days of naze
|be careful you don't fall / into the spaces
A little audio gift (85 kb .wav)
for my Faithful readers on
the first anniversary (7/14/99) of
the site. Hand cranked to help
you on the long march.
An obnoxiously large
(101k .wav) audio greeting
from the Author.
|November 14, 1999
My nephew, Nicky, put a sticker down the front of a girl's shirt in his first grade class.
Later that day his mother patiently explained that shoving things down a girl's front is not okay because this is a "private place".
"But that's not fair! Why do girls get a private place on their chest and boys don't?!"
My son, Jack (who is Nick's age and ever the champion of reason and order) responds emphatically: "But Nick! That's where girls get boobs and that's the MOST PRIVATE PART OF ALL!"
Cathy, barely able to contain explosive laughter, thought better of correcting him.
David, all of three and a half, is beginning to assert his will, essaying forth with proclamations:
"I'm not a baby, I'm a brudder [a.k.a. "brother"]."
"I'm two and a half. That's older than three."
The little one is notorious for his Gemini-riddled statements: "I want a banana -- I don't want a banana".
"David, do you want a banana?"
To which he responds with a scowl and a worried sound, sort of like Marge Simpson, but less gravelly.
David has unfortunately received the teasing chromosome from his father.
"David, what happened to your underpants?"
"I ate 'em!", with a big shark grin on his face.
And for those among you who still cling to the once popular notion that gender specific behavior is mostly a product of social conditioning, I present Exhibit D (for David): brandishing a red plastic spoon the little one raises it proudly and calls out, "this is my sword!"
As a hospital social worker, Cathy spends a lot of time with older gentlemen, many of whom are near the end of their battle with some terminal condition. She has built a reputation as a driven advocate and one who will go to the mat to get patients the best care possible. Part of the job is to be solid, together, a rock for patients and their families who know that death's wrecking ball is weeks, days, hours, or minutes away.
"But sometimes they get real calm."
She described Mr. Weller, ravaged by liver cancer, laying quietly in his bed. And Cathy turned to me, with tears in her eyes. "He reached up and did this", running her fingertips through the bangs of my hair, "and he said, 'My sister had red hair'. That was all he said."
And where do I fit into all of this? Quite frankly, I am slowly, steadily losing my private claims on self-righteousness.
In fact, I am a selfish bastard.
She climbed into bed with me late one Saturday morning. Something was up -- the early bird rarely gets back in.
She was anxiously reading me for a reaction. Outwardly I was calm. Inside I felt myself falling.
We were absolutely together in our desire for two children. Planned them, made, lived and breathed our blood pact to be co-parents. Just days from the final vasectomy appointment I pulled out at Cathy's urging.
And later, a period of lengthy and sometimes passionate discussion: Would we have a third? Neither of us would be happy staying home. Both of us are regularly exhausted between parenting, housework and job work. Just getting by on two decent salaries, honking huge but slowly diminishing childcare expenses, and major debt.
I could not see clear to number three. But for Cathy this was not a matter of seeing, it was a matter of feeling. And her feelings for a time were quite powerful. We never reached agreement, which meant we wouldn't go ahead. We had agreed each time before and we weren't in agreement now.
And yet here we are.
Of course, I was choosing yes when I knew she went off the Pill. And what we had was essentially an occasional trip to the gamete craps table. This is not a smart game to play when your, um, seed is performing like the chromosomal equivalent of Navy Seals.
It is unfortunately easy to determine the moment of conception. I was in fact seated in this very chair (a comfy but well-worn and aged number) that has been stationed in front of the PC since the beginning. I won't go into the details of how it started with a good night kiss which intensified and led to certain acts in said chair and then continued on neighboring bed. That wouldn't be cricket.
She said she wasn't trying to get pregnant. I believe her. But there is a shred of doubt that persists. I don't imagine that will ever completely fade.
When she came to me with the news, I could see in her eyes that there wasn't any question that she wanted this child. And from that moment I committed to a new three child life.
We both are hoping for a girl. With two boys it would be a nice balance, but we'll love another boy with all our hearts. (And yes, I am well aware that the sex of the child is completely my fault.) They exhaust and exasperate us, but we never could imagine more beautiful and fascinating creatures than our sons. (Remind me to explain the Bagel Jail game sometime...)
Just in reach weeks ago, I now bid adieu to much desired swing dancing lessons; the within sight and life goal of my first ever journey to my homeland of Sonde, Norway; substantive contributions to college funds for the current two (tuition in 2011 and 2014 - the horror, the horror); a future of increasingly restful nights; to return to the orchestra, my only true transport to get inside the music; the security of a now in which all your progeny are beyond the weakest and most vulnerable moments of their lives.
Not forever. But for more years.
Like Donna Summers, I will survive. Hell, I'm pretty good at the Dad Thing.
I probably shouldn't get into this... I saw the fetus on the sonogram last week. I am loathe to admit it, but I don't consider the fetus to be my child. I consider it to be my potential child.
Cath's OB/GYN attempted an early 10 week test that would have provided a slew of data on the health of the fetus (including gender) if she could have obtained the tiny sample of placental material. Things didn't line up well that day and after a very long session during which Cathy went above and beyond the call of duty, the doctor bailed out of the procedure.
Only afterwards in the parking structure did the stoic facade crumble. The duress, pain and emotions roiling within her (to which I was not attuned) leaked out. And for a few moments we held each other.
On Lou Reed's album "New York", Lou sings:
I hope it's true what my wife says to me
I hope it's true what my wife says to me
I hope it's true what my wife says to me
She says, Lou, it's the beginning of a great adventure.
p.s. More rivulet than revelation: new days notification.
|previously on days of naze :
sf part 3 - fray3
what have you done for me lately? i'm still here ain't i?
|May you never be more active
when you are doing nothing.
They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
-Carl W. Buehner
|in the feedbag:
book: The Switch by Elmore Leonard; Titanic - Legacy of the World's Greatest Ocean Liner, a Time Life book!
web: Salon: Paulina Borsook sees San Fransingapore;if you aren't reading todd, do so now, and tremble; the best erotica I've seen on the Web and the improbable thing is that I've actually met her: dragonflypond (NC-17, not for the dainty).
concert: Was at a trade show in Orlando two weeks ago and saw Wynnona live for the first time ever. I was not expecting at all one of the best performances I've ever experienced, but who ever does? She effortlessly and gracefully handled a slew of parents bringing their kids to the stage. I'm in love.
tv: Deep in my heart I know that I could be Charlie Rose.
weather: disturbingly warm in the Rose City, 65 degrees Farenheit on November 13? proof positive of global warming.
audio tonight: mainlining Smashing Pumpkins - Mellon Collie through Real Jukebox simultaneously with Oregon State football vs Arizona Wildcats (OSU wins, goes 7-3 after 29 losings seasons). (Incidentally, my team, the U of Oregon was the first Division I football team to Netcast it's games.)
job: We take the product that wouldn't die to pre-release in 3 weeks. Pray for me.
|"Smurf" attacks against my ISP this week|
© christopher naze