You know it’s going to be a weird week when you find yourself duct-taping a sandwich bag to your little daughter’s genital area.
A possible bladder infection—that was the diagnosis—and we were charged with the task of collecting the specimen and delivering it to the lab on time. This involved attaching the aforementioned apparatus—a glassine envelope held in place with gooey adhesive tape—and then chasing Abby around with a sippy cup in an attempt to induce production. First there was the struggle to get the bag on correctly. Then she wouldn’t go. By the time she did go, the bag had come loose. Full diaper, empty bag. We got a new bag on her, but of course now her bladder was empty, and she was getting cranky at our attempts at forced irrigation. When it finally worked—when we opened her diaper and beheld the sloshy bag of pee—Kim and I both cried out with delight and relief. This is what our lives have come to—two grown adults rejoicing over a bagful of urine.
But it’s been that kind of a week. Abby has been taking her first tentative steps, but she has had the misfortune to be doing it at a time when we are distracted by our upcoming move. Every evening has been consumed with frenzied packing and dismantling, so she has pretty much been left to do what she wants. And what she wants right now is to be mobile.
Usually she totters about for a few brief but lively moments, swaying and rubber-limbed like Robert Downey Jr. at a keg party, before gravity stakes its claim and she does a thudding face plant into the carpet. A couple of seconds of shocked silence, followed by a crescendo of wailing, followed by some maternal coddling and some paternal facial contortions to soothe and amuse, and all is fine—for about ten minutes, at which point the cycle begins anew.
She can stay upright for longer periods when she steadies herself against something, usually the coffee table, but although her performances are longer this way, they end with the same sudden, dramatic bellyflop—only this time with the added excitement of possible head trauma. I have become curiously attuned, if not accustomed, to the sound of Abby’s forehead striking the tabletop as she plummets to the floor. It’s sort of a dense, solid thwunk, and I am able to pick it out instantly amid the hubbub of packing and the background drone of Stanley Cup playoff action. I guess it’s just one of those natural parenting instincts.
I just hope that, during her unsupervised wanderings, she doesn’t find the rest of the dead bird. Oh, didn’t I mention the dead bird? We arrived home one day this week to a scattering of feathers throughout the place, as if a pillow had spontaneously exploded. Several pillows, in fact. And there was the cat, with a swagger in his step and a wild gleam in his eyes. We followed the trail to Abby’s room where we found, wedged partly under a dresser, a fragment of bird. Yeah, tell me about it. It was a sizeable chunk, but not sizeable enough to constitute a complete carcass.
As you can imagine, this adds a dimension of drama and unpredictability to our moving-out process. The place is a jumbled confusion of boxes and housewares and stacked furniture, offering a world of possibilities for a predatory housecat who wants to cache the remains of his prey. So now, every time we lift or move something, we do it at arm’s length, and with a sideways peek and an anticipatory grimace. I am embarrassed to admit that if there are still leftovers from Caesar’s experiment with vivisection, I am hoping they will remain concealed beyond easy reach (behind the washer, say, or under the fridge) until the next tenants trace the odor.
There is always a measure of melancholy, I find, that comes with moving. It is a clear demarcation in your life—another phase over, another chapter closed, another decomposing animal carcass left behind. But this time, perhaps because of Abby, or perhaps because we’re finally buying after years of renting, I’m feeling less regret.
“You should be proud,” the real estate agent said when we had closed the deal. I know that’s what real estate agents are supposed to say, but he’s right. And as I sat there the other night last week, atop a stack of boxes in a storm-tossed living room, eating macaroni and cheese out of the pot, surrounded by a frazzled wife, a homicidal cat, and a baby daughter who concusses herself on furniture while wearing a deflated pee-bag—well, I just couldn’t have been prouder.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Things I Have Been Doing Lately, In No Particular Order
LISTENING TO MY GOOD FRIEND, DENISE PRAILL, COMPLAIN ABOUT BEING IGNORED
Several years ago, I was watching coverage of the O.J Simpson freeway chase with my good friend, Denise Praill, when I happened to remark on how great a pal Al Cowlings was proving to be. After all, it’s one thing to be there to help your buddy move a piano, but when you volunteer to be a wheel man in a spectacular police chase…well, that’s pretty impressive loyalty, don’t you think?
“I would do that for you,” Denise said at the time.
“Seriously? You mean if I commit a vicious double murder and need to flee the jurisdiction, I can count on you to drive while I hunker down in the back seat and reload?”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“You would be my Al Cowlings?”
“I would be your Al Cowlings.”
I was touched. I immediately offered to be her Al Cowlings as well, of course—secure in the knowledge that she is reliably even-tempered, so the chances of my actually being pressed into service are really quite slim. In any case, this exchange of vows has kept our friendship grounded over the years. If you’re lucky enough to have an Al Cowlings, you don’t take it for granted.
All this is by way of mentioning that my good friend, Denise Praill, has been monitoring these entries, and has let it be known that she is offended by her absence. I’m not sure why—it’s not like a mention here is comparable to making People’s list of the sexiest people alive—but she has been lobbying strenuously (and repeatedly) for official blog recognition, on the reasonable grounds that if you are prepared to aid and abet a person in the commission of multiple felonies, you at least deserve a mention in their silly online diary. Fair enough.
TAKING ABBY TO GET AN X-RAY
Abby to woman in the waiting room: “Hi.”
Woman in the waiting room to Abby: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
If Abby hadn’t finally been called in for her x-ray, they would probably still be going at it.
Abby was getting a chest x-ray because, after three months and three visits to three different doctors, we finally found one who agreed that, at one year old, Abby was too young to have such a bone-rattling smoker’s cough. The pediatrician we saw suspected she had a touch of pneumonia. That’s how she put it, too—a touch of pneumonia. To my ears, that’s like saying you have just a pinch of the Black Plague.
The x-ray technician was a small, abrupt woman with thin lips and a stern look. I guess when you work with deadly radiation every day there is no time for frivolity. She watched, grim-faced, as I started removing Abby’s clothes and did my best to re-assure her (Abby, that is—the x-ray tech didn’t need to be re-assured).
“Don’t worry, we know how to deal with kids here.” She managed to make it sound like a threat.
Predictably, sitting half-naked on a big table in a darkened room in front of menacing machinery made Abby nervous, and when I moved away to go around the table to the other side as instructed, she panicked. She did that heart-wrenching pose she does, where she thrusts out her arms, hands open, fingers splayed—a beseeching, plaintive, body-language plea to be picked up and held. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes moistened. Then the crying started—big blubbering anguished wails that turned her face red and made her tremble all over.
“Just get her to stand up against the plate,” Nurse Ratched said, in a manner not at all reminiscent of my good friend, Denise Praill. Under the circumstances, it would have been easier to nail Jello to a tree. Abby had worked herself into a wild-eyed fit and wanted nothing else but to be picked up. It didn’t help when the evil technician advanced on her swiftly and pinned her arms up against the wall above her head, demonstrating how I should hold her. Abby screamed louder and thrashed violently. By the time the damn pictures were taken, I was almost crying myself. I sometimes wonder if I’m too sensitive for this whole parenthood thing.
On the way out, Abby spotted a man sitting in the seat by the door.
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “H--”
I tugged her out the door and we were gone.
GETTING AN EARACHE
It’s actually not just an earache—it’s more of a plugged, sloshy ear canal. I’m apparently retaining water in my head.
As a result, everything around me has taken on a faintly unpleasant, surreal aspect. It’s like being in a David Lynch film. I feel like I’m underwater all the time, my balance is off, my skull feels as heavy and dense as a medicine ball, and everyone sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. All my senses are affected. My contact with the world, and with my good friend, Denise Praill, seems oddly muted. I feel like Helen Keller in a duffel bag.
BUYING A HOME
We weren’t seriously looking to buy a place just now but, as John Lennon said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. When Kim called me at work to say that she had come across a listing of interest, I thought, what the hell. As my good friend, Denise Praill, would say, there’s no harm in looking.
I had just three conditions. First of all, it had to be affordable enough that our monthly mortgage payment would not be higher than what we now spend on rent. Second, it had to be as close, or closer, to the city than our current home (I have already logged more travel miles than some veteran astronauts). And third, we needed a possession date no earlier than June, so we could have time to get our decrepit finances in order and liberate ourselves from our lease.
Given that these were the only criteria that I was steadfastly resolute about, it should come as no surprise that in three weeks we are taking possession of a home several miles farther out from the city at a price that is adding a fourth digit to our monthly housing costs.
Oh well. What’s the worst that could happen? I could default on the mortgage and have to flee from angry creditors. I’m not sure where I would go, exactly— but at least I know who would drive.
Several years ago, I was watching coverage of the O.J Simpson freeway chase with my good friend, Denise Praill, when I happened to remark on how great a pal Al Cowlings was proving to be. After all, it’s one thing to be there to help your buddy move a piano, but when you volunteer to be a wheel man in a spectacular police chase…well, that’s pretty impressive loyalty, don’t you think?
“I would do that for you,” Denise said at the time.
“Seriously? You mean if I commit a vicious double murder and need to flee the jurisdiction, I can count on you to drive while I hunker down in the back seat and reload?”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“You would be my Al Cowlings?”
“I would be your Al Cowlings.”
I was touched. I immediately offered to be her Al Cowlings as well, of course—secure in the knowledge that she is reliably even-tempered, so the chances of my actually being pressed into service are really quite slim. In any case, this exchange of vows has kept our friendship grounded over the years. If you’re lucky enough to have an Al Cowlings, you don’t take it for granted.
All this is by way of mentioning that my good friend, Denise Praill, has been monitoring these entries, and has let it be known that she is offended by her absence. I’m not sure why—it’s not like a mention here is comparable to making People’s list of the sexiest people alive—but she has been lobbying strenuously (and repeatedly) for official blog recognition, on the reasonable grounds that if you are prepared to aid and abet a person in the commission of multiple felonies, you at least deserve a mention in their silly online diary. Fair enough.
TAKING ABBY TO GET AN X-RAY
Abby to woman in the waiting room: “Hi.”
Woman in the waiting room to Abby: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
If Abby hadn’t finally been called in for her x-ray, they would probably still be going at it.
Abby was getting a chest x-ray because, after three months and three visits to three different doctors, we finally found one who agreed that, at one year old, Abby was too young to have such a bone-rattling smoker’s cough. The pediatrician we saw suspected she had a touch of pneumonia. That’s how she put it, too—a touch of pneumonia. To my ears, that’s like saying you have just a pinch of the Black Plague.
The x-ray technician was a small, abrupt woman with thin lips and a stern look. I guess when you work with deadly radiation every day there is no time for frivolity. She watched, grim-faced, as I started removing Abby’s clothes and did my best to re-assure her (Abby, that is—the x-ray tech didn’t need to be re-assured).
“Don’t worry, we know how to deal with kids here.” She managed to make it sound like a threat.
Predictably, sitting half-naked on a big table in a darkened room in front of menacing machinery made Abby nervous, and when I moved away to go around the table to the other side as instructed, she panicked. She did that heart-wrenching pose she does, where she thrusts out her arms, hands open, fingers splayed—a beseeching, plaintive, body-language plea to be picked up and held. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes moistened. Then the crying started—big blubbering anguished wails that turned her face red and made her tremble all over.
“Just get her to stand up against the plate,” Nurse Ratched said, in a manner not at all reminiscent of my good friend, Denise Praill. Under the circumstances, it would have been easier to nail Jello to a tree. Abby had worked herself into a wild-eyed fit and wanted nothing else but to be picked up. It didn’t help when the evil technician advanced on her swiftly and pinned her arms up against the wall above her head, demonstrating how I should hold her. Abby screamed louder and thrashed violently. By the time the damn pictures were taken, I was almost crying myself. I sometimes wonder if I’m too sensitive for this whole parenthood thing.
On the way out, Abby spotted a man sitting in the seat by the door.
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “H--”
I tugged her out the door and we were gone.
GETTING AN EARACHE
It’s actually not just an earache—it’s more of a plugged, sloshy ear canal. I’m apparently retaining water in my head.
As a result, everything around me has taken on a faintly unpleasant, surreal aspect. It’s like being in a David Lynch film. I feel like I’m underwater all the time, my balance is off, my skull feels as heavy and dense as a medicine ball, and everyone sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. All my senses are affected. My contact with the world, and with my good friend, Denise Praill, seems oddly muted. I feel like Helen Keller in a duffel bag.
BUYING A HOME
We weren’t seriously looking to buy a place just now but, as John Lennon said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. When Kim called me at work to say that she had come across a listing of interest, I thought, what the hell. As my good friend, Denise Praill, would say, there’s no harm in looking.
I had just three conditions. First of all, it had to be affordable enough that our monthly mortgage payment would not be higher than what we now spend on rent. Second, it had to be as close, or closer, to the city than our current home (I have already logged more travel miles than some veteran astronauts). And third, we needed a possession date no earlier than June, so we could have time to get our decrepit finances in order and liberate ourselves from our lease.
Given that these were the only criteria that I was steadfastly resolute about, it should come as no surprise that in three weeks we are taking possession of a home several miles farther out from the city at a price that is adding a fourth digit to our monthly housing costs.
Oh well. What’s the worst that could happen? I could default on the mortgage and have to flee from angry creditors. I’m not sure where I would go, exactly— but at least I know who would drive.
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