbad characters, I have no illusions that it makes me cool.

All right. Here it is. I constantly turn everyday phrases spoken in our house into sexual innuendo. Or downright sexual requests. Or verbal illustrations.

For instance, we were watching the National Geographic Channel last night. There was a story about some kind of big ship that acts like a natural gas pumping station (if they’d called it that I would have had a field day!) and the voice-over dude was describing a big cable. And I said to Trish, “do you want to reel in my cable?”

Trish will tell Ella to get off the counter or the sofa or whatever, and I’ll say to Trish, “I wish you’d tell me to get off.”

Cooking provides a goldmine. “Is it hot enough?” “Oooooh, yeah. It’s hot enough for me. Is it hot enough for you?” “Would you stir this?” “I’ll give you something to stir with.” Even something as simple as, “I’m going to cook dinner,” prompts, “I’d like to cook your dinner.” Some comments, say, inquiring about whether or not I’m ready for a meal, result in a pause and a sly smirk, which has the same affect.

The garage is a pretty rich environment, too.

I’m not misogynistic. Really. I don’t objectify women. While I like Hemingway I can see the flaws in his characters and plots.

Some of the time it’s just a lot of hot air. A silly way to bide the time.

But I really do like my wife. And I enjoy our … recreational time together. It’s not just the recreation, either. It’s her. These aren’t just generic sexual pheromones going off like fireworks. These are woman-specific chemicals.

Remember how Mrs. Cunningham would tell Howard that she was feeling frisky and then run upstairs? It’s kind of like that. Happy Days meets Porky’s.

But Trish says that one day Ella will open her mouth and announce to the neighbors that “my dad says he likes to butter my mom’s bread!” Or in the middle of the grocery she’ll yell, “My dad says he loves to take my mom downtown!”

I figure I have a window of time when I’ll have to curtail the solicitous flirting. Ella is starting to come of her shell, starting to talk to people more. Pretty soon she’ll start repeating things without knowing what they mean. Thus begins the dead zone. But before long, say when she’s 13 or 14, she will know what I’m talking about and she’ll probably think it’s so gross that she would never repeat it.

And when that day comes, I’m in the clear!

Farewell to a season

It’s that time of year.

I don’t remember feeling blue last year. I must have. But I think this season it’s hit a bit harder. I don’t know why.

I’ve tried to forget it, ignore it, put it out of my mind. When that didn’t work I tried to hold on, snatching every possible minute of it.

I know it will come again. But that’s so far away. And who knows what it will be like?

With just 9 days until the Super Bowl, I’m in a football funk.

I mean, I’m really feeling ill about this. It’s been such a great season! There was Favre, a man of near mythological fame, who fell silently, coldly, in front of his football family, in the last few minutes of the NFC Championship. Peyton, who plays for teams Sony and Gatorade as much as the Colts, also, with home field advantage, failed to drive his team to victory.

The Chargers, oh, man. Theirs was a season born of sheer will. And the Giants? I never would have considered them a serious contender, but the younger Manning has performed as if he’s channeling Joe Montana, who humbly serves pie pitching the NFL Network.

Ah, the NFL Network. If not for the snow storm in Chicago, I would have missed the Cowboys rake the Packers over coals. It’s still a sham.

And if I were ever to admit to having a man crush, and I never would, because I would never have a man crush, but if hypothetically if I did have a man crush and I would admit to it, who would be a better object of envy than Tom Brady — the focus, the determination, the skill … the girlfriend.

So, oddly enough, I find myself mourning the end of the NFL season. I’m not a fantasy player. I don’t gamble. I don’t congregate with other men to drink beer and watch games. I don’t live and die by a single team’s record. So I’m a little puzzled by my condition.

I’ve tried not to neglect family time, tried not to sacrifice time with Ella for time with Ely.

And I haven’t. Not too much. When I think back, it’s only the end of the season and the playoffs that get me torqued. It’s the best of the best, the drive for a championship, when Giants are underdogs and run the NFC table, when a worn and weary Chargers team can push perfection to the brink, because it’s all about winning, and that’s all about doing your absolute best for as long as you can.

No. It’s really about play, playing a game, even vicariously, for as long as possible. It’s running until your heart pounds your chest and diving into the grass to catch a pass on your fingertips and, yes, about putting a shoulder into your opponent or reaching out and just barely catching his shoe to keep him from scoring. All from the sofa.

It’s about fun. It’s childlike, and for  a few hours a week, that’s worth holding onto.

Goodbye, football season.

Things overheard on a college campus

Into a cell phone: “I’m going to vomit.”

Among friends: “I mean, does that suck balls or what?” “Yeah, dude.”

Clearly disappointed: “He told me he had 8 o’clock classes, and I’m like, dude.”

Like, hello?: “I thought the American populace was intelligent and rational. …” “Yeah, like, no.”

Urine town

I can add this to the list of happenings that fatherhood has bestowed upon me.

Before Friday night, I never before had carried a 3-year-old out of a high school gym during a basketball game and then discovered that the child had nearly saturated her underpants, pants, socks and shoes with urine.

That explained why Ella stopped sitting and stood up in front of me as I sat on the bleacher behind her. And the sympathetic look that one mother gave me as I walked out the door.

Poor thing. It’s bad enough trying to sit in a wet bathing suit. But sitting in urine that could nearly be wrung from your pants legs?

The bad part is that I didn’t notice this for about 20 minutes. I thought she had grown tired of sitting. I did think I felt something … warm. But I thought that maybe it was because she was sweaty. ?? I know. I’m an idiot.

Before we went into the gym I told Ella that she needed to tell me if she had to use the bathroom. “No, I’ll tell my mom.” But Trish wasn’t going to meet us for more than an hour. “No, you need to tell me.” And then I asked Ella a couple of times, before she stood to escape the urine, if she needed to go. Each time she shook her head.

I’m sure she got caught up in the excitement of the game and the raucous cheerleading. But I was frustrated. And I reminded her, several times.

I hadn’t brought extra clothes, so before Trish could meet us she had to go home and retrieve a change. I didn’t think we should go back into the gym. So we waited in the school’s adjacent lunch room. Ella couldn’t even walk normally, she kept her left leg straight, as if that side had received the most pee and was heavily weighed down, or was too cold and she was trying not to let the pant leg touch her skin.

When will this phase end?

Heavy weight

A lot of what Ella says gives me a little jolt. She’s saying many things for the first time, such as, “Actually, I think I’ll go play in the rain,” and “It is obviously not an option,” and I haven’t had time to become inured. I mostly think they’re funny.

A couple of weeks ago, though, she asked a question that made me numb for a day and a half.

Trish and Ella were driving back from the playground when Ella said, “Mom, would you have a baby so I have someone to play with?”

Wow.

Trish cried. I’ve written about our chances of becoming pregnant naturally. It’s just not going to happen. The window is closed. And we’re both not entirely comfortable with fertility or implantation. We were also uneasy with adoption, a path we started down before we took that trip to Vermont.

So, it’s most probable that Ella will be an only child.

I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. That’s probably called denial. Now our cover is blown. Left exposed, Ella’s request cut into me more deeply than I could have imagined.

Ella is cueing in on this thanks to our neighbors. There are two little girls across the street that Ella loves to play with. Unlike the other two up the block, these are well mannered, outgoing, intelligent little kids. But they’re in transition, moving from Virginia. Their family is living with the dad’s parents until the family buys a house. The older girl, whom Ella likes better, just started kindergarten. The other day I heard Ella say, while she was playing by herself, “Maya, you cannot go to kindergarten any more. You stay home and play with me.”

Yeesh.

We’ve started breaking it to Ella that the girls will move soon. Their parents found a house in another small town — nearby, but not close.

I feel her pain. Really. I feel it right here, deep. I was practically an only child; my brother is six years older and was thrust into a more mature roll after our parents’ divorce. There were no kids on our street my age. I watched a lot of TV. I grew close to Cookie Monster.

But, I don’t necessarily like my brother, and there’s no guarantee we would have gotten along if we’d been closer in age. Trish makes this same point. What if we deliver a child, one way or another, and it turns out to be the spawn of the devil? That doesn’t do anybody any good. There’s practically a whole genre of Hollywood movies to back this up.

Under “typical” conditions Trish would want another baby. She’s a great mom. It’s difficult for her to see our friends, all younger than we are, having second kids. She swallows hard and puts on a good face. We wonder how some parents handle more than one, because Ella is a handful all by herself, but Trish would figure it out.

Me, I had a rough time as a dad until Ella was 2, until I could relate to her. Fat babies make me nervous. I would have a lot of learning to do, though the curve would be smaller.

Another child wouldn’t just change our whole family dynamic, it would change Ella, permanently. I think. I like Ella the way she is. What if she becomes the bad child? How much do we tempt fate? Is that what it is, fate?

No time like the present to explore the past

Yesterday I was calling around to cancel some credit cards, the ones I got as special deals — get a card, save 20%, etc. — and only used once. (Quick aside: I had three Sears cards. When I called to cancel them the oldest turned out to be my ex-wife’s account. I’m still listed as an authorized user. We divorced in 1999! I ordered a new lawn mower and a stainless steel grill. Not really. It’s a thought, though.)

I called American Express to find out where my free airline ticket is. I haven’t seen a certificate in my statement, and since I used the card for only the one required month, for slightly over the required amount, I wanted to see if they were screwing with me.

Turns out, I have TWO tickets! 50,000 points. Enough for two domestic or one international flight. I horde airline miles like a hog hording mud. I probably have three tickets with two other cards. I can’t decide where to go. Or when.

But, I have to keep the Amex account open. Which means I need to fly this year so I can cancel the card in time to avoid an annual fee.

So, I’ve probably spent, cumulatively, four or five  of the past 30 hours thinking about my birthday trip. My 40th birthday trip. My birthday is in October.

Yes. I know. I would drive Trish to drink if she weren’t a lightweight. Mostly because I bug her with questions. Should I go to the Redwood Forest? Yosemite? Should I go sit on a mountain in Wyoming? I love the West. Maybe a week in Texas, the motherland. Or I could go back to Spain. I loved it there. I feel a kinship. I feel drawn to my roots, my buried, dirty, detrital roots.

I’ll probably go, if I can build up the courage to do it alone, to Oaxaca.

Until 10 years ago Oaxaca was a funny-sounding place that most Americans had never heard of. Now it’s a major tourist attraction. It’s also where my dad was born and where his mother was born, in the 19th century, and reared during a tumultuous time of warring dictators.

Oaxaca, Oaxaca (city, state) has always been like an enchanted kingdom in a fairy tale, to me. An enchanted Mayan kingdom. My father has never wanted to return and doesn’t even like the think about it much. He talks about the European roots of his mother’s family, from Austria, allegedly. And the Spanish — Basque — roots of his father.

But Oaxaca is so mystical. Dia de los Muertos and all of that. Mole, which my mother cooked for special occasions, one of the two or three fond memories of her mother-in-law (all were recipes). Rich embroidery and pottery. Oaxaca is as enchanting as the Basque country. When I was in Spain I blended in with all the other men. I wonder what I would find in Oaxaca — little old ladies, like my Grandma, plump and short with their hair in white buns atop their heads like their own personal little clouds?

The family lore concerning Oaxaca is really rich, and unbelievable. And since my father created his life as he saw fit, I’m sure the history he’s shared is equally … fluid. My grandmother’s family were political targets and had to flee during the revolution. My oldest half-brother, who knew our grandmother best, says she was an illegitimate daughter of the Mexican dictator Diaz. But he’s usually full of shit. It’s not out of the realm of possibility, I suppose.

We took my grandmother’s name as Ella’s middle name: Esperanza. My grandmother, I’m told, was a kick-ass lady.

If I went to Oaxaca I could write a great story, maybe sell it. It’s a continent closer than Spain. But I would understand the language better in Spain, unless everyone speaks Basque. The food would probably agree with me more.

Trish says I’ll always wonder about Oaxaca until I go there.

Maybe that’s part of the appeal of avoiding it. If I don’t realize it, it can remain however I imagine it to be.

I have a little bit of time to think about it.

I’ve never been to Montana, either.

post mordem

Actually, the ironic headline isn’t accurate.

I had a great Christmas break. I didn’t go to work for two weeks. I hardly checked email.

I didn’t return to this blog.

Why? I don’t know. I needed a break. I spent more time with Ella and Trish, including a new appointment as Ella’s official tucker-in. I slept at night. I let story ideas flow in and out of my brain, and didn’t worry about remembering them. I didn’t check to see how many people were reading my blog. It was football season. I was busy building a freakin corn hole game. (look it up)

So. Why come back now? I figure it’s time. Nancy keeps nagging me about it; she’s a good friend to keep me accountable. Football’s almost over. I miss it.

Christmas morning was a blast. Ella, who turned 3 in November, understood the whole Santa concept for the first time. Her usual sleepy-eyed saunter into our bedroom was replaced by a blur of yellow footed pajamas and straight brown hair, squealing, “let’s go see what Ho Ho left! Let’s go see!”

Ho Ho left a lot. Trish and I spent very little on each other so we could equip Ella with toys. The look on her face when she saw all the presents, which Trish and I stealthily laid out on Christmas Eve, was priceless. A red wagon! Dinosaurs! A doctor kit! A blue baby! This really cool incarnation of Tinker Toys called SuperStructs that I love, and Ella likes, too.

I’ve never seen a kid so excited. I’m talking about Ella. I honestly had more fun watching her have fun that I’ve had doing anything in a long time.

The day after Christmas we drove 11 hours to Kentucky to visit Trish’s parents.

It started when I woke up at 4 a.m. to the sounds of the first rain in weeks. I checked for weather delays; Asheville and the North Carolina mountains were under a winter weather advisory, so we started an hour late. We stopped at Lowe’s to buy a tarp to cover the dadgum corn hole game, which sat on the rack on the back of my 4-Runner, under Ella’s bike.

And, 40 minutes down the road, Ella asked, “Mom, did we bring Blue Baby?”

This doll was one of only two gifts Ella explicitly asked for (the other was a blue cap).

Trish and I looked at each other. I took a deep breath, exited the highway and came back home for Blue Baby, who was in her crib beside Ella’s bed, tucked in nice and snug. What else could we do? Besides, why not? It was an opportunity to exercise my golden rule of parenting: remember what my family would have done and do the opposite.

And, hey, we were going to my in-laws. I could spare an hour and a half.