Introspective 18 | unobtrusive lucidity

Cookies and Milk

Cookie Monster, our daughter's new favorite toy

The scheduling of being a full-time student has been tighter than I had ever expected now that I have added “father” to my list of roles played each day. Squeezing in work, school, family, and occasional sleep requires approximately five more hours than the 24 I have to work with.

I also have difficulty focusing at times as I stop to be astounded by the human becoming that is our beautiful little girl, running and talking (with a vocabulary that far exceeds her age, mind you) and telling Daddy and Mommy alike that she loves us. Just this afternoon as I arrived home from class she came running across our driveway to meet me, all grins and excitement at my homecoming. With commutes and various other complications factored in, though, most weeknights end with my having just enough time to have dinner with my wife and daughter and maybe an hour of playtime before putting that little angel to bed.

Something that I said before we even had our daughter…a responsibility that weighs heavily on my thoughts…is that it is non-negotiable for me, absolutely critical, that our daughter grow up feeling safe talking to me about anything, knowing that she can tell me anything, that I will never judge her, and that I will always be on her side. The depth of relationship I long to have with her by nature conflicts with my responsibility to provide a stable environment for her, because the latter involves a moderately successful career (and, thus, the school to make said career possible), which pulls me away from home.

How to reconcile these two important roles?

Sundays are the day that always give me time, and so I knew that would be part of the answer. And, one day, I was dreaming back to fond memories of our life in Virginia from only several months ago, and I remembered, one night when Karen was teaching her night class, taking our daughter with me to a nearby restaurant so that I could get a cheeseburger. She was, of course, far too young for anything but a bottle at the time, but we had great fun (and she managed to grab the attention of every waitress in the place…did I mention that she inherited her mother’s beauty?).

Then, I experienced a collision of ideas that results in inspiration. I needed to repeat such an excursion on a regular basis, and Sundays seemed to be free. And, since it only seems logical that I pass down my love of cookies to her (Karen affectionately refers to me as “cookie monster”), the obvious (and affordable) solution seemed to be cookies and milk.

Because, every child should love cookies and milk!

So, every Sunday afternoon for the past three months, I have announced to our daughter that we’re going for “cookies and milk!” She has began to jump for joy and repeat, in her adorably mis-pronounced way, “tooties and milt!” And, off we go to a coffee shop or some similar arrangement, where we split a cookie and have Daddy-daughter time.

Every Sunday.

Okay, there was an exception one weekend caused by an unexpected night of projectile vomiting, but that one notwithstanding….every Sunday.

My point with this isn’t just a routine or a ritual, though. When Karen and I were expecting, I had coffee with one of my spiritual leaders. He recalled his fear upon discovering that he and his wife were expecting their first, and he said that raising your child is a chance to correct many of the things that you’ve done wrong, to help your child not make those same mistakes. I’ve hurt those that I love by not being fully present because of the distractions of multiple responsibilities. I’m not proud of that. I want our daughter to know right up front that, whatever else is going on, Daddy will always carve out dedicated time for her. I also hope that, for the rest of her life until (and even after) she is an adult and makes her own way in this world from which I often desire so intensely to protect her, that, whatever is happening in her life, whatever troubles keep her awake or concerns that she carries, she will always be able have cookies and milk with Daddy and tell me anything. Anything. Because I want her to know that I will always listen, and that her Daddy always loves her and will make time for her.

I don’t know if this will take off, if she will grow to dislike cookies or milk (perish the thought, but it’s possible), or if it will survive the teenage years in which it will be less than cool to have a childhood snack with her father. Perhaps, even if it falls victim to such a fate, it will rebound later in life. The important thing, though, is not the snack itself, but the time. The more she talks, the more I will incline my ear to listen. And, one day, perhaps she will interrupt my work to tap me on the shoulder with a concerned look and say something to the effect of, “Daddy? I need to talk. Cookies and milk?”

At which point, life will stop and my attention will belong solely to her for whatever she needs. And, should she ever read this blog and perhaps this entry later in her life, then know, dearest, that you have my attention whenever you need it.

Because I never knew that I could love anyone this much, and this routine seems the most practical way to implement my desire for her to know that very thing.

Backward and Forward

I was a sophomore in high school when America entered yet another war, and I remember sitting in the back of my parents’ car on the way to a church service and hearing on the radio that what had become known as Operation Desert Storm was in full swing. We went home that evening, and I turned on the television to see coverage of what was transpiring on the other side of the world. I had never been cognizant of my country being at war before, and I felt all of the anxieties and emotions that went with it. I didn’t know where to turn as news channels were concerned, and I remember settling on CNN, simply because that was the one that I could think of and find first.

The network sort of stuck with me. I remember how the programming changed through the years, as I watched it nearly every morning, especially after I finished college. I don’t watch much live news programming any more, as cable is a relic of a bygone age in our household. Still, CNN remains a primary source from which I get the headlines, usually via phone or tablet somewhere between breakfast and the end of the morning commute. Taking the time to watch a program in the morning really isn’t so much a luxury that I have any more.

It’s interesting to reflect on how my news watching has changed over the years. I transitioned from cable, to podcasts, to streaming live coverage, to reading it within a mobile application. The progression has seemed so natural that I really haven’t even thought about it.

Until the most recent update to CNN’s iPad app, though, which now launches with the sound byte of James Earl Jones proclaiming, “This…is CNN”, apparently a network-wide return to its roots. Hearing it took me back to random evenings in high school sitting in front of the television. There was a segue from this into a general memory of spending weekday evenings watching television with my parents, and the feeling of safety and family that such a memory invokes.

Now, I’m more than aware of the studies linking regular television viewing to degradation in family communication…we haven’t let our daughter watch television until nearly the age of two. The memories of doing so with my parents, though, remain a wonderful recollection for me today.

I wonder if our daughter will experience anything similar, as watching broadcast programming is such an increasing rarity. I don’t think that there’s anything missing in that experience, per se, but I am curious as to what events that Karen and I consider commonplace will evolve and form wonderful memories for our daughter…and maybe that she’ll even nostalgically blog about later in life at some point. That will be beautiful news to me.

Eight Months of Adapting to a New Culture

I’ve always loved to travel, and to see new places. A goal that I sort of secretly held for Karen and I when we were married (and still do, its just more difficult as a student) was also a goal that I tried to keep for myself for years: to visit one new place every year. Typically, we’ve been successful in that.

While I’ve travelled a great deal, and I’ve seen much of what at least my own country has to offer, I haven’t lived in many different places. At this point in life, I’ve lived in three different states. While cultural differences in different geographic locations fascinate me to no end, those same differences can be simultaneously fascinating and frustrating when you’re living with them. In the South, things moved at an impossibly slow pace (unless one was constructing a new building, in which case it was up practically overnight, because that’s how they seem to define the concept of progress down there), you were waited on when someone felt like it if you went into a business, no one had any clue what to do with snow, and people were always polite to your face, regardless of what they said behind your back.

There were a lot of great things about the South, as well (the weather is foremost in my memory at the moment), but the things that I listed above were the things that I found to be most negative. I didn’t mind them at first, but they began to really annoy me after a while. There were other, specific things to Virginia, as well, like the fact that there was no such thing as an acceleration lane on the expressway, and that you could drive completely insane as long as you didn’t speed, because the only traffic law that any police officer seemed to care about at all was the speed limit (which was always posted incredibly low there).

All of those things are the things that don’t exist here in New England. After just short of eight months here, though, there’s a handful of things that are making me scratch my head in bemusement, and I thought that you might find them funny, as well.

Traffic patterns are just weird if you didn’t grow up with them (Karen did, and so she’s quite comfortable here). I’m glad to say that acceleration lanes are back in my life, but the cities here are just much older than those in the South, and thus were designed around foot traffic, not motor vehicle traffic. This manifests in practical ways, like roundabouts instead of traffic signals at many intersections (of which I’m a fan), but also in chaotic ways to the uninitiated, like streets branching off at incredibly odd angles at intersections. And circular intersections…those are always fun. With poor signage. And, in Massachusetts specifically, there are no lanes when you exit from an Interstate. So, you go from a structured four lanes of traffic to no distinguishable lanes, with traffic coming in from multiple exits on all sides and weaving in and out of each other to reach the outlet to their destination. Seriously, it’s chaos.

Karen and I live in the “greater Boston area,” but are just across the state line in New Hampshire. Our current city is sort of a bedroom community for the Boston area…many choose to live here because of the cost of living decrease. Because of that, I anticipated some continuity when we moved here, but the differences between New Hampshire and Massachusetts can actually be quite profound. Massachusetts, for example, prefers to regulate necessary things (with which I have no problem). Recycling is legally mandated in many areas. Cleaning the snow off of your car before driving is actually a law. New Hampshire, conversely, really doesn’t like to be told what to do. There’s no income tax here, and no sales tax, either (yet they still maintain excellent public services to their residents, such as health care for children). Don’t want to have insurance on your vehicle? That’s not legally required of you here (which is really concerning to me). Don’t want to wear your seat belt? That’s now a law, either. Very few traffic cameras exist here, and there are fewer laws in general. The license plates say “Live Free or Die,” for crying out loud. Going between the two on a daily basis is almost its own sort of regular culture shock.

Some things that I love about New England? The people are straight forward, but very friendly. They say what they think, and you don’t have to interpret. Pedestrians always have right of way, especially in crosswalks! If you’re in a crosswalk, you barely have to even look. Just walk, because traffic stops for you. Every town has a common, which is sort of cool, and makes a great landmark for navigation.

And, when snow happens (and it always happens), they really know how to deal with it (the main streets were cleared the next morning after 28 inches of snow dumped on us this year).

All that to say, every place has a different set of advantages and disadvantages, things that are irritating and things that are brilliant. I was ready for a different set of advantages and disadvantages, so moving is nice. I’m sure that we’ll do it all over again in a few years, and where will that one take us? Only time will tell…

In the meantime, I’m going to need to buy a lot more cold weather gear.

Lessons Learned

It’s no secret that I really don’t feel my age. I mean, sometimes I physically feel my age, but, at the end of the day, I really don’t act or think as though I’m nearly 40 years old.

Still, there have been events over the last seven years that have seriously altered my engagement with life, namely getting married and having a daughter. Each step brings this entire set of experiences that I previously had not known, and that, having lived through, made me more of an adult than I had previously been. These have often been the difficult things, the things that I would never have thought that I would be able to do.

And I don’t just mean changing diapers.

It’s interesting that many of these growing experiences happen while I’m in school. I’ve heard it said that most of the lessons you learn in school don’t happen in the classroom. I suppose, also, that this is all tied to the fact that I’m no longer functioning primarily for myself, but functioning for three of us. In any case, I’m doing things right now that I really never thought that I would be doing.

Like killing creepy crawlies.

You see, I’m afflicted with the truest form of arachnophobia. When I encounter one of those wretched things, the higher functions shut down and I go into an extreme fight-or-flight response. Or, at least I did, until a few weeks ago. Karen and I moved into a new apartment at that time…a quick, three month lease to get us through the end of school. I’m not certain if the problem existed before, or if we unwittingly brought it with us along with some things that had been in storage before we moved in, but our “kill quota” for the creepy-crawlies has been upwards of 3 nightly. At first, I was reduced to a trembling ball on the sofa. Now, I’m able to engage the things head on with a bit of bravado and vacuum cleaner in hand.

The really interesting part of the progression is that it has come with exposure. Karen and I have really not wanted to involve an exterminator in this process because we don’t want unnecessary chemicals around our daughter. So, we’ve been researching a host of more natural ways to deal with these things. First, of course, came research into the kind of the little buggers we were dealing with. With that research, I learned a lot about these things that had previously led me to horrific nightmares with the briefest sighting. The more that I learned, the less I feared. The adage of “know your enemy” apparently carries a lot of wisdom.

So, at nearly 40 years old, I’m finally able to confront this phobia successfully, or at least functionally. Another learning experience behind me.

I really hope the next one is easier…

Distant Deliveries

The awkward part about the location of our new apartment is that we have yet to find a pizza place that will deliver to the address. I’m not really certain as to why…we’re walking distance away from streets of local downtown businesses, but our street is off the magic grid of pizza delivery for our city.

In any case, Karen decided that tonight was a pizza night, and she called me on my way home from class, because the only option is carryout. So, I detoured to the appropriate pizza location and went inside to claim our dinner.

To be greeted by nostalgia.

I grew up in a rural area, and went to school in a town about 20 minutes away. My mother did all of the week’s shopping on Fridays: groceries, household supplies, whatever was necessary was all purchased in the weekly Friday excursion. She made this a special treat for me at the end of the week, as well, by picking me up from school on Friday afternoons about halfway through said shopping excursion, thus eliminating one of my one-hour bus rides for the week. And, we always managed to have fun. Frequently, we took a pizza home on Friday afternoons, arriving just in time as my father got home from work. We always ordered from the same place (my parents are to this day creatures of routine), and it was always carryout, because there was certainly no delivery in the area in which we lived.

So, many Friday afternoons were spent waiting in the restaurant for the pizza to be prepared. Those sorts of routine sounds, sights and smells have a way of making a mark on a child’s memory, and these certainly did (I was later offered a summer job at that same restaurant, and I’m so glad that I already had one and turned it down, because it would have ruined the nostalgia to see such a thing up close).

Fast forward to me leaving for college. There were multiple pizza deliveries within minutes of campus in that much larger city, all of which made a lucrative business of delivering to one’s dorm room. So, delivery ruled. And, it has ever since. Karen and I have always been quite used to ordering delivery on evenings when we don’t feel like cooking.

I think that, in becoming so accustomed to deliveries, that I’ve lost something of the memory that I once had. Standing in that pizza restaurant tonight, listening to the sounds and smelling the scents, listening to a grandmother help her grandchildren in choosing their order behind me, I was transported back momentarily to those Friday afternoons of my childhood.

My childhood was far from perfect, but it had its moments.

I know that we’ll make memories like this with and for our daughter, and I know that they may very well be the unintentional ones…like the pizza restaurant for me…that make some of the biggest impressions. Perhaps one day she’ll write about what they were and I’ll get to enjoy reliving them. In any case, this is yet another moment when I’m learning to not let convenience overpower an appreciation for the goodness of life when it was just a bit slower.