Jason Pawlak

It got me

Tue, 17 Dec 2024 12:00:00 +0000

It got me...

Maybe I’m immune?

Maybe I have magical blood?

Maybe I can donate my blood to science and it will cure cancer???

Well actually, no… COVID finally got me.

Since early 2020, up until this weekend, COVID has hit every individual in my house (some multiple times) , except me. There was absolutely zero reason I hadn’t had COVID. There have been multiple instances of my interacting with someone in the house right before they got diagnosed, and I always tested clean. In fact, not only have I not had COVID, I haven’t even been sick since February 2020 (wasn’t COVID, it was more of the puking kind of sick).

Of course I’ve pondered many times over the years why I never got COVID. For a while I figured I had it but never showed symptoms. But then sometime in 2021, after a blood donation, my results came back with no antibodies. I wondered if I was just naturally immune? And I also wondered what the heck was in that “mission critical personnel” early-release COVID vaccine batch I received at Scott Air Force Base. Was I the unwitting subject of some military biomedical warfare testing? If it meant I never got sick, would I actually be upset if I were?

But here we are. Fortunately, I’m on the upswing following a crummy few days of fever, chills, headache, body aches, congestion, sore throat, cough, and just feeling awful. I sure didn’t miss being sick.

One of my least favorite routines to attempt while sick is sleeping at night. On any normal non-sick night I fall asleep pretty quick and sleep through the night, mostly. Maybe I’ll wake up to flip over or on the rare occasion get up to go to the bathroom. But when I’m sick… yeah I’m getting out of bed like every two hours to go to the bathroom (sometimes hydration reset sometimes stomach reset depending on the sickness). But getting back in bed, I just know I’m going to be up again in an hour or two. And it takes forever to find a comfortable position to sleep since three toes out from under the blanket chills me like a frozen tundra but just two toes has me sweating like I’m in a tropical rainforest. And of course the movement of sitting up, laying down, or moving from one side to the other has the real likelihood of causing me to asphyxiate from snot… or worse… become a mouth breather. “Is it morning yet?” I’ll ask myself whenever I wake up and look towards the window. How much more night must I endure?!?

Wow, complaining about being sick when I made it nearly five years without being sick is fun! I had an epic run. But now, sadly, it has ended.

Interesting observation while having COVID, my Garmin watch thinks I’m clawing my way up to death’s front door. Check this out…

Never seen this before...

Why yes that was an apparently stress filled day. But look at the body battery. I started the day on zero because apparently my “sleep” the night before was not all too restful, and I just squatted there, all… day… long. What does it even mean to have a body battery of zero? I felt bad these last few days but I have also felt worse.

And check this out. On the Apple Fitness side of things, I absolutely crushed my calorie goal during my day with zero body battery. On a normal non-sick day it looks like I burn about one or two calories an hour when I’m stagnant. The day my body was fighting the good fight it looks like I was burning five or six calories an hour.

Apple Fitness Calorie burn on my worst COVID day

Technology is amazing. While I didn’t need my Garmin to tell me I was feeling crummy, it is kind of interesting to see the data mirror my somewhat extreme circumstances. And as I have started to recover, it appears my Garmin agrees and my body battery is back to positive numbers.

On the road to recovery

So hey, Scott Air Force Base medical, if I was part of a super secret biomedical warfare study… I’ll trade you my data for another one of those “vaccines”…

With love, we sent you on

Sat, 25 Nov 2023 12:00:00 +0000

Daisy Adoption Day

Today, we said good-bye to Daisy.

I knew a blog post would follow. This blog has been just as much a place for reflection and memory archiving as it has been a creative outlet over the years. So naturally, I would honor the memory of Daisy and share some of my favorite photos and moments. But as I was driving home from the vet with an empty collar on the seat next to me, reflecting, experiencing grief and feeling guilty, I knew the piece I had to write, today, and no later, was not the story of Daisy’s life, but of her death. Writing is therapy. It requires me to take disparate thoughts and weave them into coherence. It requires me to dig for context so that it makes sense to my reader, whether that is future me, my family, or a stranger. But it also gives opportunity for facades and lies. To which you can only take my word. But in earnest I tell you my intent of writing this piece today and not later is to capture raw emotions before they’ve had time to dull. I want to read this again and remember how it felt and I want my kids to glimpse the heart-ache from my perspective.

Daisy’s passing was no surprise. She was old, 15 and a half by our best guess. Wife and I, on the way home from picking up our marriage certificate, stopped by the animal shelter to grow our brand new family. That was when we met Fern, an estimated two-year old sweet pup, who we would rename as Daisy when she came home with us. Daisy didn’t know how to play fetch or how to maneuver stairs at first, but she learned and grew just as much as Wife and I did in navigating this new life with our brand new marriage. We very quickly moved away from home and family with the Navy, grew our family with children and another dog, and moved between eight states over the next 13 and a half years. Daisy’s life was not marred with any major injuries or illnesses. She simply had the pleasure of just growing old.

Daisy Standing Up

Daisy Avoiding Snow

Daisy Moving Day

Wife and I had discussed, increasingly, over the last few years when the right time for Daisy’s goodbye would be. Her age was most visible in white fur, lumps, shaky back legs, and a tail that rarely was untucked. But it was also evident in changes to her mental state. She would push her food bowl with her nose in frantic attempts to flip it over. And then once the food was on the floor, she’d often try pushing it more, sliding her nose across the floor. She would wander the yard beyond her bounds and occasionally find a hole to dig. She would ignore calls and beckons. All night and all day she’d pace, rarely laying down and rarely leaving the immediate area of Wife or me. Her ability to wait hours between trips outside dwindled. She was aching. Sometimes her need for attention turned into an obsession. Her eyes often showed worry and concern. But at all times her sweetness persisted.

Her getting old was not tragic, as the symptoms of age were expected as much as the sun rises and sets. However not tragic, it was of course very sad. But, here begins the therapy, also very annoying. She had needs and desires that were inconvenient for me to fill. Our lives were no longer in sync.

This inconvenient truth was no secret to my mind. I knew I was, at times, annoyed with the seeming burden of an aging dog. And I hated my selfishness. I hated that I sometimes felt like I was waiting for an old dog to just age a little bit more. And I was (and am) terrified that my selfishness will encroach on my human relationships when times of need arise.

Fortunately I am blessed with a caring and compassionate Wife that I see as one of the most selfless people I know. And in our many talks about Daisy, I valued her views and respected the fact that it was in near totality her that was bearing the burden of an aging Daisy.

But unfortunately, with a dog that is aging with no significantly urgent health issues, the time to say goodbye can be so unclear. There is some balance of both dog and human quality of life. But how you quantify and weigh those balances… hello guilt.

A few weeks back, Wife and I decided this balance had been breached and we did what any parents of busy elementary and middle school aged kids would do… we brought out the calendar. We looked at what October, November, and December held. Oh, everything. The loss of a pet would be new to us as adults (and parents) and new to our kids. On the heels of a mentally stress-filled military move from Georgia to Maryland, if the opportunity was there to intentionally plan for the loss of a pet, we wanted to take full advantage of it. So that’s what we did. The kids were off school the week of Thanksgiving. In our talks with the kids about the dogs’ end of life, they had requested to be told the day before. So Friday, 24 November was scheduled as “Daisy Day”, a day that we could focus on and celebrate with Daisy as a family… and a vet appointment was made for Saturday, 25 November. We avoided Thanksgiving day, avoided birthdays, avoided field trips, avoided school functions, avoided Christmas, avoided travel, avoided any number of things… Life was out of sync with an aging Daisy.

It honestly felt good to have something on the calendar. I was still hyper-aware of my selfish annoyances and wondered continuously if my selfish thoughts were unfairly influencing my resolve to bring Daisy’s life to an end. Then Daisy got hurt. Her already aching back legs got hurt further and she limped around for a few days. I felt justified. The time was right. But the limping resolved to stiff, shaky, and sometimes uncontrollable joints… and my doubts resurfaced.

Thanksgiving, the day before Daisy Day (letting kids know) arrives, and Jolie had a major injury. So bad that she yelped at the slightest move and contorted herself when moving or laying down. Wife stayed with Jolie overnight and the morning of our scheduled Daisy Day, we took Jolie (age 13) to the vet, with full knowledge that we would not want to put her into surgery, wondering if in a surprise twist, we might say goodbye to Jolie before Daisy. In the end, the vet believed Jolie slipped a disk and put her on meds to recover with an option for x-ray if recovery isn’t smooth.

The kids are then concerned about Jolie and have no idea that we have Daisy scheduled to be euthanized the very next day. Wife and I looked at the calendar and saw no other opportunity before Christmas for an intentional goodbye time for Daisy. We didn’t, and still don’t, know how Jolie is going to recover. We were concerned about delaying Daisy and her getting injured and our opportunity for a controlled goodbye becoming chaotic, traumatic, and reactive. So we decided to proceed as planned.

Telling kids to say goodbye to their dog is such a heartbreaking moment.

We spent the rest of Daisy Day spoiling her with treats, walking around the backyard, sniffing everything in sight, and letting her just do as she pleased. The kids did crafts with Daisy’s paw prints and we got lots of good pictures together as a family. It was very nice. We all slept in the basement with the dogs where Daisy paced all night with a few moments for cuddles.

And then today was here.

I wanted to take Daisy to the vet. I wanted to be with her through the procedure. I wanted to comfort her, but I also wanted to be there to take responsibility for our decisions. I tend to rationalize away grief. If it makes sense, then I can’t be too sad about it, right? Before the vet, I had shed a few tears, but those tears were mostly for the kids’ loss.

Daisy and I parked the car. Daisy sniffed the parking lot. We walked into the vet. And I sobbed.

Over the course of the procedure my hand never left Daisy’s head and I never once doubted our decision. Not even in the slightest. It was the right decision for this moment of life. We needed control over the goodbye. Could Daisy have lived a few more weeks or months? Probably, but that balance of both human and dog quality of life would have continued its slow descent with absolutely zero chance of recovery and ever increasing risk of expedience. What a burden that decision is to make. But a decision nonetheless. That is why I title this piece, with love we sent you on.

Daisy epitomized a dog’s love. She is and will be missed greatly in our family.

Daisy With Lollipop #1

Daisy and Jolie Together

Daisy and Jolie with Kids

Dogs by port swing

Daisy Getting Hugs

Dogs at beach

Dogs Hiking

Family at Yosemite

Daisy in a carseat

Dogs in a packed car

Dogs in backyard

Daisy and Jolie Together

Daisy Easter Ears

Daisy on a walk

Daisy Day Family Picture

Daisy Day with Lollipop #1

Daisy Day with Lollipop #2

Daisy with Wife

In Memory to Grandma

Sun, 30 Oct 2022 12:00:00 +0000

Eating Cake with Grandma / 1999

Dear Grandma,

You were scheduled to move from your condo this week. You had an apartment ready for you in The Christian Village at Mason. Turns out God’s plans included a move, just to a different Christian Village. I know you are happy in Heaven. You have lots of family and friends there. You are now reunited with your husband, a Grandfather I only ever met through story and the characteristics and personalities passed on through his and your kids. You were the last remaining of your many siblings, a fact that lingered on your mind quite often in recent conversations. Your body stood crooked, your hearing near gone, but your mind and love remained sharp and strong.

I stayed the night at your condo two months ago on a visit to Ohio when my parents were out of town. It is only fitting this was my last visit with you on this side of eternity because so many of my more youthful memories with you include spending the night at your house. Sometimes because my parents were out of town or likely sometimes because my parents just wanted me out of the house. You have always welcomed me with open arms at any stage in life. Ready to host whether be for my brothers and me or my wife and me. I am thankful that we stayed up late, well past midnight, talking and sharing memories. Around 11:30, I was tired and stood to make my way to bed. But you were obviously not ready to call it a night, and much like our many long phone calls, kept the conversation going for some time more. You loved your family. It was so clearly evident in your topics of conversation, the countless pictures on your walls, on shelves, or in coffee table albums. You told me so many times how proud you were of everyone in your family. You lamented that you wished us out-of-towners lived closer and never missed an opportunity to interrogate our plans for an upcoming holiday. But you were quick as a whip on Facebook, making sure your family’s photos and videos were well liked and commented on.

Playing cards with Grandma / 2021

I have many memories of being with you at your house. I have scattered memories of your Springdale house. I think, in fact, my earliest memory takes place in your Springdale house. It was my third birthday and I had a cake with bowling pins and ball on top. I remember the basement with its train set and I remember the backyard with the doggie door and above ground pool. I remember the living room with a rifle mounted above the fireplace, whose entrance I would dart past so as not to be within eyesight of the rifle for longer than necessary.

Shoveling snow / 2004

But memories of your Mason house are my most vivid. It sure seems like we cut the grass and shoveled snow a lot. You paid great and the hot chocolate was fantastic, though. You would pick me up from Middle School jazz band with a cool lunch box of Little Debbie Nutty Butty bars and RC Cola and take me back to your house. I was supposed to mow the grass but more than once I laid down on the carpet and slept instead. We once planted sunflowers and it must’ve grown eight feet tall. I don’t think we ever actually used the pool in your backyard before Dad took it down, seemingly around the same time he took down the pool at our own house. Dad must have really not liked pools that Summer. Many Thanksgivings were celebrated in that house. Mom would bring pies, there’d be lots of movement in the kitchen while the more lazy of us tossed a ball back and forth, watched the Macy’s Day Parade, and leafed through the Thanksgiving newspaper ads. We’d make our jokes about what the oldest expiration date in your fridge and cupboard was and how after the meal The Gaithers would be put on the television at max volume only for those that put it on to fall asleep on the couch. I have a secret … I really like The Gaithers. Maybe my like is nested in some nostalgia of background music to a full belly game of Monopoly on your back patio. Or maybe my musical tastes have been passed down the family tree. Or maybe my ears just followed the comedy of Mark Lowry who I knew was part of the group.

Thanksgiving Newspaper Ads / 2000

Thanks for taking me so many places. We saw concerts (to include Mark Lowry), had countless dinners at Don Pablos and carry outs from Little Caesars Pizza, visits to buy video games and useless trinkets at “Tuesday Morning”, and road trips to Elkhorn City and Bowling Green, Kentucky to visit family. Trips to Elkhorn City were like nothing else. Driving highways of repeating scenery, stopping along the way for peanut butter filled pretzels, hitting apples with a baseball bat across a creek, sitting in the tiniest of churches, seeing more family than I knew I even had, sampling an awful glass of buttermilk, and watching an episode (The Sandkings) of The Outer Limits at a way-too-young-age which would scar me for life. Once we were driving near your Springdale house waiting at a red light. I was watching the intersecting lanes’ traffic light and once it turned red I stated “green light” leading our true green light by milliseconds. We went and an intersecting lanes’ car raced (and lost) against its red light, running through the intersection, hitting us. The memory is fuzzy at best but it is one I think of often. Years later you were the one that took me to the Warren County BMV to take my driver’s license test in the old Chevy Nova.

Just after driving test / 2001

Sleepovers at your house were the best. A bottomless jar of M&M’s existed on your kitchen table. As an adult, now, with kids of my own, I have no idea why you let us fill our bellies with so many sugary sweets. We must have been pure chaos to you and your house. But maybe that’s why we watched “The Lion King” or Bill Cosby’s “Himself” on VHS so many times. Maybe you enjoyed the chaos. The only thing I have ever heard you complain about is not having enough family time. Maybe you embraced the chaos you facilitated and fed off your grandchildren’s sugar fueled energy. And now, I think, maybe that’s why you kept that strangest of stationary bicycles in your bedroom in case our energy spiked a little too high. I don’t remember anything being off limits at your house. A “making room” with endless yarn and crafts occupied us for hours at a time making “God’s Eyes” or stitching patterns. And the game closet was always packed tight and ready for us. We’d pull triggers and shoot marbles across some game to push a token into the opponent’s goal. We played countless games of RACK-O. Army men would be lined across the small trampoline only to be devastated by a bouncing ball. Your house was so much fun.

Really tall sunflower at Grandma's house / 1995

I remember bath times with way more bubbles and toys than even reasonable. I remember some strange powder that you kept on the back of the toilet in the guest bath, still no idea what that was for. And I remember staring at the portraits that hung on your bathroom wall for seemingly long amounts of time. These were portraits of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Soldiers marching where the entire picture was made up from words of famous speeches or documents. And I remember bedtimes where you would rub my back and read me Curious George. Of all my memories documented here, of all my memories in my mind but left from this eulogy, and likely of all my memories tucked away in my mind not remembered at this moment in time, it is laying very still, on the daybed, with your hand on my back, and the antics of Curious George being told and retold, that I cherish the most.

Family photo with Grandma / 1997

You sure loved us. You loved us unconditionally in all the moments we were together and in all the moments we were apart. I know this because I felt it every time we talked or visited. It was never enough, I know. Especially after I had a family of my own and we started moving wherever the Navy told us to go. You wanted and needed more from us. Honestly I often felt guilty when we said our “see you laters” at the end of a visit and we closed your front door to drive states away to wherever was home for us. Your look of desperation as the door closed, for the next visit, was really tough to witness and process.

Visit and school play / 2019

You were truly an angel on earth. You impressed many people with your vigor and resilience, especially in the later parts of life. I know your single life made innumerable lives better from working with kids in the dental clinic to your long involvement in churches to investing time and love in your future generations. I know life dealt you a difficult hand in a few ways and I know that I have only known you through the eyes of a grandson. But well done and life well lived. Your legacy is strong and your love will be felt and hopefully emulated well beyond the significant milestone that is your death. Thank you for pouring your life and love into me. Well, with that … love you … off to get some Chick-fil-A and Graeters!

Jason

That One Saturday Morning at the Park

Fri, 30 Sep 2022 12:00:00 +0000

It is good to finally write this memory. It is a memory that I have longed for years to share. But it is not my memory alone. Just like details from this memory have blurred over the years in my mind, it was not until these last few weeks that the freshness of the memory softened enough for Lollipop #1 to give her blessing for me to share it publicly.

This memory takes us back to November of 2018. Lollipop #1 was seven years old at the time and was a Daisy in Girl Scouts. We were living in Illinois and even though Thanksgiving and Christmas were mere weeks away, I remember it to be an unseasonably warm day. It was a Saturday. Oatmeal and blueberries were for breakfast. And it was relatively early in the morning to be out and about… and eating ice cream.

All these details, while seemingly scattered, set the stage for what turned to be a day retold many times over the years.

Lollipop #1’s Girl Scout troop was invited to a local Dairy Queen. The invitation was for 9am on a Saturday, before it opened up for normal business. The not yet ice cream finger stickied glass doors were still locked when we arrived. But the swarm of blue, brown, and green vested Girl Scouts were soon ushered inside, followed by a mix of excited and sleepy siblings and parents.

Dairy Queen has a unique scent. I think it is likely the vanilla ice cream that subsumes you upon entry. And now I can speak on authority that no matter the time of day, regardless of whether the Dairy Queen has been open eight hours, one hour, or negative 90 minutes in this case, the scent, both quality and quantity, remains unchanged.

We all huddled in the “lobby” of the Dairy Queen, awaiting instructions. Lollipop #2 was also with us. Not yet in Girl Scouts, but ready to be included in the day’s festivities. The manager greeted everyone and quickly led groups of kids and adults, five to ten at a time, back behind the counter into the mystifying unknown. Wife and I did not take the tour, but both Lollipops disappeared with faces of anticipation and returned a mere three minutes later with faces of wonder, awe, and glee, with tall, already dripping ice cream cones in hand. They had seen the promised land and were pleased to find the milk and honey was actually generously poured ice cream!

Honestly, it was quite a fun experience. The girls had a blast. They toured previously forbidden areas of a place that in their minds was second maybe only to Disney World. And they walked away with ice cream. All before 9:30 in the morning! Life was good.

The ice creams were soon finished and it was time to move along. Our fun morning was scheduled to continue into a fun day as a local festival called “Salute to Scott” was set to start later in the morning. A tribute to everyone stationed at Scott Air Force Base, the flier advertised kids activities, entertainment, and food at a classic cars showroom. But we had time to kill before heading that way. So we set the GPS to a local park, Rock Springs Rotary Park, with a playground and trails. Perfect midpoint stop to let the kids run out their ice cream infused energy.

Along the way Lollipop #1 asked for a mint. This was a relatively new “thing” she was doing. On a recent visit from Memaw and Pepaw (Wife’s parents), Lollipop #1 had heard that sucking on a mint might help with car sickness. Having never suffered from car sickness in her life and always suffering from sweet withdrawal, she had decided that she was now afflicted with car sickness. Ugh. “No Lollipop #1” I answered flatly. “You just had a giant ice cream cone and we are still in the single digit hours of the morning.” I am sure she gave grumpy eyes at the back of my head. I think 2018 might have predated her eye rolling days.

Nearly there, we rolled past the crosswalks that guard the park into an empty parking space right in front of the playground. Perfect day for a playground. Coolness in the air with a warm sun heating our bodies.

“Dad?” Lollipop #1 whispers from the back seat.

Not yet even geared to park, I leverage myself on the foot brake and turn to look back, between the driver and passenger seats.

“Yeah?”

What happened next is an immense source of embarrassment for Lollipop #1. I mean everybody pukes. She’s a kid and kids seem to puke even more than adults. But Lollipop #1 for whatever reason does not like talking or hearing about puke. Not her puke. Not my puke. Not any person’s or any animal’s puke. Ok, at this point I’m just writing puke as many times as I can because I am a cruel Dad and enjoy tormenting my children. I’ll be very surprised if future Lollipop #1 is still in the same room when future me is reading this to her. Sorry Lollipop #1. Thanks for letting me share this story of life. And well… stand by for more puke.

My “yeah” response to Lollipop #1 had no sooner left my lips than when puke sprayed back across them.

It. Was. Everywhere. Oatmeal. Blueberries. Some mushed, some half chewed, some whole. And Dairy Queen ice cream. This was obviously a mix of breakfast that should never be. My face was splattered. I could feel it dripping off my nose. My lips were pursed, clenched together with anti-spew locks in place. Locks to protect from the puke that threatened to breach. And locks to dissuade any sympathy puking reaction that might cross my gut. I could see and survey the damage to the back of my seat, the ceiling of the van, the uncertain face of Lollipop #2, and the petrified face of Lollipop #1. And I could smell that distinct Dairy Queen vanilla that had been oh so pleasant just 20 minutes prior.

In a state of shock I turned back around, calmly shifted the van into park, released my right foot from the brake pedal, and stared out the front windshield. I think shock had overtaken the entire van. No one moved and no one said anything for what seemed like an eternity. But then the spell was broken by the sudden and boisterous howling laughter of my not puke-covered Wife. Boy, was she having a party over there in the passenger seat. She was looking at me with the happiest of tears in her eyes in an uncontrollable laughing frenzy.

Wife and I have always endeavored to have positive, or at least not overly negative or concerning, reactions when things happen to the kids. They fall down while skating? No running to them with concern to pick them. We try to make light of the situation and not let shock or fright always turn to tears. But this was no intentional laughter from Wife. This was belly aching, side splitting, cheek burning laughter that was natural and raw.

While I endured Wife’s laughing fit, I wished I had taken notes from the many ventriloquists we’d seen on America’s Got Talent. I needed to talk. But no way was I opening my mouth. “Mm mmmmmd mmmkmmmmns,” was all I could say. Finally Wife returned to the reality of the van and realized I was attempting and failing to communicate. She realized that I was in fact looking for napkins to clear my puke glazed lips. Wow, that ice cream was sticky!

Wife found napkins, I cleared my face a little, and I finally and gratefully relieved my nose of its breathing duties and became a mouth breather for the time. Wife was all smiles next to me pointing out how clean the dashboard and entire front seat of the van was; congratulating me on my successful block (except for spray patterns on the ceiling). We had also opened the van doors allowing fresh air to replace the vanilla air that plagued our senses. Just outside Wife’s door a truck had pulled up. It looked to be a work truck and a work guy had just stepped out the driver door. I don’t know what caused the conversation. Perhaps Wife was just too excited to share the recent turn of events or maybe Work Guy had just looked into our van and realized the happenings. But he offered up a number of clean fabric towels he had with him in his truck for cleanup.

Wife started cleaning the van and Lollipop #1 and I left the van to look for a bathroom. We set off towards the opposite side of the playground where a building stood. Once at the doors to the building, we saw there was actually a gathering going on in the building. I didn’t see bathrooms anywhere else and could only assume there were bathrooms in the party room. So I opened the door and ushered Lollipop #1 inside.

The party was definitely a family reunion of sorts. We stepped in and the door closed behind us. There were perhaps 20 people, no kids, mostly elderly, sitting at tables chatting loudly with each other. All conversation ceased and all eyes turned to us.

“You mind if we use your bathroom?” I asked politely, not really caring what their answer would be.

“Sure,” responded an unknown voice from the crowd.

Lollipop #1 and I walked over to a bathroom door and the same unknown voice said, “You want a donut?”

“We’re good,” I said and closed the bathroom door behind us to more howling laughter.

It was then that I got a good look at myself in the mirror and a smile broke across my face. No napkin and no cloth rag had done justice to cleaning my face. I had done all right on my nose and mouth, but my forehead, ears, and now-crusted hair all needed some immediate attention.

Lollipop #1 and I got ourselves cleaned off, egressed the raucous reunion, and made it back to the van. Wife and Lollipop #2 were in such a good mood. And by this point Lollipop #1 and I were in an ok mood as well. Lollipop #1 seemed to be feeling better, we were now the proud owners of a pile of no-longer-clean fabric rags that Work Guy did not want back (Wife did in fact ask), and it was time to call it a day and head home.

Once home, outer clothes were left in the garage, and I took a long hot shower washing my hair and face no less than four times. The rest of the day was chill and we even set up the Christmas tree to move right along and kick off the holidays.

I love this story because it is truly a shared family memory. It was gross. It was messy. It was traumatic. And it did not feel good at the time. But that’s life. And you know what else is interesting about this memory? I guarantee my retelling of this Saturday morning at the park would be different than a retelling from Wife, Lollipop #1, or Lollipop #2. But no matter our perspectives, sentiments, or details remembered, the experience is rooted in something to which we all participated. And that brings the family closer together, a bit like an inside joke.

So I am glad to finally share this memory. And I am glad Lollipop #1 can get past the embarrassment. But why do people feel embarrassed? Shame, mostly. But Lollipop #1… there is no shame in this story. Just a lot of vanilla scented Dairy Queen ice cream puke :-)

Dear Dad, Sorry for the gray hairs

Fri, 15 Jul 2022 12:00:00 +0000

Dear Dad,

I saw this Calvin & Hobbes strip the other day and it reminded me of a time I turned a few more hairs of yours gray and likely left you shaking your head in disbelief.

Do you know which memory I’m talking about?

No, not the time I spun on one leg of the kitchen chair so many times I drilled a hole right through the linoleum … and subfloor.

No, not the time I memorized your credit card number and discovered eBay.

No, not even the time I decided to take the dirt bike on a joy ride through a small vineyard and volleyball game only to crash into a playset and flip over the handlebars knocking myself unconscious.

I’m talking about the time you taught me to drive stick shift. And on my first solo outing I thought it would be hilarious to call you, while safely parked in some parking lot, and tell you the car was totaled. I appreciate you informing me that the timing of my comedic genius supported with an overly dry sense of humor was a bit off.

You see, there’s a relatively simple explanation for all this. I was brain damaged! A brilliant idea would just pop in my head and it would be out my mouth or in execution before my brain could even take inventory of it. Either that or my brain would be on holiday. Just completely gone, or off, I sure never knew which.

I know there are many additional moments you would qualify my brain as damaged in my youth. Most of which I probably don’t even realize … because brain damage, ya know?

I now observe this phenomenon from the other side of the generational gap. My offspring, while clearly smarter and more empathetic than I ever was, still showcase the damaged state of their brains often. We tell them to put their shoes in the closet and they go take a shower. We need to put the same dinner table reminders on a repeat recording because they are the same every night of the week. We tell them if there is no bickering for 5 minutes we can have ice cream to no avail. We tell them that randomly calling 1-800 numbers from a payphone is … oh wait, nevermind, that was me again. They’re good kids. Great kids in fact! I realize it’s just that brain damaged age.

So yeah. Sorry about the hair. But if I didn’t turn them gray one of my brothers would have anyway. I appreciate you fixing the floor, teaching me the value of other people’s money, and running to rescue my limp and seemingly lifeless body. And of course I appreciate you still answering the phone when I call. But, for what it’s worth … Mom says I have your sense of humor.

Much love, Your Son

Ps. Sorry about the clutch

I was Poisoned on Father's Day

Sat, 09 Jul 2022 12:00:00 +0000

I’m an OK Dad. I mean, I am by no means perfect but my kids seem to like me well enough. We have fun together. We have good conversations. We like to play games. They don’t automatically cry when I look at them … anymore (story for another time). Father’s Day is typically a day that I am the recipient of their intense desires to demonstrate love and appreciation for me. I think we’re good.

Wife seems to appreciate my Dad-ing qualities. We are a team. We typically complement each other well in the parenting department. Sure everyone has their off days but more often than not our partnership keeps the family ship afloat without taking on too much water. I love her, she loves me. I like her, she likes me. We’re good!

So why did Wife poison me on Father’s Day?

Sunday June 19, 2022

The day is off to a great start. I sleep in, eat breakfast, drink coffee, and hang out with the kids. We are away from home, visiting family, staying at their house. Later in the day, more family is coming over to celebrate the holiday. In support of the day’s festivities, Wife and I are going to pick up the Grandma’s from their houses while we are out running a few errands.

We have a nice time out together. The kids stay back at the house while Wife and I drive to a few different stores. We mosey into a book store and a few dress shops. Next weekend we are attending a wedding and Wife hasn’t quite found the right dress yet. We browse the racks, she asks what I think about this dress and that dress. I tell her she looks beautiful in any dress. We walk sidewalks and hold hands. We chit chat and life is good.

Eventually it is time for us to go pick up the Grandmas. We drive to the other side of town and make the two separate stops soon chauffeuring back to the party.

It is about this time that I start to feel off. Not really sick or anything. Just fuzzy headed. While Wife is conversing with the Grandmas I focus on the road and am largely silent the whole way back to the party.

As we pull into the driveway I have already made up my mind that I need to go lie down for a few minutes. It is actually a pretty common ritual of mine. If I’m feeling overly tired after getting home from work, I’ll collapse on the bed without even changing out of my uniform for a 15 minute power nap that is completely refreshing and helps me be that “good Dad” throughout the evening. I lay on the bed, set an alarm for 20 minutes and pass out almost instantly. Not long after the alarm goes off Wife comes into the room to say she’s going to the grocery. I’m groggy and not feeling recharged after the short nap. So I tell her I’m going to stay and try to nap a little more.

Two hours later I wake as the kids tell me that dinner is about ready. Where did the afternoon go?

I feel quite rejuvenated and head downstairs to the obligatory “good morning sleepy head” and “enjoying your Father’s Day?”.

The food is delicious. The weather is pleasant. The company and conversation are great. And my fuzzy head, which I can only assume was brought on by the seasonably warm weather, is left in dreamland.

Wife and I have now been married for 12 years. We enjoy spending time together. And in spending time together you learn unspoken communication. Sometimes the communication is intentional. Sometimes it is not.

Not long after dinner and presents, Wife comes out to the deck where I still have our children crawling over me, pointing out the intricacies of their homemade cards. She’s communicating with me. Her face has guilt on it. I reply to her unspoken communication with my own, raising my eyebrows, standard verbiage for, “what’s up?”

“I have a confession to make,” she starts.

“Ok,” I reply as the kids’ attention is immediately drawn to the situation.

“I might have given you decaf this morning…”

The day’s events replay in my mind and the pieces slide seamlessly together.

You see, I have a bit of a coffee addiction. It is actually quite odd. I do not drink a lot of coffee. I limit it. Two cups a day. If I’m at home it is two mugs. And if I am at work it is one thermos. Intentionally I do not drink coffee in the afternoon and stick to refilling my thermos from the water fountain. But as has been my routine for the last 15 years, I must have my morning coffee.

If we are traveling and the hotel doesn’t have coffee, we’re stopping at a gas station. If I leave the house for work and forget to bring my thermos, you bet my top priority is finding a cup of joe as soon as possible.

When I miss my morning coffee I get a headache. I feel sluggish. And believe it or not I might be irritable. Sounds like withdrawal to me. And this dependency on coffee is honestly kind of an awkward topic of conversation with the kids.

“Dad, why do you always drink coffee?”

“Well you see daughters. Coffee has caffeine in it. And caffeine is a drug. And I am addicted to it. And if I don’t get my morning hit my body thinks it is shutting down. I’m what you call… a druggie.”

But there it was, hanging out in the open as the sun began to set on a beautiful Sunday evening, a confession of guilt from my darling Wife.

“You poisoned me on Father’s Day?!?!?” I exclaimed.

The kids got a good chuckle out of Mom poisoning Dad on Father’s Day. In fact, Lollipop 2 made sure to ask every morning for the next week if the coffee in my mug was decaf or not. She’s looking out for me. I am glad to have her on my team.

But I think we will be ok. With the kids’ Summer break still going strong, if a cup of decaf means that her husband, the Father of her children, is incapacitated and away from the kids for an entire afternoon, I can guarantee she is checking the label twice.

Harry Potter and the Wizarding World Whistleblower

Thu, 26 Aug 2021 12:00:00 +0000

My family loves the Harry Potter series of books. It began a few years ago when we attended a “Harry Potter Night” event at the kids’ school. Themed activities were stationed around the cafeteria, gymnasium, and multi-purpose room. Crossword puzzles, scavenger hunts, wand craft stations, you know … typical Harry Potter event type stuff.

It was after this event we decided to actually read the Harry Potter books. I, myself, had read the first few books of the series when they were originally released. I found them interesting and engaging, but apparently not enough so that I continued devoting time to the remainder of the books. Wife had not read any of the books but was familiar with the epic from a few of the movies and, well, you know, being alive in the late 90’s and early 2000’s.

So we made it a family activity.

We read the books together, aloud. Or at least we did for the first four books. Once the plot took the darker turn from innocent, “You’re a wizard, Harry” to oh, I don’t know, anything with Bellatrix Lestrange, Wife and I continued the books on our own giving carefully curated summaries to the kids.

Even after we read through all the books (June to September of 2019), the Harry Potter craze in our house only intensified. And as I reflect back, it baffles me how much Harry Potter themed everything we have undertaken in only two years.

My journey into the Harry Potter Universe, this time, with kids in tow, has been much more intense than my initial escapade. There’s something about having a pre-12-year-old state with earnest expectation, the certainty of a future letter from Hogwarts, delivered by owl, requesting their enrollment.

It was this certainty that gave me a recent pause to ponder the potential reality of the situation. What if she’s right? What if “déjà vu” does not exist and is simply glitches in the … wait, wrong storyline. What if some unexplained phenomena are actually the result of unintentional spells. What if witches and wizards interact with each of us on a daily basis and we, ignorant muggles, are none-the-wiser. What if “Harry Potter and the <fill in the blank>” has been mishelved the last 24 years in libraries across the world because, in fact, J.K. Rowling has woven a whistleblowing tale of truth right before our very eyes!

So yeah, what if J.K. Rowling is the wizarding world whistleblower version of Edward Snowden? What if she has circumvented all Ministry of Magic protocols implementing the International Statute of Secrecy to give us muggles a glimpse of the world we are forcibly blind to seeing. Maybe she’s a witch with a political agenda? Maybe she’s a squib with a grudge? Maybe she’s just a muggle, in-the-know, attempting to spread truth and transparency based on her own judgements? Or maybe, just maybe, she is a third party of the wizarding world, whose story is not shared in the seven-book series. A group of “somethings” who capitalize on painting the portrait of good vs evil as best depicted in the Battle of Hogwarts. A group whose agenda is progressed by simple minded muggles being made aware of, but coached to believe as fantasy, the likes of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle.

The Ministry of Magic may very well have been reacting to these leaks for many years. The wide dissemination of the story and intense, cultish adoption by muggles, likely make the cleanup near impossible. The impact of these leaks to the wizarding world is probably largely unknown to those outside the Ministry of Magic, even to those witches and wizards whose safety and security are impacted.

Sometimes it is difficult to draw a clear line between imagination and out-of-the-box thinking. We encourage critical thinking and rational decision making. But those actions are rooted in our own realities, which is not truth, but subjective and developed from experiences. Where does a thought exercise turn into conspiratorial theorizing? I’m not sure, but I am sure the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad will set me straight soon.

PS. This post has NOT, I repeat NOT, been influenced, updated, or modified by any make believe organization called the Ministry of Magic or its subsidiaries. I assure you this post is a work of fiction, just like J.K. Rowling’s fantastical rantings on the so-called-wizarding-world. Go spend time doing wonderful muggle things and not looking further into absolutely false musings of nonsense magic. That is all.

Hi Puppy

Sun, 15 Aug 2021 12:00:00 +0000

There are many different ways to say hello to passing people while on a run. A formal “good morning”, a breathless “mornin’”, or a red-faced wave-of-the-hand. All are acceptable, regardless of whether or not the hello is reciprocated.

There are not, however, many ways to say hello to a passing dog while on a run. In fact, a greeting to a dog with intent for the dog to reciprocate is likely less than desirable to the dog’s human. Humans typically do not want their dog to lunge, pull, or be overly distracted from it’s forward movement while on a walk or run of their own.

So I consider the act of greeting dogs while on a run to be somewhat an art. With my intent of a dog sensing a positive interaction but unmotivated for any reciprocating action, I take careful consideration in the range of the greeting, the content of the greeting, the pitch of the greeting, and the eye contact of the greeting.

And I know it goes without saying, but not all dogs are the same. Each dog requires careful balancing of all greeting variables.

All variables except one, I have recently decided. The content. A recent encounter has led to my decision of greeting each passing dog with a simple, “Hi Puppy”.

My reason for this is not for the dog. At least it is not my intent. I don’t think a dog would care whether it is called “dog”, “puppy”, or “pooch”. It is happy to be engaged with by any name. I do it for the human.

A few days ago I was on a run at the park. I had just turned on a long straight path nicely shaded by dense trees on either side. Not too far down the path, headed in my direction, was a dog and it’s two humans. I assume a husband and wife. The husband walked slightly ahead making room for bidirectional traffic on the narrow path. He had a large camera on a strap around his neck. It appeared to be a nice camera, one that would be used for portraits. The wife and dog walked behind, slowly.

The whole group moved slowly. Slowly, because it was the pace of the dog. The dog was aged, showed grey hair, and moved with intentional arthritic steps. It sniffed grass and was not concerned with my approaching footsteps.

“Mornin,” I said to the husband at first who reciprocated with a nod.

“Hi Puppy,” I said to the dog.

And the moment passed. I continued my run in one direction while they walked off in the other.

The moment lingered on my mind, though. The backstory of this chance encounter began to thread and stitch itself together in my brain as the rhythmic steps of my shoes carried me further away.

I thought about their slow, solemn steps. I thought about the old dog. I thought about the nice camera. The story emerged that this husband and wife may well be taking their elderly companion on one of its final walks. A camera in tow to document the occasion before age claimed its inevitable victory. Maybe the humans, in fact, knew the very near date and time the dog’s life would come to a close and wanted it to experience the sounds, sights, and smells of a favorite wooded and heavily trafficked path one last time. The trip might have been a farewell of sorts. Any dog’s human will tell you that no matter how painful a dog’s steps may be they always seem to enjoy the journey.

The story was emotional and saddened me. But it was the only logical story my mind could fabricate.

Then, perhaps through self necessity, when I thought of my own interaction with the husband, wife, and dog, I was acutely settled by my choice of greetings to the dog.

“Hi Puppy.”

The backstory continued in my mind. After passing by a random park trail jogger who engaged with and called the old dog “puppy”, the husband and wife smiled at each other with thoughts of their soon-to-be lost best friend as a puppy once more. Maybe they recounted bringing the dog to this same park trail as a puppy. Or maybe they just got a chuckle out of a stranger calling their old dog, “puppy”. Or maybe they were already lost in their own thoughts and didn’t take any particular notice of a stranger’s greeting to their dog on a hot and humid Georgia-Summer morning. Or even, maybe, the old dog recognized a familiar name it had not heard in many years. And the association of “puppy” with memory of youth and boundless energy brought it some reprieve from age.

I fully recognize that it is largely the needs of my ego, bringing solace to a family’s tragic moments, and desires for a “happy ending” that drive my conclusion to a fictionalized backstory. Maybe I am overlaying my own life circumstances with aging dogs onto an unrelated chance encounter. But in any branch of the story tree, I am glad to have been given the opportunity to call an old dog, “puppy”. Same as a smile to a passing stranger, it is only with hope that the simple interaction brought comfort, should it be needed. So, from here on out, it will always be, “Hi Puppy”.

Dad Fail - Tree Swing Edition

Fri, 18 Dec 2020 12:00:00 +0000

We all remember doing dumb stuff as kids. Stuff that really makes you give thanks to your guardian angel (or angels for some of you…) and ultimately makes you wonder … where were my parents?

As a parent, I often find myself wondering what on earth my kid was thinking when they made a particular decision. Much of the time, I think it is evident that they were not thinking about anything! But as I reminisce, I can recount a number of occasions where my parents must have shaken their heads in awe … of my stupidity (at least for the ones they know about)

There was that one time my older brother and I were playing the game “who can crash their sled while zooming down a snowy hill the most awesomest?” Have you played that one before? It was awesome! What was not awesome was playing the game on a metal sled and deciding to flip off the front and have the sled run over you … metal runners right across the face. Stupid.

There was that other time my friends and I took my not-off-roading car into a muddy lot in a neighborhood under construction. We didn’t know how to drive in the mud. And we obviously had no plan in mind as my top-heavy car scaled a hill sideways and nearly flipped. We and the car somehow survived, but again the label clearly applies… Stupid.

There were those many times that I was running late for school on a frosty morning and instead of scraping the entire windshield and windows clear of ice, I basically cleared a big enough opening for me to see the road in front of me. Stupid.

There are many other memories rushing to mind, quite a few involving a bike, a few more involving cars, and even a few that will remain locked in the brain vault and nowhere near the Internet, forever.

Now, as a Dad, I feel there is a delicate balance between two different responsibilities. One, I have a responsibility to protect my kids from themselves. Every kid has a certain amount of stupid (yes, inexperience or immaturity is probably a better term) in them, and some of that stupid is a bit more dangerous than other bits. Keep your kid alive, that is like rule #1 of being a Dad. But there is also this term Wife and I love to throw around, “natural consequences”. We think of natural consequences as Darwinism short of death. Me running a metal sled over my eyeball was a natural consequence.

And that is where the other responsibility comes in. I believe I, as Dad, have a responsibility to encourage and enable my kids to explore that line of stupid so that they can best understand their capabilities and make responsible decisions when I am not around. I like to think of this responsibility as allowing natural consequences to happen, when, even though it may result in tears, scrapes, or hurt feelings, also results in a learned lesson.

So… I guess now is the confession part…

I think, now, is as good of a time as any, to submit, as evidence, to the record of the Internet, I crossed that line, and boy am I glad we all learned our lesson with only needing ice packs.

There we were, a few years ago, living in beautiful California on the Monterey Peninsula. We moved into a house and across the street was a HUGE and beautiful tree.

Now I do not know what you see when you look at that tree. But what I saw was a missing tree swing.

I had never made a tree swing. But I am a smart individual, how difficult could it be? And you know what, it was not that bad. After buying some rope, I drilled some holes in some scrap wood we had lying around, tied some knots, put a ball in one end of the rope to be able to launch it over a branch, and there we go!

It was awesome. I was Dad-of-the-year! I would silently gloat as cars drove by. Obviously the kids in passing cars would be intensely jealous of the joy and fun my kids were experiencing. And, obviously, the adults in the passing cars would be intensely jealous of my genius and earned affection from my children.

The kids did love it. They (and Wife) were quite cautious at first. But with my encouragement they were soon zipping through the air screaming “HIGHER!” And who am I to refuse my children this request?

Hindsight is a funny thing. In hindsight, it is clear to me that those parents driving by in their cars were not marveling at my genius but more likely concerned with my explicit level of stupid being showcased. A few of them, I’m sure, meant to call Child Protective Services when they got home, only to be distracted by their own kids running off to attempt rappelling out of the upstairs bathroom window.

Sure I was cautious with the kids on the swing … at first. But after a while, they soared! While I was busy making sure the pull rope I kept hold of didn’t wrap around anyone’s neck, they laughed and encouraged my heightened level of stupid.

Now, before you, dear reader, call Child Protective Services with a query on statute of limitations for child endangerment, I do want to assure you that some precautions were taken. I, for one, wore gloves, because of all the mulch that got lodged in the pull-rope as it swept quickly across the ground, so that I could give it a quick tug if the blur that was my kid seemed to be on or near collision course with the tree trunk.

We also limited the swing to only one kid at a time. Well … at first.

This is where my guardian angel, weary from my youth, is still writing thank you cards to the kids’ angels.

The neighbor kids were very excited about the tree swing. Their Mom (in hindsight) was likely not. I gave them rides with admittedly more caution that my own kids’ rides. One day, the last day, Lollipop #1 and the neighbor girl who was a year older than Lollipop #1, sat on the swing together and swayed back and forth.

SNAP!

They hit the ground hard. And Lollipop #1’s feet and ankles were directly under the wooden swing.

Have you ever experienced the moment of transition to where hindsight begins? Wondering if my daughter’s ankles were broken was that moment for me. It was quickly followed by thinking about what would’ve happened if the rope had snapped while the kids were only recognizable by their blur. A mix of emotions surfaced, concern for my kid, but also really a rather intense embarrassment at the perception (reality?) of my failure as a Dad to my kids and a responsible adult to the neighbor kids.

Fortunately, no ankles were broken. No lasting physical damage to anyone or anything other than the swing, which, over four years later, we still have, but remains with a snapped rope.

Natural consequences take on a whole new feeling when those that feel those consequences are the ones you love and who you are ultimately responsible for protecting and teaching.

In hindsight of hindsight, that is a thing, right? I think I will look back on the tree swing fondly. It was almost really bad. But it wasn’t. And we had a lot of fun with it. If a future house is near a tree with similar tree swing potential, will I make another swing, with a better selection of rope? Well … yeah …

The cure is worse than the problem

Wed, 07 Oct 2020 12:00:00 +0000

What a bizarre world in which we find ourselves living. A sickness is globally rampant, billionaires are building rockets that not just land on the ground for reuse, but they can also land on floating platforms in the middle of the ocean. Technology is progressing faster every single day, our Earth is warming, global currencies are becoming truly viable over traditional nation state fiat, and the Internet is filled with both wonderful knowledge and deceitful disinformation.

There is good, there is great, there is bad, and there is evil all around.

With all the craziness of how we survive day-to-day living in the year 2020, I feel that it is time that I take my public stance in support of a statement the President of the United States made back in March of this year.

“We can’t let the cure be worse than the problem” ~ President Donald J. Trump (source)

This succinct statement on a topic that impacts so many people every single day of their lives is so perfectly stated. This problem is most certainly a problem that needs resolved. While the problem will likely impact us for years to come, the current so-called “cure” to this problem is not efficient, it leaves people wondering “why?”, is likely doing more damage than the problem is already doing, and it is DRIVING ME CRAZY.

That’s right … we are talking about reusable coffee filters.

I get it, I really do. A thin paper filter that is used once and then tossed in the trash does take up room in a landfill. The plastic that wraps the group of filters follows the same path.

Use a tupperware container over a plastic bag or foil. Got it.

Use a fabric bag over a plastic grocery bag. Got it.

Use metal utensils over one-time-use plastic utensils. Got it.

But boy do I hate reusable coffee filters. My hate is not just a little. It is a lot. What do I want to do after making a bleary eyed cup of coffee in the morning? Not attempt to throw coffee grinds out of a plastic coffee filter that seems strangely magnetized to those coffee grinds. I do not want to hit the coffee filter against the side of the trash or compost bin, sending wet chunks everywhere, only to find coffee grinds still caked on the inside of the filter. I do not want to hold the reusable coffee filter under a blast of water attempting to rinse every little grind into the sink hoping that it will make it through the disposal and plumbing. No, I’ll just toss my coffee filter in the trash and drink my coffee.

I have seen articles on how much energy it takes to make cloth grocery bags vs plastic grocery bags. And much like everything in this information saturated world … I do not know what to believe.

However, I can tell you, that in order for someone to get me to use reusable coffee filters over paper filters on a regular basis, they would have to show me data that says something to the extreme of koala bears will go extinct if I continue to use paper filters.

The cure (reusable coffee filters) is definitely worse than the problem (single use coffee filters). And for better or worse … POTUS agrees.