Standing up

 "I loved to make people laugh in high school, and then I found I loved being on stage in front of people. I'm sure that's some kind of ego trip or a way to overcome shyness. I was very kind of shy and reserved, so there's a way to be on stage and be performing and balance your life out." -Steve Martin

Between 1989-1994 you could often find me coming home from school, grabbing a snack, and sitting around with my hilarious friends. These friends were stand-up comedians and I would catch their "bits" on The Comedy Channel (the precursor to Comedy Central) show Short Attention Span Theater. I've been enamored with stand up comedy for about as long as I can remember. I remember renting Comic Relief VHS tapes, and being exposed to the genius of Steven Wright. I can remember watching Eddie Murphy's RAW and laughing, although I now wonder if I even understood what I was laughing at. I bought Bill Cosby and Jeff Foxworthy cassette tapes, Jerry Seinfled, Ellen Degeneres, and Jack Handey books. My uncle Darwin and Aunt Betty introduced me to Foster Brooks one Christmas and I listened to Bob Newhart on an airplane trip to Orlando when I was very young. I had a fascination bordering on an obsession.

 
It's been on my bucket list for a while now to perform at a stand up comedy open mic. However, the idea has always been a terrifying. I've always had people tell me I'm funny and I've always been able to make people laugh. For some reason, the idea of going on stage to do it intentionally, seems exceedingly daunting. Why?

It's a matter of self confidence. An attribute I've always lacked. I never excelled at sports because I lacked the confidence in myself, I never believed in my abilities or felt that I was good enough. That idea of "I'm not good enough", has always echoed in my head. Even at the age of 37, I still lack the confidence in myself that I should have learned somewhere along the way. At this age it shows up differently then when I was a kid. I remember once as a kid going to my brother's soccer practice, my parents were the coaches (which is odd because neither ever played soccer to my knowledge...but then soccer was a relatively new sport to our small Indiana town at the time), they had me do one of the drills the team was doing. Instead of kicking the ball, I swung my leg and kicked nothing but air and then fell down. I was so embarrassed. I didn't touch another soccer ball for years. When I was in 5th or 6th grade, my parents enrolled me in 4H, because that's just what you did. I was a trapezoidal peg in a round hole, to say I didn't fit in at 4H is like saying Hitler wasn't fond Jews. I was once asked to say the pledge of allegiance, and I cried and refused to do it. I couldn't go up in front of these strangers and do it. I was so embarrassed. Similarly, I experience a slight variation of those same feelings today when I wonder if I am a good enough teacher, or when I don't feel like a man when I can't fix something around the house or I have to admit I don't know how to change the oil in my car. I get so embarrassed.

Perhaps soccer and 4H would have given me self confidence had I stuck with it, and not been so embarrassed to try. Maybe I should have tried other sports, clubs, or activities to develop my confidence. Perhaps, had I done those things, today I would spend less time wondering if I'm good enough or if people like me. Perhaps I would not have waited until I was 37 to do my first stand up comedy set.

Last week I performed for 14 minutes at a local brewpub, and it was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. It was a rush like none I've experienced before, this is coming from a guy who has jumped out of plane, bungee jumped, and rock climbed in the PNW. I have to be honest and say that it went extremely well.  Admittedly the room was full of friends which helped, and I know there is much room for improvement. But, my first time doing stand up... was great.

Here's what I learned:
1. Fake it till you make it. I faked the confidence that is so crucial to stand up comedy. I had to, at first. As my set continued, it got easier to be confident and eventually I felt quite comfortable.
2. Confidence is a muscle that must be exercised regularly. I did something that scared me, I survived...no I thrived. Now, I want to do it again. Am I still scared? Heck yeah! That's part of it though, the truth is I might get back up there and tell the same jokes and completely bomb. That doesn't mean I'm not funny or that I can't do stand up. It just means I need to keep working on it.
3. Failure isn't fatal. Not all of the jokes in my set worked, there were at least 2 places where I thought I'd get a laugh that I didn't get anything. Those jokes didn't work, but I kept going and eventually, like Stella, I got my groove back. I now know to either not do those jokes or re-work them.

So my goal now is this: Apply those lessons to all areas of my life and develop a confidence that allows me to be comfortable with who I am. So, I must do things that scare me. Also, I want to instill these lessons in my kids so that I can help them be confident in who they are.
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As a postlude, Wednesday June 22nd I will do my next open mic at an actual comedy club as a part of a contest called the The Great Indiana Mic Off at Morty's Comedy Joint in Indianapolis. This is the real deal. I have 6 minutes to fill with my best stuff and I need to kill...and have supreme confidence. If you'd like to support me it would mean the world to me. I would love to have a fan base there, I can literally feel the positive vibes from you when I'm on stage. Plus, the winners are decided based on the volume of audience applause, so the more fans I have there supporting me the better my odds are of winning. I really do hope to see you there.
See me at Morty's Comedy Joint on 6/22 for only $5! http://old.mortyscomedy.com/tickets.cfm?showid=968.

Below is footage from my first show:

Father's Day 2015

"It is a wise father that knows his own child"- William Shakespeare 

It is 7pm on Fathers Day, and I'm sitting on the back porch enjoying a cigar and stout ale...very manly, I know.  Jami has taken the kids to her grandfather's farm for a bonfire. Thus, my Fathers Day gift has been some peace and quiet, which in turn has given me time to reflect on being a father.

First, a few memories of my own father. My father and I are quite opposite in personality. I would describe my father as conservative, reserved,  and intellectual. On the other hand, I'm fairly liberal, artistic, and prone to flights of fancy. This disparity in disposition, resulted in neither one of us "getting" the other when I was growing up. What does a shrewd business professional say to his son when the latter informs his father that he intends to go to the Joe Kubert School of Cartooning and Graphic Arts, to become a comic book artist? The father sees this idea as unrealistic, or a phase. When the father encourages the son to save his money and to never accrue credit card debt, the son sees the wisdom of the elder as being overprotective and an unwillingness to "carpe" the "diem". There was a disconnect.

The son does recall watching the father run down a country road carrying a torch, that as the son understood would eventually be carried to the Pan Am Games in Indianapolis circa 1987. In the son's eyes, his father was an olympian, the son's heart swelled with pride. The son remembers a Christmas when he received fake razors, and the father slathered the boy's whisker-less face with Barbasol and proceeded to shave the boy's face. The son felt like a man. The son reminisces about the time the father put up a basketball goal, and brought home a new bmx bike. The father often showed his love and selflessness in his provision for his family. 

In recent years my father has from time to time lamented over the fact that he had a short fuse and a quick temper when my brother and I were younger. And yes, I suppose I could tell a few stories of when that temper reared its red face and pursed lips. But why? That's not how I choose to remember my father.  I see my father as a man who loved his family dearly and wanted the absolute best for his family, sometimes to a fault. He worked his ass off to provide for his children, perhaps to give them the things he never had when he was growing up?

I choose to remember my father in snippets of memories that play in my mind like an old 35mm family home movie. The scene of him embracing his boys at his father's funeral, unaware that this was the first time his sons had seen him cry, plays in the theatre of my memories. The time I saw him head laying down on his crossed arms as he sat at the patio table, trying to compose his emotions after packing up my brother's Camero and watching him drive off to his freshmen year at college; this picture of love is nestled into my memory. I can easily picture my father choking back tears as I handed him my boy, and he held his grandson for the first time.  

This is the father I tenderly remember.

For my own children, I hope I can provide for them the way my father provided for me, my brother, and my mother. Also, I hope that I know them. That I can understand, appreciate, and encourage their personality quirks. For all os us, I hope that we can guide our children and help them become who they were meant to be, and not try to mold them into who we would have them be. 

Easier said than done.

Update: my daughter came home and saw the cigar that I was 3/4 of the way done smoking.  She picked it up and threw it into the yard and told me, "you shouldn't blow smoke."

Summer movies

I've been negligent in my blogging duties, it's summer...sorry. In the meantime here's a new Cecil Kids Movie Preview for your enjoyment

the end of innocence

 "You should try losing some weight over the summer." she said to me. The "she" in question, was a serious babe, maybe the cutest girl in our sixth grade class. I probably made a joke, because then...as it is now, it was my go to defense mechanism. However, 24 years later I can still remember those words slashing their way into my psyche. It turns out that sixth grade is a very vulnerable time for kids emotionally. I was coming to grips with my appearance and growing ever more self-conscious. I was admittedly a little chunky, I had an affinity for Hostess cupcakes and was a year or two shy of a growth spurt that would allow me to shed my "baby fat". However, I was not so big as to warrant that particular comment from that particular girl. My perception was that I was fat, whether or not that was true is beside the point; perception is reality. I wonder if she remembers saying those words to me? I wonder if she ever thought how those words would echo in my head, and make me worry about whether or not people liked me or thought I was cool? The doubts, insecurities, and self loathing her words put in my head wreaked havoc on my self-confidence, the consequences of which I still deal with at age 36.

"Turn the other cheek." I was brought up in a religious family, and this adage was preached from the pulpit on Sundays. When I was in sixth grade me and my buddies used to walk around downtown Washington, IN after school. We would head to the White Steamer after school, where we would scarf down cheeseburgers prepared on a flat top grill that had been searing ground beef patties and grilled onions the same way for twenty plus years. We'd then walk around, hitting up Tater's music and movies, and The End Zone sporting goods store. We were killing time, not a worry in the world. One day another group of guys, a year or two older than us, was downtown too. In the unfair social hierarchy of the teenage world, these fellas were, to borrow a term from S.E. Hinton, Greasers. My friends and I were Socs.

One of the boys from their group was named Danny. He'd gone to our school a few years back, but moved away. He had apparently moved back to our little town. As they passed us on their bikes, I remarked to my buddy Bruce, "Hey that's Danny Dinosaur". We laughed. In third grade I got in a playground fight with Danny, probably because I called him Danny Dinosaur. This put-down seems comically unoffensive to me now. However, I'm sure the attitude with which I called him this pre-historic insult, was plenty hurtful. I won the fight then, if you can call it winning. When the teachers pulled us apart I was on top and strangling him with both hands.

I'm not sure if on that day downtown, he remembered our fight from third grade or not, but when he heard me say Danny Dinosaur again, it brought back that rage from our playground battle. His group cornered my group and he preceded to punch me twice in the face. The punches didn't hurt, but the sting of embarrassment was a much worse pain. 

I wanted to hit him back, but then I remembered, "Turn the other Cheek". If I could go back and tell my sixth grade self something, I'd tell myself "Hey after Danny throws that first punch... knock his ass out!" I'd warn myself about how not standing up to that bully, would create a ripple effect chipping away and sometimes hacking away at my self confidence. I'd apprise myself that if you don't fight this kid, you'll be scared to go to the movies on the weekends, or to the county fair, or to the 4th of July festival in the park. I'd tell myself that for the rest of your life you'll be constantly battling those feelings of fear that creep up inside you and make you shut down. "Sixth grade Josh, if you don't stand up to this punk now, you'll find that you become afraid to stand up for anything...it will mess you up for life."

Having learned to box, wrestle, and fight since 6th grade, I've decided that I will teach my kids to defend themselves. They will know to never start a fight, but if someone picks a fight...they will by god end it. "Turn the other cheek" is a great idea in theory...but in the real world it doesn't pass muster. In the real world, kids can be cruel. My son is learning this.

The other day my kids were all outside playing. Our house has a trampoline, playset, basketball goal, and a decently sized backyard, all of which create an enticing place for the neighborhood kids to come play. With eight kids playing in our backyard, it looked like recess at the Cecil house. Two of the neighborhood boys, both a year or two older than E, were from my observation, trying to play something. I wasn't sure what it was, but my instincts told me it was nefarious. As I continued to watch them, I noticed that they would run to a corner of our yard, or to the top of the playset, or to the trampoline. Whenever E attempted to join them, they would run away saying, "go away" or "leave us alone". Once I figured out that they were purposefully trying to exclude my son while playing in his yard, I got livid. Confronting the boys I explained that we don't exclude others in our yard, if they were going to continue this behavior they would be asked to leave. 

Reflecting on this incident now, it breaks my heart. E is such a sweet and innocent goofball of a kid. The interests of these older boys are, I'm sure, quite different than E's. While they've rounded the corner age-wise, where they're probably more into sports and less into Pokemon, E still enjoys the freedom of imaginary play. E doesn't understand that some kids don't think superheroes or Yoda are cool. When those boys attempted to run away from him and not let him be a part of their game, not only were they hurting his self esteem, they were destroying his innocence. He was learning that the world is not always nice, and sometimes kids are mean. 

I was learning that I will not always be able to protect my kids from a world that can often times be cruel. I could see the lightbulb going off in his eyes, illuminating the blissful darkness where the idealistic beliefs of, we're all friends and we can all get along and play together, sleep. It pains me. I don't want his self confidence to erode, and for him to be afraid of older kids, or of trying new things, or not being good enough. I struggle to learn those lessons today, because I did not learn them when I was young. I understand that it is my job as a father to instill that confidence in my kids. They must be brave enough to know, that even though the world around us can be cruel and unfair, they have the ability to live in it and change it for the better.

I'll leave you with one of my favorite poems, "If", by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Ain't that a kick in the nut

The soccer ball was coming right at me, it's greenish-yellowish glow in the dark pentagons had me entranced like a deer gazing into the halogen glow of an oncoming car. The projectile was on course for my my groin, it was to be a direct hit in my boilermaker, my netherlands, the holiest of holies, twig and berries, meat and two veg, bollocks, cojones, the knackers, well...you get the idea. Upon contact I doubled over as the sensation moved from my nuggets and started wrenching my gut. My son, who launched the ball, gleefully exclaimed, "I kicked the ball in your nut!".

"It's plural son...nuts," my inner English teacher forced in reply, "at least for now." 

Lately my son has been obsessed with hitting and getting hit in the nuts. One of his little buddies accidentally kicked him in his...well...little buddies. As young boys often do, they both thought it was hilarious. I'm not sure when getting walloped in baggage claim goes from being funny to being intensely painful. However, seeing another guy taking a shot to the knapsack, or fall a good distance only to land straddling a beam of some sort, will always be a little funny.

"You shouldn't hit people there son." I was attempting to explain this unwritten man rule to the boy.

"Why not?" E asked through a beaming smile.

"When you grow up, it really hurts." I exhaled.

 I'm always amazed at how durable kids are. They seem so fragile that I'm sure I handle mine with too much care sometimes. However accidents do happen. Z bounced off of our trampoline and broke her arm not long ago. I reckon throughout my childhood, youth, and young adult life, I've been dinged in the danglers on many an occasion. It always hurts, sometimes more than others, but always, it hurts. That's part of growing up though, isn't it? Moments of hurt followed by recovery, followed by moving on. 

My father surprised us with a trampoline one summer, bringing it home for no apparent reason. I spent hours and hours practicing tricks and testing the limits of it's elasticity. Naturally, I held many a professional wrestling match against imaginary foes, in fact I was the world heavyweight champion of my imaginary professional wrestling organization. Not bad for a 5th grader. Anyone who has ever watched an episode of America's Funniest Videos knows that trampolines are ripe with comedic potential. Comedy based on, as most comedy is, pain. I once over-rotated on a front flip and as I sprang forward from a failed landing I crashed, throat first against the frame of the trampoline. The speed at which I hit the cold steel caused me to feel like I dislodged my Adam's Apple. I couldn't talk or breath for what seemed like minutes. It hurt, but I recovered and moved on. 

There is a vague memory somewhere in my mind of the time I ran my arm through the window pane of our front door. At the time, I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6. I recall being excited that my favorite cartoon was on, I was purposely overreacting to the news to get a laugh out of the babysitter or a neighbor. I ran to the door, knowing that because it was an old door I would need the extra leverage that pushing against the window pane would give me, to get the door to open. The pane, being equally as old as the door, succumbed to my weight. As the glass shattered my arm went through and got snagged on a shard of glass. I now have a 3 inch scar to remind me of the impatience of my youth. It hurt, but I recovered and moved on.

There is pain sometimes so crippling and intense, one wonders if healing is even possible. My grandfather, Emerson Stevens, who my first son is named after, passed away when I was fairly young. I have scattered memories along a broken timeline of him. In the summers I loved to ride around the fairgrounds with him in an old golf cart, as we delivered cans of soda to volunteers who were helping park cars or direct traffic. He would let me have as many Red Creme Sodas, as I could finish on our excursions. He took me to see, Dick the Bruiser at my first professional wrestling event at that fair. In my grandparents living room, where my family would often gather to eat popcorn and watch the IU Hoosiers play ball, he used to playfully pin me to the ground, using only his corduroy-slip-on-shoe covered feet, wrestling me from his rocking chair.  He used to get a kick out of setting off firecrackers underneath used coffee cans as all the grandchildren screamed and covered their ears. In my mind's eye he was big, strong, and slightly imposing. I always looked up to him. 

As I said, I was young when he passed away and the memories of his passing all run together in a water color painting of hospital visits and a funeral. I do remember being to scared to go into his hospital room one last time to say goodbye. Seeing my family weeping around his bedside was too much for me, I couldn't make sense of it all, and so, fear got the better of me.

I can't say for certain if he was in pain as he was dying, I was too young to remember. But, I do recall the pain my grandmother felt watching her husband's condition deteriorate. Her anguish was palpable even to my young senses. The Sunday after grandpa's death I sat next to grandma in the pew at Second St. Church of Christ. The service was over, and the preacher was making his announcements. As he told the church that Emerson Stevens passed away and explained the details of the funeral and visitation, I began to cry. Next to me, my grandma began sobbing and out of the corner of my eye I could see her shoulders bobbing up and down. I remember she put her arm around me and hugged me close to her, as much for her comfort as mine. She said, "We'll be alright." As much to convince herself as me. 

For months after grandpa was gone, my parents, brother, and I would go to Bloomington to visit and make sure she was doing alright. When we would leave to go home, she would walk out to the driveway to see us off. I can still see her waving goodbye as we pulled away, barely capable of holding back the tears, voice cracking as she pleaded for us to come back soon. It was her pain, seeping out of wounds that life left behind. She was scared of being alone, how could she not be? For over fifty years she had shared her life with the man she loved. That kind of relationship between two people creates a fertile soil for a pain that few will experience. A pain rooted in love and loss. Even considering the pain that grandpa's death caused her, I know grandma wouldn't trade her life with him for anything this world could offer. 

And so, life moves irrevocably forward and it has be twenty-plus years since I last saw my grandfather. 

Grandma will turn 98 this year. She has lived well in the years since she lost her husband. She worked into her 80's, at one point working as an activities director at nursing home helping to care for residents much younger than she. Perhaps to find solace after grandpa's death, she picked up a paintbrush and began to paint vibrant oil paintings. As it turns out, she is an immensely talented artist. She still lives at home by herself, in the house where she and grandpa built a remarkable life and raised a family. 

She hurt, but she recovered, and she moved on. 

below is a link to a news article the Bloomington Herald Times featured on my grandma.

"Home is Where Her Hobbies Are"

Grandma at her home on Moffet Lane.

it's a bird...it's a plane...no, it's a sibling rivalry.

 The ruckus came from the "purple room", a room that was painted a deep plum color when we first moved into our house but has since been painted a more neutral color. I peeked my head around the corner to investigate what was causing all the commotion. Fighting imaginary villains and henchmen, my boys were a a flurry of arms stretching out to shoot lasers and fireballs, and legs performing shin-high karate kicks. My boys were playing superheroes, the images from their comic books, and characters from their cartoons were coming to life and I couldn't have been a prouder poppa.  

I can't say my kids current exploration into being caped crusaders isn't somewhat influenced by me. After all, if you've seen the Super Cecils trailer I created over Spring Break, you might assume playing superheroes in our house is encouraged...which it kind of is. What really struck me is the way that E, aka Master Blaster, encouraged his little brother and more or less invited him into his super hero fantasy world. I think E was assembling his own little super team. In the movie trailer we made L wanted to be called Monster, since joining the ranks of E's superhero squad, his character has mutated into Power Boy. So there in our once purple sitting room, Master Blaster and Power Boy were fighting the forces of evil and the occasional dragon, completely unaware that I was watching. Lost in their imaginations and playing as brothers and friends.

My hope is that these boys will in some way maintain this bond throughout their lives, that E will always encourage L and invite him into whatever it is that E is doing. I hope that L will always relish the role of sidekick to his big brother.

When I was younger, I got into a bit of trouble after chasing my older brother Nathan around the house with a butter knife, hell-bent on exacting revenge for what I perceived as his cheating at Skip-bo. In reality, he was probably just better at it than me since I was only 5 or 6 and the intricacies of the card game were lost on me. Handling a loss was never my strong suit. On another occasion, I recall throwing a brick at my brother as he jumped on the trampoline. The trampoline was sort of my domain, it was were I practiced my superhero/ professional wrestler moves. He must have kicked me off for some reason or another, and I responded adversely.

Growing up, my brother and I weren't overly close. We played together more out of a mutual need to pacify our boredom than any genuine affection towards one another. It was not that we disliked each other, although there was the typical picking on each other that is prevalent amongst siblings, our disaccord more often resulted from having disparate interests. Where I preferred comic books, professional wrestling, rock music, art, and contact sports; Nathan preferred 4H, country music, golf, fishing, & excelling at school.

While we, more often than not, tended to mutually exclude each other form our own activities, I do have a bunch of fond memories of growing up with a big bro. I can remember playing baseball at our friends' the Boyd's house. I was in the infield and my brother in the outfield when the opposing team hit a shot over my head. I jumped up fully extended to snatch the ball from the air. My full extension caused me to also lean back, putting me into a position where my feet were no longer beneath me. I landed flat on my back which either knocked the wind out of me, knocked me out, or a little of both. I can't imagine that I had the grip strength or mental acuity to close my mitt and complete the catch. However as I came to my senses with he other players around me, it was revealed that I had indeed got the batter out with my golden-glovesque play. I have my suspicions now as I did then, that my brother unbeknownst to me placed the ball in my glove as I lay motionless on the ground to trying to recover. Whether it was out of pity or some form of admiration at my effort, I don't know. What I do know is I was thankful for it then and respect him for it now.

On another occasion, when we were very young, I remember playing war, or guns, or army...whatever we called it, with the neighborhood kids. I being 5 or 6 at the time was convinced that my camouflage pants and shirt lent me a level of stealthiness that bordered on invisibility. My big brother was on the opposing side as we battled over some unknown grievance between our factions. In the middle of an open-field skirmish that was to be the climactic firefight of our neighborhood game, I crept out of my team's fort. Belly crawling towards the enemy, I hoped to establish a superior vantage point from which I could pin the opposition down with my unseen bullets. My foes were many, and none were fooled by my tactics nor blinded by my camouflage outfit. My brother on the other hand pretended that he did not see me or notice that his entire team was peppering the crawling camo kid with gunfire. As I popped up out of the grass, which was likely fresh cut, I managed to take down my target with one well timed kill shot. My brother acted surprised when his kid brother sprang up buzzing his lips to emulate the tumult of a sub-machine gun. He fell to his second or third death in that day's game of war, seconds later I succumbed to his team's retaliatory fire. There we lie on the battlefield of our backyard, two brothers bonded in war by death...for at least the next ten-Mississippi seconds until we could regenerate. I wonder now if as we lie there on the ground, my brother knowingly accepted his mortality because he understood that I wanted to feel special and heroic using my camo to create a sneak attack. I know that when I popped up and saw that my plan "worked", I felt pretty cool.

My childhood is punctuated with moments of closeness and distance with my brother. As I became a teenager and young adult that distance grew as my teen angst, moodiness, and self-centeredness grew. As I've grown older, I understand that the angst of my youth was silly, my moodiness was born of a need to be different, and my self-centeredness was and is a cancer that eats away at the real relationships that matter in life.

Not long after I graduated college I found myself working a sales job that I absolutely hated and wasn't very good at. I quit that job to pursue a music career...I quickly found myself broke. My brother ended up buying an old guitar and amplifier from me even though he had no intention of playing it. He never said it, but I think he gave me the money because he pitied me and understood what I was trying to do. I was trying to figure out who I was, I was trying to become a man.

A few years later, when I married Jami, I asked Nathan to be my best man. I could think of no better term for him even now. Best Man. He is the best man I know, I admire him and have a profound respect for who he has become. We are much closer now than when we were younger. When our families get together our kids play together, our wives talk, and Nathan and I try to get our dad laughing so hard that he wheezes. He went from being a CPA, to going to seminary, and is now the CEO of Center for Global Impact, an organization that works in Southeast Asia to help young girls find freedom from the darkness of the sex-slavery industry. This weekend his organization is having a 5k race to raise much needed funds. One aspect of the race is that participants are encouraged to dress up like a favorite superhero. I, however, won't be dressing up as my favorite superhero because they do not make a costume of my big brother (If they did it would be a pair of khakis pulled up to a questionable height and a polo shirt tucked in, real business casual).

To E and L I say:You have something special. You have a brother, a life-long companion. Friends will come and go, but your brother will be there forever. Don't take that for granted, especially in your younger days. I did, and regret it.

To Nathan I say: Though I rarely speak it aloud, (because it is not the way of Cecil men) I love you bro.

Eat Time

The 40th President of the United States of America, Ronald Reagan, said "All great change in America begins at the dinner table." I'm assuming, based on my experience at our dinner table, Mr. Reagan said this during the end of life when his brain was ravaged from the effects of Alzheimer's.

Against my better judgement I watched an episode of Duck Dynasty recently, let me first say...I don't get it. The whole "reality" show is clearly an orchestrated if not entirely scripted attempt at creating a real sitcom. The most obvious instance of director manipulation, camera trickery, and character performance is the dinner table scene, which as I understand, takes place at the end of each episode. This scene is so obviously unrealistic, that it makes James Cameron's Avatar look like a documentary.

The Duck Dynasty family is gathered around a huge family table, everyone is seated peacefully and the conversation seems pleasant and respectful. I'm throwing my B.S. flag, or D.S. flag in this case. First of all what kind of dinner doesn't have chicken nuggets? Where is the one kid complaining about the chicken nuggets? Where is the chorus of children chanting in unison, can I have a drink? None of them want the same drink of course. Do the Duck children not get upset about the color of their plates or cups? Do they just intrinsically understand that food and beverages taste the same regardless of container hues? I find that hard to believe.

At my house, dinner includes at least one skirmish over where each child is going to sit, "I was sitting there first!" should be a part of our family crest. The Duck table always seems to have an enviable spread, but nary a ketchup bottle in sight. The ketchup bottle is a bastion at the Cecil family table-scape. According to the refined palettes of the Cecil children, everything tastes better with ketchup. It is not uncommon to see L dip his fingers into a glob of ketchup, and then directly into his mouth. Literally, finger-lickin' good...I have to look away when he does it, as it induces a my hare trigger gag reflex. 

"I just don't like pizza!", states E. This is a recent development, as recent as last week he was eating Pizza like it would soon be outlawed. Before dinner I usually have to prepare myself for the eventual fight of clean your plate, if you want dessert. "How many bites do I have to eat?", says H in a tone that is far too whiny for questioning how many carrots she has to eat. As the older kids complain about what they have to eat, little L goes through his mealtime ritual which includes throwing food distances that would impress NFL combine scouts.

Our family dinners consist of more chaos than culinary consumption, that is fact. However, we will never stop having family dinners, primarily because of the nuggets of conversation that happen between bites of nuggets of processed chicken. We enjoy playing a dinner game we call, Happy High Sad Low. As its name implies, we go around the table and say what our happiest moment of the day was and what the saddest moment of our day was. 

"My happy high was petting the doggy sharks at the zoo." says Z.

"What was your sad low?" I ask.

"That E, hit me." she replies, speaking of an incident that no one can really remember but we all, even E, assume probably occurred.

"What was your Happy High, H?"

"That we go to the park." she says through a bite of mini corn dog

"What was your sad low?"

"That Z, didn't share her toy with me." H offers, again this is a specific event that no one can seem to specifically recall happening, however because of its typical nature, no one doubts its authenticity.

"L what was your Happy High?" I ask, already knowing the answer is going to be fire truck, ambulance, because that's what it always is.

"Fire truck, Ambulance!!!" L, says excitedly. Oblivious to the fact that we haven't seen any emergency vehicles today.

"What's your sad low?" Again, I already know what his response will be.

"Fire truck, Ambulance!!!" His Happy High and Sad Low are always one and the same...that must be very confusing emotionally.

"E what was your Happy High?" I ask my son.

"That we're having cookies for dessert." he responds.

"And your Sad Low?"

"That Z, hit me." he answers, most likely fabricating a story to disparage other eyewitness accounts that place him at the scene of other physical altercations.

"What was your Happy High mom and dad?" H squeaks.

The kids always ask us the question in return. Inevitably, and for reasons I cannot comprehend given the nature of our family dinners, we always answer that our Happy High is right now...sitting around the table...eating dinner with our family.  

P.S.

Check out this previous post with a video the kids and I made.

http://cecilfam.blogspot.com/2015/04/a-super-preview.html

A Super Preview

Below is what happens when a dad with video experience, an overactive imagination, and years of comic book reading under his belt, gets bored on Spring Break. For your viewing pleasure...the scratch to my creative itch, enjoy!

Sight for sore legs

There was a time when I used to enjoy running, perhaps tolerate is a better verb. This was primarily before child #4 came along. I was doing garage workouts similar to Crossfit WOD's, the only difference was that I didn't go around talking incessantly about how I do Crossfit.

INT: WE ARE AT A DINNER PARTY, GUESTS ARE MINGLING IN THEIR EVENING WEAR, AND MOST ARE HOLDING A BEVERAGE IN ONE HAND AS THEY TALK CAUSALLY WITH OTHER GUESTS.

HOST:     

I read recently that China's lack of infrastructure development, could potentially cause a                     massive collapse in its economy.  

CROSSFITTER (Feigning interest):         

It's funny because I was just thinking the other day that if I don't emphasize mobility in my Crossfit WOD's more, my time in some of the benchmark WOD's could suffer.

HOST:    

I'm afraid I don't see the connection.

CROSSFITTER:       

Is this dip Paleo?

HOST:     

I'm not sure what that means.

CROSSFITTER (Yelling):          

Crossfit !!!!!

In an effort to stay fit and to get out of the house, I would regularly load up E, Z, and H into a massive triple jogger stroller. The idea that seeing a man running down the sidewalk pushing a humongous stroller with 3 kids in it, never struck me as unique. However, every time I went out it never failed that I would get at least one honk from a passing car whose driver would give me a wave or a thumbs up. At first I thought I was just seeing people that knew me from work or something. As time passed and the pattern continued, I began to understand that passing cars were equally amused and impressed at the sight of a father pushing his 3 kids whilst out for a run.

I think people overestimated the difficulties I must have been experiencing. People probably assumed that the added weight of pushing 3 toddlers, must have infinitely increased the trials and tribulations of an otherwise leisurely jog. While I can attest that the 3 kids and jogger stroller added some resistance to my run, particularly on hills, the reality is it probably was not that much more difficult than when an octogenarian decides to add some hand and ankle weights to their mall walking routine.

The ego boost I received from passing cars probably took 20-30 seconds off of my mile, it was great feeling like some sort of Super Dad. On one occasion one guy rolled by, and shouted out of his open window, "You the man!". Thanks random stranger, I am the man. Not only am I great father for spending time with my kids, but my cardiovascular conditioning must be on par with triathletes..."I'm the Ironman!"

I sometimes wonder what kinds of memories my kids will have of me. Will they remember the times we went running? Will they remember how they used to shout green-light, and daddy would sprint as fast as he could pushing them in the stroller as they raised their hands over the heads screaming gleefully like they were on a roller coaster? Will they remember the countless trips to the park, or the times mommy and daddy would take them to the Farmer's Market? Will they fondly recall the times we had movie night, and ate popcorn and drank chocolate milk?

There is a running joke in my family, about how I was always changing what I wanted to be when I grew up. My parents and brother can all confirm, that at one time or another I wanted to be: an actor, a professional wrestler, a comic book artist, a chef, a rock star, an advertising executive, and a slew of other things. The fact that I came to finding my career as a teacher at the ripe old age of 36 is likely correlated to my constant fluctuation in career paths as a child. As I stated, I'm a teacher, but I've come to realize that's not how I want to be remembered. I want to be remembered as a good dad and husband. The highest achievement I could have would be for my grown kids to say, "Dad, you remember that time we...?" "You were a great dad."

So, with all of that in mind...

Mom, among other things, thanks for making that watermelon cake with green icing for my birthday that one year. You went to Bloomington one time for work, thanks for bringing home those He-man action figures that turned into rocks. Thanks for coming to all of my football games, and even though I acted like I was embarrassed because you were so loud and you always had that noise maker shakey thing...I secretly appreciated it. Thanks for telling me that I'd make a good teacher.

Dad, among other things, thanks for taking me to Olive Garden on quite a few of my birthdays. Thanks for taking me to Wrestlemania VIII, even though I'm pretty sure you don't like professional wrestling. I wish I would've returned the favor and gone fishing with you more, even though I'm pretty sure I don't like fishing. Admittedly, I sometimes thought you only had me and Nathan, because you wanted help with yard work...but, thanks for making me mow the yard, trim the hedges, shovel the driveway, etc. You should know I still hear your voice in my head, telling me if I'm going to do something, do it right. Thanks for giving me a couple of hundred bucks the day I moved my family to Las Vegas...you said it was to help with moving costs, but I know you just wanted to give me something tangible so that I knew you loved me. Also, thanks for not telling me I made a mistake when less than a year later, I moved my family back to Indiana.

Mom and Dad, you remember that time you asked the neighbors to put the presents under our tree while we were all at Grandma's house? And when we got home we thought Santa visited us?  You were great parents.

Barely Breathing...not just an obscure 90's song

There's something about being a parent that causes me to worry about my kids all the time. Last night I was downstairs folding laundry, because that's the exciting lifestyle I lead now. We had just put the kids to bed, when all of a sudden I hear a thunderous boom and the rattle of the ceiling above me, followed by the piercing scream that only a two year old can produce. Immediately I knew what happened. A picture of the new dresser we put in the boy's room ran through my mind's eye. However the dresser was not in its upright position, the sound came from the toppling over of said dresser. Which would obviously mean that the piercing screams were emanating from my son now trapped and probably crushed beneath the dresser. Cue panic and terror.

Springing from my laundry perch, I bolted up the stairs taking 4 steps at a time. Certain that I would need to heave the piece of furniture off of my son, I recalled those stories of mothers lifting cars off of their children in a rush of adrenaline...that's a thing right? As I kicked down the door like a DEA agent busting up a meth lab, I saw my son, safe but scared, standing on his bed tears flooding down his face. He was terrified at what he had done. It was like an episode of Maury Povich where they send troubled teens to prison in an attempt to scare them straight, by giving them a glimpse at the probable outcome to their poor life choices. Hopefully my son has been scared straight out of climbing furniture.

After I calmed my son down, which consisted of laying him down to sleep in our bed, I sat and reflected on the experience. I was reminded of how often I would check to make sure that my kids were still breathing when they were infants. Sneaking into their rooms when it seemed they had napped for an inordinate amount of time, I would get down on my knees so their chests and my eyes were on the same level. I would watch intently to make sure I saw the rise and fall of their chests, ensuring myself that my precious babies were in fact still breathing.

I swear I did these types of breathing checks multiple times a day. Call it what you will, paranoia, new parent anxiety,  or ignorance. Nevertheless, I developed a few techniques to assuage my fears of un-breathing babies. One is the aforementioned eye test, however there are times when the peaceful slumber of a child results in shallow and nearly imperceptible breaths. In these instances it is necessary to use the mirror method. Take a small mirror and place it adjacent to the child's nostrils or open mouth, if you see the mirror fog up then you can rest assured that the child is in fact breathing. The ear test works best when your child is suffering from some nasal congestion, as their breathing becomes heavier and more pronounced. If all else fails I will  recommend the nudge method, however this comes with a caveat and a pretty steep downside. You always run the risk of actually waking your child up if you choose to nudge them to see if they are still breathing. It cannot be emphasized enough that you must use a delicate and deft touch as you gently push, prod, or poke your sleeping child. Apply enough pressure to cause your infant to react in a manner that lets you know they're breathing, but not so much pressure that they wake up and cut into your Netflix time.

I reckon I'll never stop checking to see if my kids are still breathing. When my son skins his knee and scrapes his hand after the training wheels come off his Huffy, I will pick him up and check to make sure he's still breathing. When my daughter comes home crying because of something mean someone at school said about her, I will check to make sure she's still breathing. When my boy comes home with a busted lip, because he stood up to the school bully, I'll check to make sure he's still breathing. When my girls are teenagers and some stupid boy breaks their heart, I will check to make sure they are still breathing. When my sons don't make the team or perhaps drop the game winning pass, I will check to see if they're still breathing. When my children get an acceptance letter to their first choice college, or a "...we're sorry to inform you" letter from their first choice college, I will check to see if they're still breathing. When my son says to me, "Dad, I think she's the one.", I'll check to make sure he's still breathing. When I have to stand before a crowd of people, holding my daughters hand and say, "Her mother and I do...", I will kiss her cheek and check to make sure she's still breathing. When my son calls me up and says, "Dad it's a boy...", I will check to make sure he's still breathing.

Perhaps we check to see if our kids are still breathing, not because we worry about them, but because we want the very best that life has to offer for them.

Oh wait...I had a blog?

It's been a while since I last posted... actually it's been almost 5 years. To my tens of fans, I apologize for the season ending cliffhanger that was my last blog post. It's really nothing to be ashamed of though. Consider this, Harper Lee published her famed novel, "To Kill A Mockingbird" in 1960. It was recently announced that she plans to release her second novel later this year, that's an astonishing 55 year lay off for her between writings. So in comparison to Lee, I'm actually a prolific writer.

A lot can happen in a five year span. For instance, the Cecil family moved to Las Vegas and added another kid to our brood, a year later we moved back to Indiana and added another kid to our clan. I went back to school for a career change, and I'm now teaching high school English (Don't judge my grammar please). We bought a new house, and two used cars. We adopted a cat, and then gave it away. We adopted a dog, and then gave it away. We adopted another kid, and then...just kidding we didn't adopt anything else, but perhaps a few personality quirks. All that to say, I've got some catching up to do! I've been inspired/ challenged by colleagues and students to write on a more regular basis. So, I pledge to you my loyal fan base (i.e. mom) to write at least twice a lustrum.

What to wear?

I was getting the children dressed the other day, and it occurred to me that I may be thinking too much about what outfits to put them in. As I stood in front of their closet for a solid 10 minutes, I genuinely thought through the various pros and cons of different attire. Obviously I could go with a footie pajama look...classic. Maybe, go with a footless pajama it's a little more formal. Although, if we're gonna go formal we might as well go all out, cargo pants, button down shirt, and sweater vest.

Should they wear a onsie? Long sleeve or short sleeve? Long sleeve could be too hot...short sleeve could be too cold. Ok, back to jammies. Button down or zip-up? If I do go footless, they'll have to wear socks because their little feet get so cold.

I now wonder what in the world I am so concerned about? The kids aren't going anywhere, no one is going to see them. It's not like they are going to be at red carpet event later with some entertainment reporter asking them "Who are you wearing?"
"Well my onsie is by Carter's, I have a Baby Gap hoodie, Gymboree socks, Osh-Kosh overalls, and the hat is by Amy Coe.

Let's face it what they wear is more about me then it is about them. Judging by the way Emerson giggles and kicks his feet when he finally gets a wet diaper off, I'm pretty sure he would prefer no clothes at all. I'll be the first to admit that baby clothes are stinkin' cute, but a Gap onsie is an awfully expensive item to buy, considering all it really does is absorb spit-up.

Around the holidays Jami and I felt compelled to really dress the kids up. Zoey had a very cute dress on, and Emerson looked like a little mini-me with his vest and driver cap. We proceeded to pose them in an over-sized chair and even used a solid colored blanket as a Christmas backdrop, we had effectively turned my parents home into a proper Olan Mills Studio. After the pictures were taken, we immediately put bibs on the kids so they wouldn't ruin their outfits by doing something dastardly like drooling, throwing up, or any other behavior that is common for a baby to do. How dare they be typical babies when we...their parents, have dressed them so fabulously. No, when dressed up, our children should know how to "work a camera", and give me an authentic Blue Steel pose a la Derek Zoolander.

Speaking of baby clothes, you don't see a lot of Spandex at your local Babies are Us store, I think this is tragic. Think about it. No really think about it, get a mental picture of a baby in a spandex suit...how adorable is that! The real genius of the Cute Zoot (that's what I'm tentatively calling this invention) is that it will stretch with your baby as they grow. Our suits will stretch your dollars (our tentative tag line). Jami and I have approximately 734lbs. of clothing that no longer fit our children. Many of these relics were worn only once, or not at all. If only they were made of spandex.

That's the other thing, when your kids are born everyone is so excited for you. Your friends and family are understandably caught up in the glorious moment with you, so they go out and buy all kinds of cute outfits. As such, there are a solid 8 weeks when if you wanted to, you wouldn't have to do laundry; your kids could quite literally wear something different everyday. However, the rate at which kids grow, is inversely proportionate to the amount of correctly sized clothes in their closet. Around week 9 you suddenly realize you have no clothes for your baby, and they spend the day wearing a diaper, a pair of socks, and one of your old T-shirts fitted on them with Duct Tape. Newborns grow quickly. One morning around week 3 I put Emerson in a onsie, by bedtime he had outgrown it. He looked like Lou Ferrigno portraying the Bruce Banner to Incredible Hulk transformation and busting the seams of his clothing. Now that I think of it, perhaps Bruce Banner/ Hulk would have benefited from a spandex Cute Zoot...I think another market just opened up for my new venture.

Well I'm off to Jo-Ann Fabrics to buy a palette of spandex and a sewing machine. I wonder if I can find a spit-up repellent Scotch Guard-type spray for my Cute Zoots? Until next time.

Venturing out

The kids and I had a big day Monday. With momma at work I had the twins by myself again, and decided it would be fun to venture out into the world for the first time alone! First things first, where to go? Let's see...the Children's museum? Probably a bit too ambitious for our first outing, sans mom. The Zoo? Probably not as special for 2 month old infants as I have built up in my mind. How about the Target store less than a mile from my house...perfect! I needed to get some new socks and boxer briefs anyways since my current garments have been in the rotation for a solid 4 years now. It was your classic two birds one stone scenario.

Preparing to go anywhere with infant twins is logistically on par with a small military campaign. Hauling two kids, their car seats, the Kolcraft stroller, all of the baby gear, and rations; one could easily be mistaken for setting up an Army bivouac. Just getting out of the house requires Navy SEAL-like maneuvering. At approx. 1500 hours, I led my platoon to the operational canteen for chow; at 1530 we exercised tactical burping; at 1545 we initiated evacuation procedures, locking all infants down in car seats and securing transportation in the GMC Envoy, once the supply line loaded all provisions into our vehicle; our squadron left alpha base at approx. 1600 hours to rendezvous point, code name- Target. Hooah!

I pulled into the Target parking lot and found a spot near the front. Stepping around to the back of our SUV, I extracted the mighty Kolcraft Stroller. This stroller is amazing. It's the Cadillac of twin strollers, and I don't mean one of those new hybrid Cadillacs, I'm talking old school Caddy. The kind that got 3mpg. The kind that planes could land and take off from, aircraft carrier style. Our Stroller is seriously only a hood ornament and some tail fins away from being one of Elvis' personal cars.

I unfolded the stroller and locked the wheels in place. I carefully extracted Z from the car, being cautious not to wake her. After locking her seat in place, I retrieved E and performed the exercise again. Stepping behind the controls of the stroller I felt somewhat like a Gladiator riding a chariot, this was probably more of a Walter Mitty type overreaction to having the high point of my day being pushing my children around Target in a stroller...but whatever.

I began to cruise through the parking lot, the stroller responding fluidly to my every movement. As I neared the entrance, I saw a few Target employees that were on a break. One of them, a middle aged lady, remarked aloud towards me, "There's something you don't see everyday!" I realized she thought it unusual that a man would be taking his infant twins out to Target for an afternoon activity. It was as if I was breaking some unspoken social norm, as though I was doing something that only a mother does. Smiling back to her I quipped, "maybe there's a reason!" Panic stirred as I thought to myself...maybe there IS a reason you don't see this everyday.

My panic quickly faded as I crossed the threshold of the consumer Mecca, known as Target. The entire store filled with two distinct groups of people; working moms making a quick stop on their way home after work, and housewives hauling their children around on as they checked off items on their to do list. I was the only person there with enough testosterone to grow facial hair, (excluding the elderly lady with the spotty beard, whom I assume was on some sort of hormone replacement therapy.) There were fewer men at Target that afternoon than at a Gloria Steinem lecture.

I made my way to the back of the store, to grab some socks from the men's section. It seemed as though every Y-chromosome-less, eye was inexplicably drawn towards me as I pushed the twins to and fro. The reaction of these women were all the same; they would tilt their heads to the side, bend down slightly as if to get a better view of the kids, raise their eyebrows, and silently mouth Awwwwwww! I had somehow attained a celebrity like status at Target. These women seemed to believe that I somehow understood what they go through as mothers. "This man gets it. He gets what my lazy-good-for-nothing husband could never comprehend! God bless him." They swarmed around the stroller like paparazzi chasing down a photo-op of a celebrity couple and their newly adopted Cambodian baby.

Women began to approach us, a mob of goodwill and cheer. It was like being accepted into some exclusive club for mom's only, full of play dates, power walking, and Target shopping. The only thing that could possibly be similar is, if I were to land on an uncharted island after a plane crash, and the natives mistook me for some sort of magical being. I half way expected these women to begin fanning me with palm fronds.

"Well look at you!"
"Aren't you brave!"
"Isn't that just precious!"
These were the type of comments we were getting, followed by offers of help.
"Can I get you something to drink? You sure have your hands full!"
"Do you need me to push a cart for you? I can follow you around and do my shopping tomorrow, you sure have your hands full!"
"Do you need help to your car? Can I pay for your items? You sure have your hands full!"
What a great experience, Jami must love taking the kids out with her!

I bashfully shrugged the comments off and grabbed my socks and boxer briefs. I checked out to a slew of more appreciative looks, oohs and ahhs. As I packed the Envoy back up, I'm sure I was glowing. Those women who don't know me and have never really seen me interact with my kids are right, I am a great and brave father.

I got home, unloaded the car, and realized that time had really gotten away from me. Jami would be home soon, I surveyed the house and realized that perhaps the Target crowd had an unrealistic portrait of me. The diapers strewn about, the laundry backed up, the dishes in need of washing, all betrayed the Super Dad image my Target groupies might have had of me.

While my first trip out was successful, I think more than anything it reaffirmed to me how amazing a wife and mother Jami is. I compare small excursions with the kids to scaled down Military invasions. Jami just does them because, like the hundreds of other things on her to do list, they just need to be done. She takes care of the kids, without complaint and just the other day my beautiful, smart, funny, and vegetarian wife...also made me a delicious meatloaf. So to all the incomparable stay-at-home moms and working moms, I salute you; and if you should ever see me with the twins at Target, tell me to hurry up and checkout, because the house ain't gonna clean itself.

www.cecilfam.blogspot.com

Standards & playdates

I've never had what you might call strict standards when it comes to things like cleanliness. My apartment in college was likely what the State government would refer to as "unfit for human occupancy". There was an odor to that place, not necessarily a bad odor mind you, but a very distinct, stale, boys live here odor. Many people hold to the adage "cleanliness is next to godliness", my roommates and I preferred the adage "out of sight, out of mind". If our apartment looked clean in the right areas, then that was good enough.

When I got married I came to understand the error of my bachelor ways. My wife calmly explained to me the value of keeping a clean living space, maintaining a scheduled laundry routine and instituting proper personal hygiene goals. If these new standards were not exercised correctly by me, my relationship with my spouse became decidedly less intimate and our lines of communication were also strained. I quickly learned that I needed to pitch in with laundry duty if I wanted to have a pleasant home life.

Now with E & Z in the picture, I feel as if both Jami and I's standards have loosened up a bit. Not to the depravity of my college years, but our idea of what's acceptable is a bit more relaxed. Case in point, as it turns out, neither of us "needs" to shower everyday. If we can work it out, well that's great. However, the reality is this: if you are stuck at the house all day with the kids and have no plans to visit any of the community's institutions...what's the point of taking a shower? As a matter of fact, what's the point of even changing out of your pajamas?

When either of us come home from work to find the other in the exact same outfit as the night before, or in the same location as when we left for work, we are neither shocked or disappointed. This phenomenon has become commonplace - I call it the time warp factor. When caring for infant twins at home all day, time loses all of its power and meaning. As such, the caregiver in charge cannot become dirty, necessitating a shower or change of clothes. In other words, I do not build up a filmy layer of grime on my skin or clothing by constantly changing diapers and feeding babies whilst watching TV and doing laundry, so what's the point in making any changes in my attire or hygienic status...leave well enough alone.

There are some conditions to this theory that require action. For instance, when changing a diaper and your offspring urinate on your sweatpants, you are obligated to change the aforementioned sweatpants, however you are not required to jump in the shower. Likewise, if you find that the kids are napping well and you would like to feel refreshed and awakened you are allotted 5 minutes in which you may take a quick shower, however there is no need to change into so-called "clean clothes"; because let's face it, that just creates more laundry to do and you're not going to be getting out of the house anyway. Conversely, if you manage your time well and muster up the fortitude to exercise hard enough to work up a good sweat, you need to take a shower and change your clothes. However, I've found this situation to be more rare than a pack of forest elves riding unicorns, hunting centaurs.

Recently my wife has been finding an excuse to break away from this new normal, leaving me as the sole parent to not shower or change out of my PJ's while in the line of duty. She calls her excuses "play dates".

As I understand it, Jami will clean up to visit a friend that is similarly confined to their home and held down by the constraints of providing children with appropriate care. These play dates seem to follow a loosely held schedule, whereby the host home rotates depending on whose children are more suited for travel on that particular day. These play dates seem to really invigorate Jami, and make her day less monotonous. I also have reason to believe that these play dates involve a carefully orchestrated plot for the matriarchs involved to somehow co-op the care of the children, thereby reducing the stress associated with being a parent.

I cry foul! These play dates are an unfair advantage. I'm unable to participate in these play dates. So when Jami comes home on Mondays to find me in the exact same condition as when she left 12 hours earlier, it gives the impression that I have some weird form of male postpartum depression. Here's why I am unable to take advantage of the play date scenarios.

1. All of my friends work during the week. I'm the oddball with Mondays off.

2. All of my play date possibilities would be with my wife's friends, which would be weird. "Hey Jenni wanna hang out and watch our kids together this afternoon?" Of course this doesn't work. Because to hang out with my wife's friends in the absence of my wife is too strange and not allowable.

Though I've never actually witnessed a play date first hand, I feel like I know how they work. The kids play or nap, and the moms help each other with bottles and diapers while talking about their feelings as they encourage one another for being great mothers. I don't like talking about my feelings, and outside of a high five I would feel awkward giving one of my wife's friends encouragement. Having said that, if any of you moms out there would like to hang out and talk about the last UFC pay-per-view or the relative artistic merit of 90's rock music, give me a call and we can set something up for next Monday.

Unfortunately, I don't know if daddy play dates will work. I think letting your buddies see you being a father requires an uncomfortable level of vulnerability. Guys feel silly when they use their baby voice in front of other guys. "Does wittle baby have a poopy diapy?" we exclaim in a cartoonishly falsetto sing-song voice. As guys, we are legally required to make fun of our friends if they talk in such a manner. Let's be honest, our daddy play dates would probably devolve into the dad's playing video games while the kids are put down for a nap whether they need it or not.

Soon winter will break, and the weather will be more hospitable for going out. My kids will be a little less all consuming with the constant bottle feeding. I will be able to pack them up more easily and enjoy getting out of the house. Until then, you can find me in my black sweats and old t-shirt, sitting in the rocking chair, with a baby on my lap and a Dr. Brown's bottle in one hand and the remote in the other. For the next 12 hours I will feed my beautiful children, change their diapers, and with the help of DVR and Hulu.com, get caught up on my shows.

And The Award Goes To...

I just returned home from the Father of the Year awards in Oslo Norway, where I was nominated in the Father of Infant Twins category. The competition was fierce, and the ceremonies were wrought with scandal. Being quite jet lagged, I will do my best to recount the details s I remember them.

I was nominated for my first "Daddy" award, in part because of my parenting skills displayed when Jami went back to work and I subsequently began my turn of staying at home alone with the twins on Fridays for 8 hours and a 12 hour shift on Mondays. The honorable Father of the Year Academy, raved about my double bottle feeding technique, my multi-tasking abilities, and the overall energy and sense of sincerity I brought to the role of Fathering of Twins.

My fellow nominees were certainly worthy. Hans Gruber from Munich Germany is a father of twin boys who elected to be a stay-at-home dad, a noble achievement indeed. Joseph Umbasi of Capetown South Africa, is the father of new twin girls, as well as 4 other children all under the age of 8! Representing Sao Paulo Brazil, Mario Silva is a single father of twin girls doing the work of mom and dad, way to go Mario!

I felt good about my chances of bringing home the hardware, following an interview session with the "F.o.t.Y" advisory panel. I also felt like I had strong showings in the swim suit and talent portions of the competition. My confidence was running high as I took my seat at the closing ceremonies, somehow I just new that I would be walking around at the post ceremony gala holding a shiny new "Daddy"...and of course pictures of my kids.

My excitement began to grow as my category drew closer, I walked through my acceptance speech in my head. "Wow, I didn't think that I would win...It's an honor just to be nominated. I want to thank my beautiful wife Jami, you're my best friend and an amazing mother. To my fellow nominees I share this award with you. I want to thank my agent Ari, you are the hardest working man in the business. Thank you to the Father of the Year Awards Academy for this achievement and all they do to celebrate Fatherhood. Finally, I want to thank my kids, you are the reason I do what I do, I love you with all of my heart...now go to bed (fake a little laugh here and pause for audience reaction)"

Just before Denzel Washington was set to take the stage and present the Father of Twins award, "F.o.t.Y" Chairman Saul Goldberg, walked to the podium for a surprise announcement. A murmur began to swell through the crowd, what could this possibly be about?

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I am forced to announce that Father of Twins nominee Josh Cecil has been disqualified from the competition and stripped of any potential Father of the Year titles. The academy has learned from an inside source, of an incident that shows gross ignorance for even a new father, be it a father of twins or otherwise."

As panic began to rise up into my throat, I squirmed in my seat. Slowly every head in the auditorium began to turn my way, accusatory malice filled their glares. "What have you done?" they seemed to ask collectively. I stood up as the sweat began to trickle down my brow. I looked at Jami's confused face, so gorgeous was she in her Vera Wang gown. Confused though she was she stood with me and grabbed my hand, determined to "Stand by her Man". We stumbled towards the exit, I was mumbling something to the affect of, "this is outrageous, I have no idea what this is about!"

Instead of the beautiful orchestral piece that would have whisked me from the stage after the acceptance of my trophy, I shamefully fled the auditorium to a rising chorus of boos and hisses.

The plane ride from Oslo to Newark was a torturous trip that felt like an eternity. Silence filled the cabin as I sat despondently looking out the window and Jami thumbed through a Sky Mall catalog. Our silence was finally abated on the flight from Newark to Indianapolis.

"So...you want to tell me what that was all about?" Jami queried.
"I...I...I have no idea." I passively offered. "I thought for sure I'd won..."
"That's not what I mean. What were they talking about? Gross Ignorance?"
I hesitated. Unsure of what to do, I broke down and explained the circumstances that must have cost me the Father of the Year award.

"Ok, listen...and promise you won't be mad."
Jami crossed her arms, and prepared herself. Her lips were pursed together, and I thought I could see a small storm just beneath the surface of her forced calmness.
"I suppose there is no point in hiding this anymore. That first Monday that you went back to work, and I had the kids all by myself for 12...no, 13 hours. It was really hard, they were really fussy. It seemed like every time I turned around they needed something else, a bottle, a diaper change, or just to be held. I was trying to be a good father and husband... honest I was. I was doing laundry, I even ran the vacuum. I wanted you to come home to a quite and clean house after a long shift at the hospital. Well...I put the kids down for a nap around 1:30 or 2:00. They seemed to be sleeping soundly, and I had the urge to do some cooking...you know how I love to cook! Well I decided to make some Mac and cheese, I used whole grain pasta...cause I know how you like whole grain pasta. Anyways, I boiled the pasta, and made my own chipotle cheese sauce. I was putting it all together to bake off in the oven. When the kids began to wake up. I set the cheese's burner to warm, and went to check on the kids. Things just got hectic really quickly. The kids both wanted a bottle, and I still needed to bake the mac and cheese. So I was running from the living room to the kitchen; feed a baby, mix the mac and cheese, burp a baby, put the mac and cheese in the oven, feed the other baby, check on the mac and cheese, burp the baby, take the mac and cheese out. With both babbies fed I began to clean up the kitchen, and run a load of dishes through the washing machine. With the house quiet again I sat down to eat some of my Mac and cheese creation. I thought I smelled something funny in the house, but I figured between the baking and the dishwasher, my olfactory sense was playing tricks on me. Right before you got home,...and keep in mind I 'd had a long day and now I had a pretty bad headache..."
Jami was tired of my spn doctor storytelling antics,"Get on with it!" she yelled. Other passengers stared in her direction.
"Well, I was walking past the kitchen and I could smell that smell again. This time it had a familiar odor, but I couldn't quite place it. Then it hit me..."
"What?" Jami exclaimed.
"Well remeber how I said I put the cheese sauce on the stove top to warm...?"
"Yes?"
"well I may or may not have remembered to turn the stove off...and the house may or may not have been filling up with natural gas for several hours with me and the kids inside."
"What do you mean may or may not?"
"I mean I deffinitely forgot to turn the stove off."
"What! Josh do realize that you could have given the kids and yourself Carbon Monoxide poisning! Or worse yet blown the house up! What were you thinking? Hours? Hours, you left the gas on!"
"I know, I know." I broke down, "Believe me I was freaking out. I had a headache, and it must have been from the gas, so I wondered if the kids had any reaction to it. Then I thought maybe they weren't really sleepy but just high on Carbon monoxide. Then I started freaking out about all the long term damage I must have caused, and how they wouldn't get into a good college. And then I began running different scenarios through my mind, like what if I had lit a candle...Kaboom!
"Good Lord Josh! and to think you were up for Father of the Year?"
"I know, I know...I'm A Monster!!!!!!"

And that my friends is how I have chosen to tell you the reader about the first day Jami went back to work, and I nearly killed myself and the kids with a little help from our natural gas appliances. On the bright side, if that was my first day watching the kids by myself for 13 hours...I can't possibly have anywhere to go but up. I mean how much worse can it get than a near death experience. As for Father of the Year...well, there's always next year.