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Five years ago yesterday, a very pregnant Liz and I had just placed our order for dinner at the neighborhood IHOP. The waiter brought us our drinks. I gazed lovingly at my pregnant wife. She gazed back and said, “I think my water just broke.”

Now, things like this tend to happen during pregnancies, so it wasn’t completely unexpected. But it was thirty-two days ahead of schedule. Which is why I think it was very reasonable that my first thought was, “how do we undo this?” Instead, I said, “do you want to go the bathroom and double check?” She nodded, stood, tied a sweatshirt around her waist and hobbled off. I sat at the table and tried not to freak out.

The moment, was of course, completely ludicrous. I knew full well that Liz knew full well that her darn water had most certainly done broke. Yet, neither of us were ready to find out if we were in fact ready to become parents. Of course, biology has a much different idea of “ready” than does the modern human mind. Liz eventually came back from the bathroom and confirmed what didn’t need confirming, Golden Boy was on his way. So we made some hasty comments to the waiter who waved us out of there like the was waving a green racing flag, and we hightailed it back home.

Our hospital of choice was 30 minutes away from home and we still hadn’t packed hospital bags. So once we got back to our apartment I sprinted up three flights of stairs and immediately placed a call to the OB’s answering service. I huffed and puffed into the phone about our situation and the operator, mistaking my lack of physical conditioning for panic, told me to calm down. As distracted as I was, I forgot to tell her to bite me.

It was a little over an hour after the start of labor that we arrived at the hospital. Twelve hours after that, Thomas was born. Exactly one month early and except for a little jaundice, perfectly healthy.

And he’s been in a hurry ever since. Curious and inquisitive, he hunts down knowledge like a Tyrannosaurus rex hunts down meat. He corners some poor unsuspecting sap, usually me, and unleashes a thousand penetrating questions. It’s how he knows the difference between Memorial Day and Veteran’s day. (Because he needed to know why there was no school that day.) It’s how he knows the circumstances of the my father’s death. (Like how the brakes were bad on that truck.) It’s how he knows that Santa Claus is really just an idea and not a real person. (Because why would a strange man leave gifts in our home?)

It’s the reason why there is no magic of any kind in this house. Because magic is an unsatisfactory answer. Magic is no answer at all. Instead there is a rotating earth with an orbiting moon. Banks that hold money and give loans. And people that die and never come back.

(There are subjects I refuse to discuss, the whys of war, for example. Or slavery. And yes, those subjects do come up, when explaining Veterans Day or watching a documentary about parks that shows Martin Luther King Jr. giving his “I have a Dream” speech in front of the Lincoln memorial. “Is that a park? Who’s Abraham Lincoln? Why does he have a big statue? What is that man saying?” Bah.)

Sometimes, most of the time, I worry, that it’s too much. That I shouldn’t be answering these questions that are too big for a boy who is just five years old today. That he should be dreaming of Santa Claus and be oblivious of molecules and their states. (What is steam?) But then I look at my boy and I see the satisfaction on his face when he feels he understands something. The truth, explanations that make logical sense, they give him comfort. This is what Thomas needs to feel right with world.

Today the smartest person I know is five years old. Happy birthday Thomas. I promise to always answer your questions with the truth as long as you keep asking them.

If you don’t know, Liz, my lovely wife, has a new blog which she’s thinking of updating a bit more regularly than her current mostly family oriented one. The new site can be found at LackingSuperPowers.com

A little over a year ago I had an incident where I was experiencing a very odd sensation in my abdomen. At times it felt like hunger pangs, but in the wrong location, at others it felt like a hot bayonet. So, I did what any sensible man would do and waited three days before going to the doctor. I went to my physician group’s urgent care center where a doctor poked at me for a while before settling on gallstones as the most likely explanation. She suggested an ultrasound, which I scheduled. Now my HMO was very particular about where this should be done so it took seven days for them to fit me in, by which time all of my symptoms had disappeared. (See, I should have listened to my inner man and just waited it out.) I went to the ultrasound appointment anyway where no gallstones were found. What they did find, however, was a fatty liver. (An absolutely horrible, but accurate, name.)

I was informed that this was not the source of my previous discomfort, and not a cause for immediate concern, but something I should talk to my regular physician about. Right. I should get me one of those, I thought to myself at the time. So, that very day I promptly did nothing about it. I continued to do nothing about it for the next year or so.

More recently, over the past six months, I have been sick a lot. Like a fucking lot. If anyone around me gets sick, I tend to get sick too. And when you have a four year old and a two year old, they’re pretty much always sick. Which means I’m always sick. And there has been this pain in my throat that feels like swollen glands except when it feels like broken shards of hot bayonet. A pain which never goes away even as my colds do. In August I realized that the powers that be were trying to tell me something; either “drop dead” or “get a regular doctor, moron, before you drop dead.”

So after fretting over how I was going to find this doctor I finally decided to just go see Liz’s regular doctor. I came to this decision for a number of reasons. First, it was easy since I didn’t have to do any research. Two, the more information she has about our family, the better care she’s probably going to be able to deliver. Three, she’s extremely aggressive in treatment and always up to date with current research. So I made an appointment. Which turned into three appointments.

The first appointment was a meet and greet with general questions about my health history and pressing concerns I might have. We discussed my fatty liver. She said I’m at higher risk for cirrhosis, liver cancer and diabetes. She said that alcohol was highly discouraged. (I know!) She also said that it’s reversible if I were to reduce my overall body fat. (”Lose weight you lard ass,” is what she was trying to say. It’s a common unspoken phrase in her office.) About the colds she said, “you have young kids, your situation is not unusual. Get over it.” About the throat pain, she said nothing because I forgot to bring it up.

The second appointment was a poke, prod and prick with a needle type deal. (I also mentioned my throat pain, which was gone and still hasn’t returned.) The third appointment was to go over the results of my blood work tests.

Most of my results were good. However there were a few that were troubling. First of all, while I’m not diabetic I certainly appeared to be heading down that path. (Hey, thanks fatty liver!) Also, my good cholesterol levels were curiously low. And some genetic testing indicated that my diet needed to undergo some changes. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you can’t eat anything other than bland vegetables for the rest of your life. Now let me tell you about the giant juicy porterhouse steak I had for lunch. I mean this sucker was massive, I could barely finish it. That’s why I was 30 minutes late for our appointment. Ha ha, but you understand, right? Say would you like a carrot?”

“Oh, yes. One last thing,” said the doctor. “You appear to have a sluggish thyroid. But I would like to conduct a couple more tests, just to be sure.”

“Was the reading border line?”

“No, this is pretty low.”

“Do you think it’s inaccurate.”

“Nope.”

And this is where I decided to let it drop. Maybe she wasn’t telling me what she was testing for because I didn’t really want to know. Unless I had to. Or maybe not. Either way, I let them draw more blood. And then I scheduled another (fourth) appointment.

And this is where I found out that I have hypothyroidism. Which apparently explains everything. Except for the fatty liver and genetic stuff. So there. I’m not dying, and thanks to my funny new doctor I can delay it as long as possible. Acts of stupidity notwithstanding.

(So for those of you following me on Twitter who have seen my health related tweets along with all my doctor office tweets, well now you know. See, I told you I’m not dying.)

I’ve been meaning to write a post about Madeline Spohr for a long time. If you don’t know Maddie’s story you can read about it at her mother’s blog The Spohrs Are Multiplying. I highly recommend it, her mother, Heather, is a wonderful writer. You would be hard pressed to find a more engaging set of blog archives to read.

When you do go there you will read about how Maddie was born eleven weeks premature, and that it was a miracle of modern medicine, hard work, and love that she came home at all. You’ll read about an amazing little girl rallying through repeated hospital stays, defying all odds until the odds were in her favor, all while still being just a little girl. Then you’ll read how Heather and her husband Mike lived every parent’s worst nightmare when Maddie suddenly passed away on April 7th of this year.

When Maddie passed, it had a tremendous impact on me. I’m still not sure why. It’s something I’ve been trying to figure out for six months. Maybe it’s because I “knew” Heather. (Saying you know someone because you follow them on Twitter is kind of like saying you know someone because you saw them in a movie.) Or maybe it’s because I followed along in real time as Maddie’s condition worsened during those last few days.

Or maybe it’s because it reminded me how lucky I am to have moments like the one in this photograph. It’s from Caroline’s second birthday. I found it while I was trying to figure out what to say here.

I know, from experience, that Caroline, Thomas, Liz, or I could be gone in a moment. I know that every moment we have together really is a gift. That we should be grateful for all of the moments that we have had. So maybe that’s what it was.

Maybe.

Or maybe it’s because Maddie is just one of those kids. You know, those kids that we parents like to pretend are just like everyone else’s kids, just like our kids, but really aren’t. Those kids with the extra twinkle in their eyes, the extra teeter in their toddle, that extra spark in their spirit. When I look at photographs of Maddie, or see her in a video, that’s what I see. She’s the kind of kid you hope wants to be friends with your kid. The kind of kid that you hope will come to your kid’s birthday party. The kind of kid that you dance a little jig when you see her name on an invite your kid has brought home. She’s even the kind of kid you tell your son to keep an eye on for the next ten years or so, because hey, you never know, she might think dinosaurs are cool too.

I don’t know. It’s probably all of those things. And more. But whatever it is, I just want to say, happy birthday Maddie. I hope you’re having ice cream cake today. Every little girl should have ice cream cake on her second birthday.

Let me, One Eyed Jackalanta, tell you a horribly beautiful Halloween love story. Full of woe, well mostly for the parents who require much larger quantities of sugar to become wild raving lunatics with no care for pain in feet or fatigue in their spirits.

Our Heroes: A knight disguised as a child dressed as a knight on Halloween, a dragon disguised as a tyrannosaurus, and a princess disguised as a witch.

Alack! The evil villian steals the fair princess and says a prayer: “Please let this end soon.”

Alas, his evil prayer goes unanswered.

The evil villain’s Asian doppelganger gives the children “treats.”

The evil villain accosts the children for their “treats.” The tyrannosaurus/dragon cries.

Then the sad Dino/Dragon says, “wait, I will sing a love song.”

And he does.

After the song is over, everyone feels a bit awkward.

So the lovers ditched the crooning lizard/lizard, and left hand in hand.

But not without a chaperone.

The happy ending

Note: I have had many blogs over the years. My earliest was started in 2001. That original blog was horrible. I wrote about things like staple removers. Really. It was awful. But occassionally I wrote a few good ones. This was my best. It comes from September 16, 2001. I republish it today for obvious reasons.

My father, before he passed away in 1977, was a fire fighter. While I certainly remember nothing about my father, his choice of profession has had a large affect on my life. This may be because it is one of the few things that allow me to understand who my father was as a person. Legend has it that at one point he was the youngest Chief in the state of California, but he resigned because he didn’t like the administrative position. He preferred to serve as a Captain.

My first career choice, before Astronaut, Actor, Writer and Computer Programmer, was to be a fire fighter. A common choice for young boys. (It’s the trucks. I mean, the trucks are way cool.) I had the assistance of real props. In the bedrooms my brother and I shared in various apartments and condominiums throughout the early years of our lives, we always had two fire helmets hanging on our walls. One of them was yellow with a plastic face shield. Every time I wore that helmet I was a fire fighter. I have distinct memories of wearing one of my father’s old fire fighter coats along with the helmet from time to time. I could never get over at how heavy it was. I can smell it even still.

Of course at that age I had little appreciation of the magnitude of a fire fighter’s duties and obligations. I mainly liked wearing the helmet. As I got older I began to understand that my profession of choice was a profession of honor. To this day I cannot think of a more honorable profession that anyone can pursue. I mean these guys are Professional Life Savers. No, Professional Heroes. It is their job to put the lives of common citizens ahead of their own. What? There might be people inside that burning building? We’re going in. That fire might burn down someone’s home? We’ll block it’s path. In your entire life how many times have you done something so selfless as these people do on a daily basis? By now, you have probably heard it said many times but it was said long before Tuesday and I have been saying for nearly fifteen years; what most people run away from, these heroes run toward.

I suppose it is this level of admiration that brings me to brink of tears every time I hear about the death of a fire fighter. You can imagine how I felt on Tuesday when I heard that over 300 were missing and feared dead. (Do not let my previous feelings about fire fighters cause you to believe that I was any less devastated by the loss of the other Emergency Services personnel who gave their lives.) Before that day the most NYC had lost in one day was nine. Nine! A devastating number itself. But dear God, three hundred of my heroes all at once?

Did they know what they were running up into? Of course not. Did they know that it was something they had never seen before? Absolutely. Did they know that some of them might die? Definitely. Did they hesitate? No way. They were doing what they always do running toward untold danger to save the lives of their fellow citizens.

Tuesday night I was watching a news conference with Mayor Rudolph Guiliani (the world now knows why a city of 80% Democrats elected that Republican twice), the Commissioner of Police (who’s name I’ve forgotten and have not been able to track down) and the Fire Commissioner, Thomas Von Essen. (Thomas, coincidently, was my father’s name.) At one point a reporter asked Essen which high ranking people the Fire Department had lost. Essen stepped to the podium from outside the shot of the camera. He looked exactly like what he was; a man who had just experienced the worst moment of his life. He was visibly devastated. He then said that the department had lost Peter Ganci, the Fire Department Chief, William Freehan, the First Fire Deputy Commissioner, and Father Mychal Judge, the department’s chaplain.

The same reporter then asked Essen how that made him feel. I will remember his answer for the rest of my life. Essen answered by telling the world how great these three men were during their lives. It was a brief but beautiful recounting of each man’s love for and dedication to the Fire Department of New York. He never stated how he felt. All we had to do was fathom that three great, life long public guardians had been snatched away in a moment’s time. We knew how he felt. To some degree, we felt how he felt.

There is no doubt that the deaths of these three men and the other three hundred men and women with whom they served was a horrible tragedy. The sheer magnitude of the number lost is enough to shake anyone’s faith in God, humanity, even life itself. But we should remember that unlike the rest of the victims killed in Tuesday’s attacks, with the possible exceptions of the passengers of United 93, these men and women did not die senseless deaths. They died while they were saving the lives of their fellow citizens. I am sure that their biggest regret was that they couldn’t save more. I am tempted to say that they died during they’re finest moment. Yet, I know that every hour they were on the job was their finest moment.

We should never forget this past week. We should never forget these fine men and women who gave their lives so that others might live. But we should also never forget their comrades who remain ready to risk their own lives in defense of our own.

I remember 9/11 for all the victims, but especially for NYC’s bravest.

Drop Off

Pick Up
We peered through the window of the door out to the small playground on the back side of the school, looking for our little boy.

“Do you see him?” Liz asked. I shook my head.

“He’s there, in the sandbox,” she said. He was kneeling next to another boy. They were playing with some toy dinosaurs and a dimetrodon. I wondered briefly if Thomas had already informed the other boy that a dimetrodon was not actually a dinosaur. Perhaps this new boy already knew.

Liz pushed the door open and we walked over to our boy. He had smudges of dirt on his face. One on his check, the other on his chin. His shirt appeared faded from excess sand that had seeped into the fabric. His shorts were streaked with dark patches of dirt. His little legs were chalky white. He looked like a boy hard at play.

When he saw us, he stood, pointed at the other boy and the dimetrodon and said laughing “he’s trying to fit those shovels in the dimetrodon’s mouth, but they’re too big!” Then he did his pretend laugh which is deeper and bigger than his normal voice and sounds just like it’s written, “ha ha ha ha.”

Then with a demure smile on his face, he walked over to us, and leaned into Liz as she hugged his grubby little body.

“How was your first day at school?” she asked.

“It was great.”

So Thomas starts preschool today. It’s a momentous occasion. He’s leaving behind friends that he has known his whole life. He’s leaving behind a comfortable, safe and happy existence and moving on into something new and unknown. I asked him how he felt about starting school and he said “I’m going to miss [my friend] Aidan, but I’m going to have fun.”

This is partly a tribute to the amount of work Liz and I have put into preparing Thomas for this transition. He does not handle change well. He craves structure and routine. He hates to have his expectations go unmet. So yes, that he is ready and aware of the change was no small feat. It’s also a tribute to his desire to know as much as he possible can about the world. He is ready and eager to learn. So, he’s excited and has been looking forward to today.

So that’s how he’s doing. Me? Well, it is sad to see him leave his past behind. It has been bittersweet to take stock in his life. To see how far he’s come. To compare this not-so-little boy, to the scrawny floppy headed baby we brought home four and half years ago. We’ve done those comparisons, and said the usual things.

“I can’t believe he’s so big.”

“I can’t believe we’re here already.”

“I can’t believe he’s growing up so fast.”

So I asked Thomas how he felt about that, about growing up. He said, “I think it’s really gonna be exciting and amazing.”

We are here. He is that big. He is growing up. And it really is exciting and amazing.

Parenting involves a lot of lying. Which makes things difficult when you’re raising a kid who can smell a lie the way most kids can smell baking cookies. Thomas notices every inconsistency, every hesitation, every bemused grin. He is also a master interrogator, pouncing on the holes in his relentless quest for the truth.

I makes for painful conversations when he starts asking questions about death or sex or mortgages. I have found that the best thing to do is just to tell him the truth. This is why he knows so much about war and jumbo loans. Sometimes though, I just can’t bear to tell him the truth.

Such as in this recent converstation which came up while we were driving though town.

Thomas: Daddy, what does that sign say?

OK, this is where I let the boy get into my head. See, I should have just said “what sign?” and been done with it. But no, instead I said:

Me: Uh, … it says “Hooters”

Let the record reflect that I hesitated before I said the name.

Thomas: Why?
Me: Because that’s the name of the restaurant.
Thomas: Why is there an owl on the sign?
Me: Because it’s an owl themed restaurant. That’s why it’s called “Hooters.” Because owls hoot.

Oh, please buy that lie, please.

Thomas: What does themed mean?

Ah, I had him distracted with a new word. If I played this right I could avoid the whole uncomfortable subject and move on with my day. That is, if I wasn’t an idiot.

Me: It means that the restaurant is decorated in a certain way. Everything in that restaurant is related to owls. Among other things.

Among other things?!?

Thomas: Like what things?

Crap.

Me: Oh, you know outdoor stuff.

And then for what seemed like an eternity, silence. Then finally,

Thomas: Hey! Daddy!
Me: Yes, bud what is it?
Thomas: Oh, we should definitely go there sometime.

I should have just stuck with the truth.

When we started looking for a daycare for Thomas way back in early 2005 we had had no idea what we were doing. Due to the fact that most of our friends are late bloomers, or out-of-towners, references were hard to come by. In fact in our hunt for a daycare provider we received just a single reference from a co-worker of Liz’s. She mentioned that the her daughter’s daycare had an opening and she highly recommended it.

So with our one reference Liz and I trudged off to see what there was to see. It was an in-home daycare operated by a woman named Nina. While I wandered around the place trying to figure out what questions I should ask and what dangerous things I should be looking for, Liz was busy falling in love. She loved the homey quality, the promise of elaborately cooked lunches (and breakfasts!) and the big back yard.

As for Nina, well, she seemed perfectly nice. Short in physical stature but very clearly in charge of her “clients” along with her two older children. She kept the daycare intentionally under enrolled. She was very informed about all the things we might wonder about. Everything seemed perfectly nice.

When we walked away Liz’s mind was made up that this was the place to go. Me? Well, I was undecided. Everything seemed quite nice. But really, how do you know? I mean this was the woman we were going to entrust with the care of our child. How do we know she’ll help guide him to our high standards? But given that I had no idea how to answer any of those questions, I acquiesced. We placed Thomas in Nina’s charge. I hoped for the best.

Well, it’s been four years now. And just yesterday Thomas called me “Nina”. For about the billionth time. Often when he’s super excited he becomes a bit flustered with his word selection (there are so many rattling around in that noggin) and flings them out until he hits the right one. “Nina, I mean Mommy, I mean Daddy ….” When he does it with our “names” it’s always those three. Interchangeable. In the very truest sense, Nina is a third parent to Thomas. Sometimes I joke that I’m his third favorite. Sometimes I think it’s not really a joke.

In the past four years we’ve been to parties at Nina’s house, we’ve watched her son play in his high school football games. We even attended her mother’s funeral. Thomas has gone to the movies with Nina, to museums on the other side of the bay. I can’t imagine Thomas’ first four years without Nina. Without a doubt she has been the most important adult in his life outside of Liz and I. She has been nothing but perfect in that role.

But today it comes to an end. Today Thomas will take the trip to daycare for the last time. Today is his last day at Nina’s. He’s growing up and it’s time for him to move on to pre-school. And I can’t help but feel sad and ever so thankful.