The Trouble of Being Roman

                                                             7/5/13 - "The Trouble of Being Roman"

     Blogger's Note:  I love my job.  I really do.  But one of the biggest "con's" of working in the entertainment industry is that when everyone else is on holiday, we're working overtime.  Holidays are the busiest time of the year for casinos.  My work schedule was a little different this week to cover the increase (and much appreciated) business, thus the delay in posting my blog this week.
     Also, having time to sit at my desktop and ponder and write a blog was much easier circa 2013 P.A. (that's pre-Amelia).  There's not much time to relax these days.  Even when Amelia is sleeping or contentedly swinging, then we feel a desire to fill this precious time slot with some "Roman"-time.  I don't think he's feeling left out, as was our 2013 P.A. concerns; but, I'm putting a little effort into keeping it that way.
     And, spending all this extra time with Roman (as Joanna seems to be the primary care-giver for a breast-feeding infant girl), has given me an insight on the gears that grind in the mind of our three-year-old adventurer.  I'll share a few of these discoveries this week and explain exactly what is the trouble of being Roman...

     Roman just recently learned his first negative phrase.  It's "I don't want to."  And, actually, it comes out with an extra syllable somewhere that is hard to place but sounds a bit like "i don't wah-wahn to!"  I'm not sure where he got this phrase, but it's a bit disheartening to hear this fun-loving, carefree sponge of life hiccup a piece of trash from our mad world.  Inevitable as it was, I would choose to keep him shrouded in those twinkle, twinkle good dreams.

     On a lighter note, I do love the way he expresses appreciation.  He doesn't say "Thank you" or a Polish equivalent; he says simply, "thanks" as evidenced in this video.

     Roman is all-boy.  When we go somewhere he wants a toy of some kind to take with him.  It's either a Matchbox car or an airplane or a rocket or a bulldozer or a balloon.  We've learned to have something small for him to carry along so that he's not lugging around a giant, toy spaceship when we're shopping.  At night, when it's time for bed, Roman grabs one of these toys to sleep with.  He doesn't want a stuffed animal; he wants a giant semi-truck or a train that he wraps his arm around and "snuggles" with.  

     He loves being outside (or as he calls it in Polish:  napoli).  But he doesn't much care for being outside alone, with us watching from the kitchen window.  We have a train track that runs a couple of blocks from our house.  When a freight trains rolls through, they blow their whistle as they pass over Pines Road.  The sound frightens my son.  If I'm outside with him, he nervously looks at me and proclaims, "train!"  I smile and  try to appear light-hearted trying to affirm the harmlessness of the sound.  If he does happen to be outside alone when the train whistle sounds, he runs to the back door and tries to get in.  Our back door has one of those push-button handles that he hasn't quite mastered, so he starts banging and yelling.  One of us lets him in; I like to maintain that trust that he has for us.

     He loves water.  That boy could splash around all day long.  I take him to this spray park in Draffenville, and he runs around aimlessly just happily getting wet.  We have a kiddy pool in our backyard in which he likes to scuba dive for sunken treasure.

     He had his first Independence Day experience, and it wasn't a good one.  We got invited to a really cool 4th of July party complete with all the Americana a man could wish for:  good barbecue, cold beer, and (best of all) awesome fireworks.  We got to enjoy the first two before the fireworks started, and we discovered rather resolutely that our son doesn't like fireworks (or rather the report that inevitably follows).  So, we climbed into the van and tried to watch the show from there which worked for a while; but, when I tried to crack the windows because it was getting stuffy, he jumped into my arms screaming "it's coming!  it's coming!"  So, we left.  And that's ok, because we'll just try again next year.

     He loves bike riding with me (which is great because I like that, too).  We run what I call the Paducah Loop.  We head up Park Avenue to the start of the Greenway Trail, to Noble Park, to the new floodwall trail, to downtown, and back up Jefferson Street until we find our way back home.  Downtown, we always stop for a restroom break, and it's there he has a very important decision to make.  Do we go to Kirchhoff's Bakery for a cookie or do we hit the Ice Cream Parlor for an ice cream cone?  We ride to the foot of Broadway and slowly pedal along the Ohio River where we see ducks and boats and other children.  We come back out on Kentucky Avenue to see the train there, and sometimes go to the library or the water fountain there, and then we finally head back over to Jefferson Street for the final leg.

     Concerns over how Roman would handle a new, baby sister were rather unfounded, it seems.  Roman loves Amelia.  He was cautious around her at first, of course.  But, slowly that caution has morphed into care.  He'll sometimes "pet" her when she cries and tell her "it's ok, it's ok."  He'll kiss her forehead when we're leaving her and Joanna at home.  He'll place the pacifier in her mouth if it falls out.  And he never complains when she cries.

     Nights when I get home from work turn into a Huff-and-Puff match that becomes a contest of me "blowing him down" and then him "blowing me down."  But, while I usually huff-and-puff he usually huffs-and-huffs.  I'm not sure why he doesn't puff.  Maybe he knows something I don't.  

     And when it's time to go to sleep, he lays beside me and pulls up his sleeve.  He likes for me to lightly "scrape" my fingernails along his forearm until he falls asleep.  Up-and-down his skin until softly his eyes close and within a couple of minutes his arm softly falls to the bed.  Then, every adventure from our day becomes a plot point to his starry dreams.  I kiss his forehead and that's a wrap.

Chapter 1 - The Tea Monster

                                                          6/28/13 - "The Tea Monster"

     Blogger's Note:  I'm late.  I hate that.  Having a strict schedule, a deadline if you will, has kept me on an honest weekly schedule of blogging posts.  I know me well enough to know that if I procrastinate once then I'll procrastinate twice and that'll snowball into the inevitable end.  But this time it wasn't really my fault.  Well, not really.  You see, I'm not too computer savvy.  Yesterday, I fired up my blog, had Mason Jennings radio playing on Pandora, and sat at the keyboard ready to type away.  But when I clicked in the "composition" field, the cursor just wouldn't stay in there.  I tried this and I tried that and I got Joanna involved until.. Jeremy suggested I try uninstalling/re-installing Google Chrome.  And voila.  But, by then, half the morning was gone... and I just wasn't feeling it anymore.  So, I was going to write it last night.  But, Amelia was having a crying fit (a really epic one), and I just wasn't feeling it.
     So I'm up this morning ready to go on an idea I've been brewing over all week.  I promised last week that I was going to try and focus more on some narrative writing; and, as I was brainstorming this all week, I began to remember that lesson I was supposed to learn about not promising anything in future posts.  Because, really, there's not a story to tell on a weekly basis.  My life's not that exciting.  Amelia is still eating, sleeping, and pooping.  Roman is doing that same, ol' toddler stuff.  DJ is still in Teenage Wasteland.  And Joanna and I are hanging in there.  So, if there's a story to tell, it's not going to be from the here-and-now.
     And then I got an idea.  What if I didn't tell a story, but I told the story.  Our ""How We Met" story?  The one where I usually respond  that she was a mail-order bride, and she usually responds that "she did it for a green card."  And the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize... hey, this is a pretty good story...
     But the biggest problem was writing something that could be read in one sitting.  I think a good blog post can be read in about 10 minutes (I've exceeded that before, and it looks like I might do it again today).  There are some really fun and exciting plot points that I'm anxious to get to.  But if I try to get all the way to some of these "points" in one post, well, you'd be reading for a full hour or more...  so I had to break it down.  I began to form a mental outline and tried to connect the chronological dots with markers that might form a complete story in a way that will keep you coming back for more.
     So, I guess I need your help a little bit.  I just need your patience.  I'll try to make each post as entertaining as I can, but you'll just have to take my word.  If you promise to come back, I promise to tie this package in a nice, big ribbon by the time we reach the end.  And, the frequency?  Well, this I don't know...  I suppose it will depend on how exciting (or mundane) my current life is going.  But I promise to add another chapter at least once a month.
     Here, take my hand, step back in time with me... it's December 2006; and, at the time, I had no idea this would be the start of a story...

                                                  Chapter 1 - The Tea Monster

     "Number six!"  Matt rounded the corner, carrying a pitcher filled mostly with ice.  I didn't look up from my lemon-slicing duty; I was in the zone.  And those of us that know Matt can tell the difference between his tone of mock frustration and actual anger.  "Have you ever waited on this guy?  He's working on his sixth glass of tea..."
     "Which table is it?"  I asked still slicing lemons even though we already had plenty.  I liked cutting lemons; the repetition was a form of meditation that allowed my mind to stray from the fact that I was waiting on tables in a buffet on a riverboat casino.
     "The third two-top in the front," he replied.  I set down the knife and peeked around the corner.
     Mid-afternoon in the buffet is the slowest time of the day.  The few customers that were eating sat quietly as the sound of chattering silverware telegraphed through hushed conversations.  A stray laugh from one of the girls at the Hostess Station alleviated the trance, but not by much.
     "Oh yeah...  I remember him..."  I had waited on that guy last week I went on to tell Matt.  "I think I refilled his tea like ten times.  Just give him the pitcher..."  I joked.
     Matt dumped the ice left in the pitcher in the sink before he turned to address me again.  "That's the Tea Monster..." he explained.  Matt was known for his impressions.  He was really good, too.  He did Christopher Walken, Nicholas Cage, Smeagle (from "Lord of the Rings"), and various co-workers.  I knew he was about to do the Tea Monster... whatever the hell that was...
     He cocked his elbows back and hunched over.  His eyes began darting about like a velociraptor.  I turned to watch.  Matt's antics were always worth a smile and were sometimes peppered with something worth outright laughter.  This might be good.
     He opened his mouth and produced a sound that didn't seem human.  It came out in a loud, short burst a bit like a siren.  He closed his mouth and the sound stopped.  I stared in amazement, studying him with wonder.  I was impressed; this was the best impression he'd ever done.  He opened his mouth and exhaled the sound again.  It was really loud.  I looked around wondering if maybe it wasn't too loud...
     ...and that's when I noticed the fire alarm above his head flashing.  And while the realization that it, indeed, wasn't Matt making the sound, I was still impressed with his improvised composure to maintain the illusion that it was him.  It took a few seconds for me to process this sudden revelation before I sprang into action.  Matt was now laughing hard, content with the notion that he'd got me.  And now I was laughing as well.  But we had work to do for, after all, the fire alarm was going off.
     I walked briskly to my section to the handful of customers that remained, trying to stop laughing.
     "Sir," I began at the first table I came to, "the fire alarm has sounded.  Everyone needs to make their way to the exit."
     "My food is gonna get cold..." he replied gruffly.
     "If it turns out to be a false alarm, you'll be welcome to come back in and help yourself to another plate from the buffet," I explained.  From the corner of my eye, I could see Matt encountering similar troubles.
     "Can I get a to-go box?" the Tea Monster was asking him.
     "Sir, everyone needs to head towards the exit now," he said with a respectable amount of professionalism.  My customer was finally getting up.  The Tea Monster looked frustrated.  He gulped down the last of his sixth tea before coming to his senses, wiping his face with his napkin, and standing.
     Once all the customers were on their way to the Main Ramp, Matt and I began heading to the back towards the Employee Ramp.  The excitement of something different happening on an otherwise mundane day filled the air.  Cooks, cashiers, servers, and card dealers were briskly making their way outside as the fire alarm (which sounded exactly like the Tea Monster) continued to blare.
     Walking beside me, Matt began to laugh again.  Amid all the excitement, his laughter was infectious.  I, too, began to laugh.  The timing on that had been serendipitously perfect.  In the parking lot, everyone began to scatter to their department's preassigned location.  The buffet's was on the far corner.
     We reached our destination as the supervisor confirmed that everyone was there.  Firetrucks and ambulances began to arrive.  Over the years, there had been a handful of false alarms or minor incidents that triggered the alarm system.  We were all assuming that this was just another one of those.
     December winds whipped across the Ohio River and stung our faces.  We hunched in a circle with our arms crossed or our hands in our pockets.  In the hurry to evacuate, we hadn't had time to grab our coats, and the excitement was beginning to fade.
     Also on the backside of the parking lot, but on the other end, a group of people I didn't recognize huddled together.  They were wearing  "Visitor's" badges, and fashions that didn't appear to be local.  Many were Hispanic.  One girl in bangs was wearing a long coat and a scarf.  She was laughing along with the other strangers as they, too, seemed to be caught up in the frenzy.
     "Ok!!!  We've got the all-clear!"  someone yelled across the parking lot.  "Everyone can go back in!"
     It was, indeed, a false alarm.  I had my hands in my pockets, and I was shivering as everyone quickly began to make their way back to the warmth inside.
     I took one last look at the strangers across from me.  I didn't realize it then, but it would be the first time I saw her...
                                            (....to be continued.)

Continue our "How We Met Story":
                                           Chapter 2 - The Pollock and the Donkey

The Stranger

                                                      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.

     

Amelia Krystyna

                                                             6/18/13 - "Amelia Krystyna"

     Blogger's Note:  This post is for me.  As I stated when I started this blog, I wanted to use this as much for my personal journal as for (hopefully) the entertainment of anyone that might read it.  One of the biggest milestones of my life took place this past week, and I would like to write a record of the account as I remember it.  And, with any luck, this story might be entertaining as well.
     This week's feature is late for obvious reasons which is a bit fortunate for me.  It allows me to "double up" this week.  Having a newborn in our house has given me a million things to share and reflect on here, so having two to write this week will allow me to a) tell the story of Amelia's arrival and b) reflect on the impact she has on our household.  I'm taking this week off work, so my next entry may come on Friday (instead of the usual Thursday) before it gets back to its regularly scheduled time...

     I've been here before.  The St Louis Cardinals were losing to the New York Mets (in fact, they would go on to lose this game.)  This atrocity would stir our unborn child (just as it had Roman...) into action.  My children love the Cardinals so much that they "flipped" at the idea of our favorite team suffering defeat; and, perhaps, the Mets was/is/will be their most hated team!
     Joanna informed me somewhere around 6:30pm on Wednesday, June the 12th that she felt something.  I knew immediately what it was; Joanna isn't one for drama.  Her something was one of those early, easy contractions.  The ones that don't really hurt yet, but warn you to get ready.  So, I called mom and told her to be ready.  I said we wanted to make double sure before she started heading this way, but there was a good chance we'd need her to make her way to our house to take care of Roman (this was already the plan and we were about to put it into action).  Within thirty minutes, I had called her back and told her to get here.  Joanna's contractions were getting closer together and more intense.
     By the time mom arrived, we wouldn't waste any time.  We threw Joanna's prepared luggage into our van and headed to Western Baptist hospital.  Roman, caught in the excitement, was practicing the words "baby sister".  He looked thoughtful as we said goodbye and see you soon to him... as if he understood.  Mom was excited, but she kept it under control admirably.
     Joanna insisted I park the van rather than drop her off at the entrance.  Obliging, we walked from the parking garage to the hospital.  We had to stop twice along the way as a couple of intensifying contractions doubled her over.  A couple of off-duty nurses offered to get her a wheelchair.  Joanna insisted she would walk.
     We buzzed the nurses' station; they let us in.  A lady was nervously talking to one of the nurses.  Explaining that that was her daughter in there!  She wanted to be with her!  The nurse quoted the rules to this lady with little compassion.  Apparently, only one person is allowed in the room during a C-Section, and the girl already had someone in the room with her.   I could certainly understand and appreciate a rule such as this; I couldn't however, for the life of me, understand why this bitch of a nurse couldn't find a nicer way to say it.  Or a nicer way to ask her to wait in the "Waiting Area."  And, then Bitch Nurse addressed us...
     "You come with me," she addressed to Joanna.  "You go to the Waiting Area for now.  I'll come and get you when we're ready..."
     The Waiting Area?  What is this Waiting Area you speak of??  This is what I was thinking.  Instead of saying anything, I stood next to the Nurse's Station (which I assumed was the Waiting Area) and "waited."  This wasn't anything like it had gone when Joanna delivered Roman.  This must be a new "thing."
     Joanna and Bitch Nurse went to a room.  What happened during this time, of course I don't know.  After roughly five minutes, Bitch Nurse came out and saw me.  "Ummm.. Sir??  I asked you to wait in the Waiting Area...."
     "Oh, I'm sorry," I replied sincerely.  "I thought that meant here..."
     "I guess I should have explained it better," she said as if she knew she had already explained it perfectly well, "follow me."
     She led me beyond the buzzer door, down the hall, and to the "Waiting Room" where several other people were tiredly "waiting."  "Wait here until I come and get you..." she left.
     I didn't sit.  I paced the room; my impatience and anger growing.  Why would I, the father, be out here while my wife was in one stage or another of birthing my child?  Time was slipping, and I was missing something.  I felt certain (and I would find out later that this was indeed the case) that they were going to ascertain that I wasn't some sort of abusive husband that would black her eyes whilst she was giving birth because she couldn't pause long enough to make me a sandwich!  But surely couldn't they figure that out in five minutes or less??  They certainly could during our adventure that led us to Roman, less than that in fact.
     Thirty solid minutes passed before I had had enough!
     I went back to the buzzer door and buzzed in.  No one answered; the doors just opened.  I walked in and several nurses at the Nurse's Station looked up and smiled.  Confused, I asked, "May I go in and be with my wife?"  They looked at me with expressions of confusion and at each other.  "Umm, yeah.. I think so.. she's in that room over there..."
     I took a couple of steps in that direction when Bitch Nurse stepped out of that room.  "Can I go in now and be with my wife?"  I asked in a tone that clearly said, "I'm going in now to be with my wife."
     She responded, "well, I guess it's ok now..."
     I entered the room and didn't tell Joanna exactly what had transpired.  She didn't need anymore on her plate.  But now it was about to be a really long night.  She gripped her midsection as a contraction jolted her.  I gave her my hand to squeeze, and she nearly broke it...  the contractions had gotten really intense during my absence.
    The door opened, and a different nurse walked in.  "Hi, I'm Nice Nurse (that wasn't her name, but I don't remember it).  I'll be taking over for Bitch Nurse (don't remember her name either), because it's time for the day shift to leave and night shift to start."
     Insert a choir of angels singing HALLELUJAH!  here.
     Nice Nurse would prove to be absolutely fantastic.  I cannot help but think that somebody/somewhere tipped the scales of fate here, and I am so damn thankful for that.  I like to think Bitch Nurse went home that night to her boyfriend Biker Dude and made him a sandwich - a big loaded sandwich with the mayo spread to the edges and the crusts taken off the bread because that's how he likes it and she knows what happens when she doesn't make a sandwich the way he likes it.  And, then, as she hands him...
     Oh, wait.  Where were we?  Oh yeah....
     Joanna's contractions had snowballed.  They were VERY close together and VERY intense.  Nice Nurse informed us that this was escalating quickly.  Joanna was begging for an epidural.  But, apparently, an epidural can't be given until one bag of I.V. stuff (I think it's the same stuff that turns Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk) drips into Joanna's arm.  She explained that the anesthesiologist was on duty and ready to go just as soon as the bag was emptied.
     Time moved so slowly here.  Joanna's contractions seemed just seconds apart, and the monitor that graphed them displayed spikes that nearly touched the top of the screen.  She was begging for the epidural, and she was crushing my hand.
     After what felt like an eternity, the bag emptied.  A man smacking his chomps on gum and looking a bit like a washed-up surfer dude in scrubs promptly rolled a cart of contraptions into the room.  After a bit of negotiation, Joanna was sitting up and holding still with her back rolled to help Mr. Hubba Bubba locate the correct vertebrae to hit for the epidural.  Finally, the epidural was in.
     But something was wrong.
     A few seconds after the epidural that Joanna had received while in labor with Roman, the pain had almost completely subsided.  But she felt no change with this one.  The pain level was exactly the same.  Mr. Hubba Bubba was asserting that he'd been doing this since '86, that he was certain he "hit the right spot", and that sometimes it just takes a little more time.  But after various tests performed by him and Nice Nurse, everyone except  Mr. Hubba Bubba felt pretty damn certain that the epidural didn't take.
     He said he was going to leave and come back in a few minutes, because he had to be triple certain that it didn't take before he could give her another one.  A double dose "could be bad."
     After about thirty minutes (an eternity), he came back.
     "Well, this is a first," he insisted.  "I've been doing this since '86, and I know I hit the right spot..."
     'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' I was thinking, 'just give her another one already, ya pickle head.'
     And so he did.  After much negotiation, Joanna was sitting up and again in the right position.  He gave her another "dose."  And this one took almost immediately.
     Joanna's pain left the room like a hangover fart drifting towards an open window; she laid back and exhaled.  She closed her eyes and dozed off.
     I sat in a chair in the room.  Closing my eyes, I, too, dozed off for a few.
     Nice Nurse woke me up.  "It's time to push," she announced.
     I jerked to attention.  And while I know I was no where near the level that Joanna must have been, I felt groggy and exhausted.  I had noticed a coffee machine by the Nurse's Station when we had arrived.  Coffee just might be what I needed to kick me back into 'Operating Mode.'
     I left the room, hardly noticing that Dr. Mueller was sitting on the bed, quickly preparing for the task.  I poured myself a cup of java and grabbed a couple of packs of sugar and creamer.  I returned to the room and starting preparing the coffee.  The work was about to begin.  With Roman, Joanna had pushed for nearly 4 hours; it had been a long and grueling effort - a marathon, not a sprint.
     "Ok... push..." Dr. Mueller instructed.  I stirred my coffee and thought that Joanna would be ok if I wasn't right by her side for a couple of pushes.  I just needed to take 60 seconds for some caffeine.
     "Ok, I see her head.... push..." Dr. Mueller said.  'You saw.. wait-a-minute... her head??... do what???'.
     I left the coffee where it was and took my post by Joanna's side, her hand in mine.  Now, I could see the baby.  Suddenly, I didn't need any coffee to feel awake.
     After five pushes (and not more than five minutes), a sound filled the room.
     Some things lift our senses beyond description.  The first smell of popcorn when you open the door at the movie theatre; the shush of a salty, ocean wave receding across a sun-drenched beach; a waft of honeysuckle that strays into your path during a soft, summer stroll; the smell of rain evaporating from hot asphalt; the old-paper smell that hangs around dusky, old bookstores; and, simply, the sound of distant laughter.
     Standing high among all of these is a baby's first cry.  Now, all future cries are quite the opposite; but, that first one is a sound that defines relief in a way that nothing else can.  And Amelia was crying on her way out.
     "Now that's a first..." Dr. Mueller admitted.  She was a friendly, middle-aged woman with a calm, but commanding demeanor.  "In all my years, I don't recall ever having one start crying before she ever even got out."
     For Amelia was crying before she was even free of her mother's womb -- an omen of things to come??  I smiled to myself.
     Dr. Mueller handed me that tool that's used to cut the umbilical cord, and I obliged zealously.
     Amelia Krystyna Edwards was born on June 13, 2013 at 3:38am at Western Baptist Hospital in Paducah, Kentucky weighing in a 8 lbs. 4 oz at a length of 18.75 inches.  And she was healthy.
     She was born on the premier date of the "Man of Steel" (you know, the Superman movie?), so I suppose she's my little Supergirl.  And with a birthday like 6/13/13, I figure she'll be a little hellraiser.
     We took turns holding her and taking pictures.  I hugged my wife and told her I loved her.  And suddenly our family was +1.

The State of the Union

                                                   6/6/13 - "The State of the Union"

     Blogger's Note:  The due date is 9 days away.  I'm ready to get this damn show on the road.  In fact, it seems that this is all I can focus on lately.  I'm writing this with absolutely no direction.  No idea where I'm going with it.  I just need a filler, and the best I can come up with is...

     Roman's communication has been vastly improving over the past couple of weeks.  He's finally starting to talk.  Now, there's still some "diddly-iddly-diddly" between his words, but at least his gibberish has become book-ended by actual words.
     Which has helped us crest that Potty-Training Hill.  We've regressed just a bit on that front.  Trying to potty train a child that rarely speaks or responds to instruction has proven to be challenging.  One day Roman will be a perfect little gentleman.  He'll run to his potty, pull his pants down, and proudly go (followed, of course, by high-five's and cookies).  The next day, he'll stand in the middle of the front room (as we're screaming pleas for him to stop) and pee with no apparent concern.  We try not to admonish him for "accidents" as I'm told this is a big "no-no"; instead, we try to reward him for "good behavior."
      We've put away all his diapers (and pull-ups), because when he wears these he depends on them and won't even consider going to the potty.  Also, we've just now begun to take him places in "big-boy" underwear.  We bring a change of clothes and emergency equipment along, but we're trying to get him in the habit of using the bathroom no matter where we are.  He's just turned three, and it's past time we've wrapped up this leg of the journey.
     Often I'm asked, "so, how do you think Roman is gonna take this new baby?"  To which my response is, "I don't know.. I'm not sure if he gets it."  I really don't think Roman understands that there's a new member about to join our ensemble, but once she arrives, I suspect he will be rather jealous.  He gets all the attention now, and I'm sure he won't much care for having to share the spotlight.  Over time, however, I'm sure he'll come around.
     I find myself trying to spend more time with him; I want him to know I love him so that when Amelia arrives, he won't be as jealous.  And, of course, after she arrives, I plan on setting aside some special "Roman" time so that he'll know he's still as important as ever to me.
     Lastly, the other big challenge we're having with Roman right now is how he acts in public -- specifically restaurants.  I couldn't tell you how many times, in the pre-Roman era, that I saw some screaming-ass kid polluting the whole going-out-to-eat experience with yelling and screaming.  I'd think to myself (as we all do) '...if that were my kid...'
     And, now I have one of those kids.  Firstly, he's not that bad.  He doesn't usually do the whole screaming and yelling thing.  His problem is sitting still (don't know where he gets that).  And, well, here's the process...
     1.  Selecting the Restaurant - some restaurants are just off-limits!  Some people just don't get that you shouldn't take a toddler to a candle-lit cafè when people are trying to "shake off" the noise and distractions in their lives and get away.  We know better than that.  We don't do that.  Also, a restaurant that might be ok to take your child for lunch may not be ok to take your child for dinner.  And many are on the borderline.  A place like Apple Bee's comes to mind.  I would take Roman to Apple Bee's for lunch perhaps (and leave if he starts getting stupid), but I wouldn't take him there for dinner (because I know my child).  But, if you have a nice, well-mannered kid that knows how to shut-the-hell-up, then a place like that would be ok I think.
     2.  Getting a Table - working at a restaurant myself, I hate when people "demand" a table.  But, with a toddler, having the right location can be key.  A booth is preferable as we can "trap" our child inside.  I always request politely and offer to wait patiently if I need to.
     3.  Distracting the Little Asshole - have something for him/her to do.  Colors (some restaurants even offer them), a cell phone (electronic device) to play with/watch movies, and small toys can save your ever-loving life.
     4.  Food - Get the Little Asshole's food first.  A hungry kid is a screaming kid.  Getting him fed quickly can change the entire outcome.  Also, after he's eaten, the blood-flow to the brain lessens making him a bit groggy and this can relax him.  With a generous amount of fairy-dust luck, he might even fall asleep.
     5.  Discipline - Now when the Little Asshole starts acting up is when things get complicated.  You can't sit there and let him/her disrupt the entire restaurant, so you have to do something.  What-that-is exactly, I'm not sure.  (Option 1) - Warn him/her that trouble is on its way - this usually doesn't work, but it's still always the first step.  (Option 2) - Spank him/her.  A good open-palm swat on the hind-end can sometimes get the attention of the Little Asshole.  Sometimes (but rarely) this works.  But you have to endure the stares and remarks from Miss Goody Two-Shoes that's eating at the table next to you --  (...and I don't know what she's eating exactly, but it looks like shit).  (Option 3) - Take him/her to the bathroom.  If all the above fails, take him/her to the bathroom and proceed to beat your child to a bloody pulp.  Make sure that the electric hand dryer is on to muffle the sounds and then lock the door.  The problem with this option is the time it takes for your child to regain composure.  Suddenly, the Little Asshole is yelling, screaming, and crying even worse than he/she was to begin with...  and, Miss Goody Two-Shoes will have her cell phone camera ready-and-waiting with a certain YouTube hit when you finally leave the restroom.  (...now, in case anyone is wondering, I'm playing.  I don't "beat" my child -- just to be perfectly clear, the most Roman has ever received from me is a couple of open palm swats that hurt me worse than it did him...)
     6.  Leave - Finally, once you've ascertained that nothing else is going to work, you have to leave.  Unfortunately this is the step that I believe most people fail to follow; if your child is beyond discipline (and it happens to the best of us), then leave.  Otherwise, you're ruining the experience for other people that have paid for a good meal and a nice ambiance.  One parent takes the child to the car while the other parent grabs some to-go boxes, pays the tab, and tips the server double of what you normally would (at least that's what i do, because I'm in the business...)
     So, anyway, that's all I got this week....  c'mon Amelia.. Daddy's tired of waiting...
     

Are You Ready For This?

                                                   5/30/13 - "Are You Ready For This"

     We're in the red zone.  With the due date (June 15th) just a couple of weeks away, the whistle could blow just any time now.  We've got everything all ready to go here; our bags are packed; and, anxiety has rented a room in my head.
     And you know what?  I'm ready!  I really am.  With Roman, I was a just a bundle of nerves; and with DJ, I just didn't know what to expect.  But this time, I'm anxious.  I'm ready to get this show on the road, and I can't wait to hold this new life in my arms.  I feel like everything we've done thus far is just a series of trailers and commercials until our last cast member arrives and the curtains are opened.  And then, the feature presentation (please silent or turn off your cell phones) begins.
     Now, I really hope I'm not putting the cart before the horse.  First and foremost, I want Joanna's and Amelia's health to be all right; but, assuming that much, I want to get this party started...
     Now, I'm 39-going-on-40, and sometimes I hear from friends or family that same old, song and dance, "Are you crazy?  At your age, you should be moving your kids out of the house about now not making new ones!"  And I hear what they're saying...
     But I don't agree.  If 30 is the new 20, then 40 is the new 30 and y > x / z = alpha..  i plugged in all the variables with very accurate numbers, and the result is easily that "now's the time."  Everyone is different; and, I'd strongly encourage anyone to consider all the factors before proceeding; but, the bottom line is that no one should be thinking about having a child until they're done with their own childhood first.  And this is different for everyone.  I, personally, have always been in the back of the line when it comes to maturity.  I was always the class clown in school; I spent most of my twenties clubbing or partying; and, I don't think I deserve a blue ribbon for being a responsible parent to DJ until he was about 8 (and I regret that.)
     Now, my frame of mind is very different...  let me explain....

     Every year, during the week that follows Memorial Day, a good friend of ours, Tara, has one of the most epic parties on the planet.  She has this amazing house with this amazing pool surrounded by amazing people that are drinking beer or wine or vodka... ...and every moment is just loaded with some you-don't-wanna-miss-this shenanigans.
     This year, I was scheduled to work the day of the party; I still could have dropped by after I got off my shift as the party usually runs into the wee hours of the morning.  But, with Joanna being pregnant in the "red zone", I figured I'd probably better play Mr. Responsible.
     A couple of days before the party, a co-worker approached me and asked, "So, you going to the party?"
     To which I promptly responded, "oh yeah... we'll be there."

     After this person walked away, I listened to the echo of the message and realized, 'oh wait!  I wasn't talking about Tara's Pool Party!  I was talking about Hannah's birthday party!'

Hannah turns 2

     For Hannah's parents, our good friends Amy and Neil, would be throwing a party for their daughter's second birthday just a day after Tara's pool party.  Joanna and I had planned on going.
     Which I present as evidence to my frame of mind right now.
     Tucked away off of Joppa Highway, modestly nestled on a riverside hilltop, a little piece of heaven humbly sits.  Regal trees dangle tire swings from their arms and gently sway them in a spirited breeze.  Jazz from a Louis Armstrong era cheerfully tickles our senses as we sip on lemonade and rock away the day on a chain swing.  The children scream and laugh with the dogs, running through the sprinklers with casual abandon as their bare feet are cushioned by a soft carpet of grass.  Young girls are wearing cupcake icing like lipstick and giggle when they are noticed.  Driftwood artfully dots the plateau just out of the river's reach.
     Joanna and I sat and watched and daydreamed while Roman joined the dance.  A bountiful life in such an unexpected corner inspires an artist's hands and a writer's pen.  I listened for that language-less code that children use to play and make friends, and I think I learn something that, despite the ignition of every fiber of talent that I may possess, I have no words to explain.
     But the spell that these magical creatures weave over me does, in fact, give me clairvoyance enough to answer a poignant question that has relentlessly pursued me over these last nine months:
     "Am I crazy?"
     To which I can now answer  "Are you?"
     

Random Arrivals

                                                          5/23/13 - "Random Arrivals"

     Blogger's Note:  I've had an extremely busy week.  So much so, that I really haven't had time to put much thought into this week's installment.  We got bunk beds for Roman; we've got our room all prepped for Amelia's arrival; I finally got my yard mowed;  I worked a 40 hour week; and, I'm trying to get my garden tilled and planted before the end of the week.  So, I guess, I'm chest-deep in life at the moment.
     Amid all the hustle and bustle, I tried to think of something to fill this week's "Parenting with Lightsabers" time slot, so I've pieced together a mosaic of randomness.  Flipping through the topic possibilities, I came across several that are somewhat worthy of their own feature... ....but not quite.  So, this week, I'll piece together all of this randomness and perhaps entertain you while I play with the loose threads.

a dhamel

     I had charmed a dhalmel (a desert-dweller that might be described as the cross between a giraffe and a camel), and it was just barely keeping me alive after an unexpected encounter with a Goblin thug had left me barely breathing.  I had been roaming around Buburimu Peninsula trying to enhance my skills as a beastmaster when Joanna stepped out of the bathroom.
     She wore a big, excited smile when she simply proclaimed, "I'm pregnant."
     "Oh my God!" I replied, caught up in all the excitement.  "I'd better zone into Mhaura."
     I ran into the small, river village of Mhaura, leaving the dhalmel to fend for itself and sought refuge in a jeweler's market.  I jumped off the couch, tossed my xbox controller aside, and ran to hug my wife.  Upon retrospect, I think it might have been a better idea to have just let the Goblin thug have his way with me and immediately embrace my wife; but, I had been completely caught off guard (by the news and the Goblin thug).  But, who really plans for such an announcement?  And, wouldn't it have been a less exciting story had I done it all proper and rehearsed?  (you'd better agree with me, dammit.)
     I then ran to embrace my wife and share in the excitement.
     Later, after Roman was born, I would put away all my Vana'diel treasures and set aside the exciting world of massive multi-player role playing for good.  I will remember all of my exciting adventures in Final Fantasy XI forever.
   
     Beer and baseball go together like... (well, shit.. I could normally come up with fifty excellent similes to finish this sentence, but I'm in a hurry this morning and you get the idea.)  On the night of April 17, 2010, the St Louis Cardinals were playing the New York Mets in what would turn out to be one of the longest games in many, many years.  It lasted 20 innings.  And I watched every minute.  (....and the damn Cardinals lost).  And I was drinking (as is my baseball-watching routine) a few beers and relaxing on the couch.  Uncannily, almost exactly after the last out was recorded, Joanna's water broke.  She was going into labor.
     Well, shit.  I had seriously been taking it easy on the drinking since I knew that Joanna could be delivering a child any day now, but couldn't the little rascal have waited for a better time?  How was I possibly supposed to resist the siren's song of 20 innings of Cardinals' baseball?   I wasn't a stumbling slob of inebriation (in fact, far from it); but, I'm sure I wouldn't have passed a breathalyzer.  And the very last thing in the world I would want etched in my memory would be the shameful fog of a DUI en route to the transporting of my wife-in-labor to the hospital.
     So, I called Amber.
     Amber Winkler is one of our best friends (and the future godmother of Amelia, but that's a story for another day), and a character fantastically perfect for her exciting role in this story.  She and Gina Gonzalez (another fantastic friend that's been a regular on the show) had just gotten off work, and they came to save the day.  They were there in a flash and drove us both to the hospital.  Amber stayed with us; Gina went back to take care of our dog, Fitz.

Amber Winkler (left) and Gina Gonzalez (right)

     I caught a quick, hour-long nap before the fireworks started.  Amber stayed at Joanna's side every (screaming) step of the way.  With Joanna being away from her family in Poland, this camaraderie meant so much to my wife... ...and to me.
     Roman Alan Edwards would be born the next morning around 10am.  I think Dr. Mueller and the nurse that stuck it out with us rather liked the whole damn lot of us.  I mean, who was this ragtag group of people?  A now-sober, cheerleading father-to-be; a determined Pollack with a charming accent; and, some strange girl who regularly insists that "she's kind-of a big deal."
     I suppose every parent has a "where-we were" story.  And I'd bet that each and every one of them are interesting.  But these are mine.  These are the memories that I'll cherish for the remainder of my days, and I wouldn't change any of it.  Not one fucking bit of it.

     A few months ago, I had just fallen asleep after a post-shift shower to be awakened by (once again) a very giddy Pollack.  It was around midnight.  Joanna had worked a banquet that night and had gotten home unusually late.  Still groggy, she said, "Guess what?"
     "What?"  I groggily opened my eyes as she blurred, bedside, into focus.
     "I'm pregnant."  And she was smiling.
     I leaped out of bed, gave her hug, and didn't pause for a second.  Grandiosely, I proclaimed several "HELL YEAH's!!!" and over-reacted every step of the way (to make up for my enthusiasm-hiccup upon Roman's announcement, of course).  We stayed awake for quite some time:  planning, dreaming, talking.  I talked her into calling her parents in the wee hours of the morning in Poland to share the news.
     And that was the opening page to this "coming-soon-to-you" baby book.  I can't wait to turn a few pages and see how it turns out.  But we'll get there soon enough.  Just stay tuned....

me, Joanna, and then-there-was Roman