6/21/13 - "The Stranger"
Blogger's Note: I noticed something last post: a spike in "viewership." Of course I can't see who checks out my blog, but I can see how many views I get every week, and I'll freely admit that I check that regularly. Aside from the "likes" and feedback comments that I get (usually on the link I post on Facebook), this demographic is my success or failure assessment. The spike I got in views on "Amelia Krystyna" qualifies as a success as far as I'm concerned. Now, I'm not so vain as to not realize that many just wanted to hear the story/see the pictures /share in the excitement of a new arrival. But I've seen a spike like this once before.
"Bob Dylan and Wet Feet" had about the same number of views as "Amelia Krystyna." They are the two "Most Viewed" features I've had since starting this blog. So, if I would like a repeat of success(?), then I should examine what these two posts had in common. And it's obvious. Narrative.
When I illustrate a point or simply describe an occurrence with an actual story/event, I seem to have a more entertaining article. So, I will try to utilize this form of prose more often in future posts. I don't think you'll see it much today, because I just came to this realization yesterday; but, hopefully, next week I will have a light bulb flashing atop my balding head that I can rhetorically sketch.
Sometimes, though, I find myself just needing to rant; a blog can be a sturdy soap box. Yesterday, on one of our regular, Thursday trailblazing bike rides, my friend Jeremy flicked a nugget of wisdom my way. Balance. Leveling the scales by off-setting what I want to write with some engaging and percolating illustrations irons the sheets nicely. So, I'll put this new mantra into practice starting next week and try to oil the hinges as needed...
It cries. It's hungry. It poops.
I forgot about this part.
Wanna know a secret? Newborns aren't fun. They aren't.
They need and want and sometimes cry for no apparent reason. They are so fragile that holding them is a balance of not-squeezing-too-tight and not-holding-tight-enough. If they're not sleeping or eating, then their little mouths are rooting for food. Pacifiers are just ways of fooling them; they are temporary solutions.
And they look weird. Anybody that says, "awwww... how cute!" is either trying to be nice or employing some form of foresight that can envision what it may eventually look like. They have weird, alien eyes, strange-shaped heads, and uncontrollable limbs. That's why they're swaddled. They don't have any control over their limbs, and they might claw at their own face. The experts claim that it's to mimic the mother's womb that they're missing, but I know better.
They can cry at decibels that shouldn't be possible for something that size. And that's the frustrating part.
You know when you go to a restaurant and you hear a child screaming or crying? Ever asked yourself why that bothers you so much? I mean, if that same child was laughing hysterically at the same decibel level, I bet you wouldn't care much. You might even enjoy it. But human nature insists that if/when another human being is in distress, then we should do something. We can't relax until the problem's been exposed and alleviated.
You ever hear someone say, "Oh, sometimes you just have to let 'em cry..." Yeah. Try doing that. You can't. Not really. Maybe for a couple of minutes... but, it won't be long before that basic human instinct kicks in and you have to do something.
And... you can't relax. Even when they're sleeping. Why? Because they're so damn helpless that worry starts rummaging through your sensibilities, and then you have to go check on it. The only thing worse than it crying all the damn time is it not crying enough. Because then you think something's wrong... and you have to go check on it. What if a blanket is obstructing its breathing? What if it somehow rolled over and can't right itself? I couldn't tell you how many times I awoke in the middle of the night with a sudden, and unwelcome, burst of adrenalin that surges my heart into pumping faster, because it's not crying! The irony! So, I have to get up and check on it.
But I'm a bit lucky. Joanna is breast-feeding. Which means that most night-time hunger cries are answered by her. Bless her Polish heart.
This means that I've stepped up my duties with Roman, and I try to help how I can when it's not feeding time (which is rare.) I feel a strange mix of helplessness (when Amelia is in my arms and hungry) and relief (that, hell, nothin' I can do... here you go Joanna...)
Roman really does call Amelia "it." As in, it's crying or it wants "the bottle" (which is what he calls the pacifier.) I think he sees Baby Sister as an appliance. A very needy, annoying appliance. When she first arrived in our house, despite our encouragement, he steered clear. Lately, he's gotten around to giving her "the bottle" when she cries. He's getting there.
Joanna and I have been guilty of calling her him on more than one occasion. I guess we're just not used to having a girl in the house. We, too, are getting there.
But don't let my ranting fool you. We love her. We take turns holding her and showing her to Roman and taking pictures and kissing her cheeks. We look at that alien face and we see my nose and her lips and my forehead or her demeanor. When she's not screaming for food, she has that calm, assessing constitution that I would have to admit is Joanna's. There's magic all around her; she sees it; but, she doesn't care if you know that she sees it. And there's something funny she's thinking about, but she doesn't know how to laugh yet. She'll figure it out eventually; I suspect her smile will illuminate our whole house when it happens. And then there's her eyes. She has these little blue-gray eyes that make you want to be seen by her. They are almost mine, and they are almost Joanna's. Sometimes, when Roman is entertaining us, I see her eyes dart about. She sure does love him. She's just patiently waiting until the day she can play with him and hold his hand and pose with him.... because that's what she likes.
And so, you see, despite all of their dreadful annoyances and bitter yearnings and loud demands, they offer freely to us a great and mysterious peek into the future. And the spell they weave like ivy into our lives hugs us back.
Blogger's Note: I noticed something last post: a spike in "viewership." Of course I can't see who checks out my blog, but I can see how many views I get every week, and I'll freely admit that I check that regularly. Aside from the "likes" and feedback comments that I get (usually on the link I post on Facebook), this demographic is my success or failure assessment. The spike I got in views on "Amelia Krystyna" qualifies as a success as far as I'm concerned. Now, I'm not so vain as to not realize that many just wanted to hear the story/see the pictures /share in the excitement of a new arrival. But I've seen a spike like this once before.
"Bob Dylan and Wet Feet" had about the same number of views as "Amelia Krystyna." They are the two "Most Viewed" features I've had since starting this blog. So, if I would like a repeat of success(?), then I should examine what these two posts had in common. And it's obvious. Narrative.
When I illustrate a point or simply describe an occurrence with an actual story/event, I seem to have a more entertaining article. So, I will try to utilize this form of prose more often in future posts. I don't think you'll see it much today, because I just came to this realization yesterday; but, hopefully, next week I will have a light bulb flashing atop my balding head that I can rhetorically sketch.
Sometimes, though, I find myself just needing to rant; a blog can be a sturdy soap box. Yesterday, on one of our regular, Thursday trailblazing bike rides, my friend Jeremy flicked a nugget of wisdom my way. Balance. Leveling the scales by off-setting what I want to write with some engaging and percolating illustrations irons the sheets nicely. So, I'll put this new mantra into practice starting next week and try to oil the hinges as needed...
It cries. It's hungry. It poops.
I forgot about this part.
Wanna know a secret? Newborns aren't fun. They aren't.
They need and want and sometimes cry for no apparent reason. They are so fragile that holding them is a balance of not-squeezing-too-tight and not-holding-tight-enough. If they're not sleeping or eating, then their little mouths are rooting for food. Pacifiers are just ways of fooling them; they are temporary solutions.
And they look weird. Anybody that says, "awwww... how cute!" is either trying to be nice or employing some form of foresight that can envision what it may eventually look like. They have weird, alien eyes, strange-shaped heads, and uncontrollable limbs. That's why they're swaddled. They don't have any control over their limbs, and they might claw at their own face. The experts claim that it's to mimic the mother's womb that they're missing, but I know better.
They can cry at decibels that shouldn't be possible for something that size. And that's the frustrating part.
You know when you go to a restaurant and you hear a child screaming or crying? Ever asked yourself why that bothers you so much? I mean, if that same child was laughing hysterically at the same decibel level, I bet you wouldn't care much. You might even enjoy it. But human nature insists that if/when another human being is in distress, then we should do something. We can't relax until the problem's been exposed and alleviated.
You ever hear someone say, "Oh, sometimes you just have to let 'em cry..." Yeah. Try doing that. You can't. Not really. Maybe for a couple of minutes... but, it won't be long before that basic human instinct kicks in and you have to do something.
And... you can't relax. Even when they're sleeping. Why? Because they're so damn helpless that worry starts rummaging through your sensibilities, and then you have to go check on it. The only thing worse than it crying all the damn time is it not crying enough. Because then you think something's wrong... and you have to go check on it. What if a blanket is obstructing its breathing? What if it somehow rolled over and can't right itself? I couldn't tell you how many times I awoke in the middle of the night with a sudden, and unwelcome, burst of adrenalin that surges my heart into pumping faster, because it's not crying! The irony! So, I have to get up and check on it.But I'm a bit lucky. Joanna is breast-feeding. Which means that most night-time hunger cries are answered by her. Bless her Polish heart.
This means that I've stepped up my duties with Roman, and I try to help how I can when it's not feeding time (which is rare.) I feel a strange mix of helplessness (when Amelia is in my arms and hungry) and relief (that, hell, nothin' I can do... here you go Joanna...)
Roman really does call Amelia "it." As in, it's crying or it wants "the bottle" (which is what he calls the pacifier.) I think he sees Baby Sister as an appliance. A very needy, annoying appliance. When she first arrived in our house, despite our encouragement, he steered clear. Lately, he's gotten around to giving her "the bottle" when she cries. He's getting there.
Joanna and I have been guilty of calling her him on more than one occasion. I guess we're just not used to having a girl in the house. We, too, are getting there.
But don't let my ranting fool you. We love her. We take turns holding her and showing her to Roman and taking pictures and kissing her cheeks. We look at that alien face and we see my nose and her lips and my forehead or her demeanor. When she's not screaming for food, she has that calm, assessing constitution that I would have to admit is Joanna's. There's magic all around her; she sees it; but, she doesn't care if you know that she sees it. And there's something funny she's thinking about, but she doesn't know how to laugh yet. She'll figure it out eventually; I suspect her smile will illuminate our whole house when it happens. And then there's her eyes. She has these little blue-gray eyes that make you want to be seen by her. They are almost mine, and they are almost Joanna's. Sometimes, when Roman is entertaining us, I see her eyes dart about. She sure does love him. She's just patiently waiting until the day she can play with him and hold his hand and pose with him.... because that's what she likes. And so, you see, despite all of their dreadful annoyances and bitter yearnings and loud demands, they offer freely to us a great and mysterious peek into the future. And the spell they weave like ivy into our lives hugs us back.
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