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."

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.

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.

Crappy with a chance of showers

I have what I would describe as a hair-trigger gag reflex, no foolin'. It's not like I vomit every time I'm set off, it's more akin to a dry heave combined with a choking cough. I typically turn my head to the side arch my back in a retching motion, as tears well up in my eyes. These gag bouts are usually short but intense. This affliction puts me at a severe disadvantage as a new father. The first two months of my children's lives has been full of one bodily fluid or another. The palette of these glorious liquid expulsions is primarily full of earth tones, however the spectrum of textures is wide & varied.

I've learned that I don't really care for changing diaper's. I realize that's not a profound statement. However, I bet some people probably genuinely enjoy the diaper changing experience. Though, for the life of me I can't imagine why; they probably fool themselves into thinking that they are somehow fully embracing parenthood by their love of diaper changing.

My first go at diaper changing was while we were still in the hospital. At an astounding 37 minutes, I don't think I broke any records. I approached the task before me in the same manner the Ghostbusters approached a haunted house. Equipped with a face mask, rubber gloves, gown, shield, and helmet, I was equally prepared to change a diaper or remove a bomb from a government building as a part of an elite bomb squad.

For the first couple of weeks of a newborn's life, their poo...let's just pause right here. I hate the words poo & poopy or any likeness thereof. Right now I use the phrase "poopy diaper" at least once a day. It's so childish, I feel foolish when I hear the words escape my mouth. With no end in sight, sentences like "do you have to go poopy?" will soon become a part of my everyday vocabulary as the children grow and need to be potty trained. There's another word that sounds silly - potty. I would like to replace poo and poopy with crap or even turdy. Apparently these words are considered socially taboo. Likewise the phrases "Do you have to rock the deuce?", "drop a duke", or "release the hounds" are considered inappropriate for parents of infants; however I would feel less ridiculous if I could speak to my children in such terms. That being said...

The first couple of weeks of a newborn's life their "deuce juice" is this weird black tar like substance that is small and has no odor. As such, that first diaper change in the hospital was much less traumatic then I imagined it would be. Unfortunately, I still have no excuse for the inordinate length of time I took to change the diaper. My wife and the nurses made diaper changing look like one of those rodeo competitions where the cowboys use a lasso to tie up a calf, "We have a new world record in the diaper change with 8 seconds by Jami Cecil" said the southern drawn voice in my head every time Jami changed a baby.

I mentioned the varied textures of baby poop before, let me elaborate. We start off as I said with a black tar like substance, we move into a mustard color with what looks like seeds, from there we move into a cottage cheese type substance with a burnt sepia tone, that brings us to the current mocha tinged splatters. An added bonus to the mocha splatters is their aroma, one might assume that the fragrance of the diapers would match the mocha-like hue of the child's scat. However, instead of pleasant Starbucks esspresso notes, the diaper's bouquet is full of a mixture of sulfur and Indian curry. Let the gagging begin.

A few weeks ago, as I had just gotten over my poopy diaper aversions, I went to the floor to change E's drawers. It was the first diaper of his that was truly disgusting, in both odor and aesthetics. As I lifted up his legs to survey the damage, the smell of methane hung heavy in the air, while the spray pattern of the poo looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. As the smell of the poo wafted up towards my nostrils and my eyes took in the mess before me, my gag reflex was awakened. I began to make funny noises like a badger stuck in fur trap, my back curled up and I turned my head to the side. I looked to Jami for help. Laughing diabolically, she seemed more interested in watching the comedic situation play out in front of her.

In a feat that cemented a theory that I have long held (my children are in cohoots with their mother to play tricks on me and force me into uncomfortable situations for their own entertainment) E decided to exacerbate my gagging fit; he kicked me when I was down, he added insult to injury, he poured salt into the wound...he peed on me. My son whom I love gave me the Golden Shower.

I yelled for help. Jami guffawed, clearly enjoying the hysterics. My son looked up at me with a smirk. My daughter's face contorted as she worked a special "gift" into her diaper for dear 'ol dad.

Diaper changing has become easier, I've managed to trim a good 18 minutes off of my average time. Jami and I had a race a few days ago, she's still much faster. On a bright note, I haven't had a gagging episode in two weeks. I think I'm finally settling in and getting used to the whole poopy diaper thing. However, I will have my revenge...oh yes, I will have my revenge. Eventually I will be an old man who is unable to adequately control his bowels, that will be the day my children will be forced to change my diaper. I have many years to concoct my dastardly plot, so laugh it up kids...your time is coming.

Growing Pains

I hear this comment a lot, "oh they grow up so fast". You know what? Good. As a matter of fact, can I do anything to help them grow up faster? The other morning I couldn't find their formula to make a bottle, so I used some of my Strawberry Whey Protein powder instead, I might make this a regular habit if it accelerates their growth. Maybe I should crush up some vitamins and add that to their diet. I'm not above tinkering with Human Growth Hormone, they could at least then play major league baseball. Someone will surely say, "Oh Josh, you need to cherish these moments". Really? What moments?

I can't wait till they're grown enough, that I don't have to wake up at 3:30 in the morning to feed them. Changing dirty diapers...not a fan. The second I can remove the word "poopy" from my everyday vocabulary, I am going to throw a small party for myself.

People always get this really far off look in their eyes and say something like, "It seems like just yesterday that my kids were that small." That's nice. Tell ya what, since you're feeling all warm and fuzzy with nostalgia, why don't you come over to my house around 1:30 am and you can try and figure out why my kids are crying and whining. Do they need their diapers changed? Do they need to be fed? Do they need to be held? Maybe they have some gas, or they're working on nice big poopy? Perhaps they're just fussy? Come on over and relive all your fond memories as you stay awake for the next four hours and discover that their reasons for a sob-fest are all of the above. Have fun.

Everyone forgets about the late nights, incessant crying, & constantly being on alert. What do they need now, I am continually asking myself. It's just the few sweet things that parents want to remember.

For instance, the way that Z curls up into a little ball and falls asleep on my chest...OK, I will miss that.

E does this really cute stretching routine that lasts like twenty minutes when he first wakes up in the morning. I will admit I love watching that no matter how tired I am.

When Z is really hungry, and you get the bottle anywhere near her, she gets super excited and usually pumps a hand in the air as she kind of hops around in your lap groping for the bottle. That is admittedly cute.

They smell really nice after a bath and are eager to cuddle, I could see how I might miss that.

E waves his hands around a lot, sometimes it looks like he is conducting the philharmonic. He must be constantly forgetting and rediscovering that the things waving around in front of his face are hands that belong to him, and that he controls them. That's always good for a laugh.

Both of their faces are really expressive, at least once a day they make a really funny face. Z is like one of those Precious Moments characters, her eyes seem like they're too big for her face, but in a good way that just draws you in; they're so bright they almost sparkle. I have to confess that when she looks up at me and her eyes seem to say, "Thanks dad, I love you", I sort of melt a little bit. Anyone with half a heart would obviously miss that feeling.

E sometimes lets out this single burst of a cry when he's frustrated, it's really more cute than it is annoying. I might miss that. He also has this smile where only the left side of his mouth turns upward, as if he just thought of something real funny. That's pretty stinkin' cute, I will miss that.

Perhaps there are things that I will miss, assuming the sleepless nights don't send me to the sweet rest of the grave prematurely.

Just a little off the top

I am so excited to have a son. Can I just say that? Seriously, I can't wait to play football with him, teach him some submission grappling, make him mow the yard and trim the hedges, etc. So high was my excitement level over having a son, that I thought it would be only fitting to accompany him to the operating room on his second night in the hospital as he underwent the right of passage we men refer to as Circumcision. **Warning** for those of you who are a little squeamish when it comes to talking about sensitive biological matters, you may want to forgo this particular posting.

cir·cum·ci·sion
noun
1 : the act of circumcising: a : the cutting off of the foreskin of the males that is practiced as a religious rite by Jews and Muslims and as a sanitary measure in modern surgery

The second night of our stay in the hospital, the doctor saunters into our room on her nightly rounds through the hospital. She asks if we'd like to go ahead and get E circumcised tonight? We didn't have a lot going on so we said sure. Being a proud father, I agreed to accompany my boy back to the operating table. I believed that this wasn't something he should have to go through by himself. On some level I also thought that this would be a great sort of "male bonding" experience together. Future fathers be advised, if you would like to bond with your son...take him fishing, wrestle with him, in fact do anything other than escorting him to a room where a doctor will cut the tip of his penis off. Trust me, there are better ways to bond with your child and better memories to be had.

And now, a history lesson. The institution of circumcision was established when God told Abram that in order for He and his descendants to be God's chosen people, the 'ol foreskin-trim was going to have to be a part of the deal.

Genesis 17: 9-12 This is my covenant with you and your descendants after you, the covenant you are to keep: Every male among you shall be circumcised. 11 You are to undergo circumcision, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and you. 12 For the generations to come every male among you who is eight days old must be circumcised, including those born in your household or bought with money from a foreigner—those who are not your offspring.

Abram had to go and tell his people this lovely little tid-bit, I imagine that had to be a pretty hard sell.
Abram speaks up after dinner. "OK everyone I have an announcement. I talked to Yahweh this morning...he says hello by the way. Anyway, the good news is He's really keen on us being His chosen people, the bad news is it's going to involve some minor surgery for us guys."
"What kind of surgery?" Ira Goldberg asks from the back of the room.
"It's nothing really, we just have to cut our foreskins off, oh and also I don't think were going to be able to eat bacon." Abram tries to gloss over the details.
"Wait a minute, what was that?" Morty Weinstein interjects.
"Yeah I know, no bacon. That really sucks."
"No, no the part before that."
"Oh right, the foreskin thing...I thought that was kind of weird too at first, but...you know, He's God so..." Abram explains. Like I said, a tough sell.

But I digress.

I carried E back to the operating room, I could tell by the look in his eyes, he knew something was up. The overhead florescent lights gave off an unnatural light as they sang their humming song. The doctor placed E down in a chair like contraption that I’m pretty sure was loosely modeled after the middle-ages torture device called the iron maiden. After strapping his head and all "five" of his other appendages down with Velcro straps, doc began to prepare a litany of stainless steel objects many of which resembled the middle-ages torture devices known as thumbscrews. I was beginning to see a theme. Now that I think about it, the whole scene played out like one of those action movies where the hero gets captured by the terrorists, and they take him into an interrogation cell that has a single light bulb hanging above a wooden chair. Then the terrorist says something like, "We have ways to make you talk." as he slowly unwraps a small collection of sharp metal tools. I halfway expected our doctor to bust out some sodium pentothal, and try to coerce E into divulging his secrets from the womb.

Here's an interesting detail, until recently the only pain reliever our doctor used for this procedure was...a pacifier dipped in sugar water. What!!!! If you are going to cut into my son's member, you better be dipping his pacifier in something a little more substantial, like Oxycodone or Ketamine. Thankfully doc had enough foresight to include some injections of a numbing agent in addition to the sugar water. With all the gentleness of a Mafia hitman, the doctor began giving a series of three or four shots directly into my son's penis. E momentarily began shrieking like a mad banshee, I proceeded to black out briefly.

I came to my senses and assured the medical team that I was fine. The look in their eyes led me to believe that I probably looked as queasy as I felt. "Are you Ok?" the doctor asked. I was having hot flashes, dizzy spells, and my legs felt like I was cruising the high seas on the Black Pearl, "aye aye Capn' Sparrow!" I barked at the doctor. "Let's get him a chair" was her response.

Having allowed some time for the local anesthetic to kick in, the doctor began to prepare the child's groinal region. She placed E's "man tackle" into a device that looked like a cross between a Pez dispenser and a cigar cutter. I find it ironic that fathers traditionally hand out cigars to their fellow male friends and family members at the birth of their sons. Not coincidentally has this tradition died down since fathers have been allowed to watch the circumcision procedure.

The details of the circumcision are somewhat vague in my memory. I believe that this is due to my post traumatic stress and the measures my mind took to protect itself. However there are certain images that have been burned into the limbic region of my brain, consequently I have a recurring nightmare where I am holding E in my arms running through a field as we are chased by the doctor whose eyes are full of malcontent as she wields a small French Revolution era Guillotine.

As far as the procedure goes, I seem to remember a stretching of skin, the use of scissors to cut the skin, a disk like device that used a twisting motion to strip the skin, a peeling back of the skin, & finally some clamping of the skin. At one point I found myself involuntarily crossing my legs, as I vicariously felt the pain that E had to be enduring. The doctor tried to make small talk with me, presumably because she could see that my flesh was taking on a sort of green tone and my eyes were rolling back into my head. On the verge of passing out I muttered "Now's not a real good time doc," as I cupped my crotch and keeled over. As the doctor finished up the circumcision there was a lot of screaming in the air, I can only imagine the sounds had to be similar to those on the battlefield at Gettysburg. Cries of pain and anguish rang out in that small room, however the doctor politely asked me to quiet down and gather myself. When I dried my eyes I saw that E was more or less unaffected by the torturous dealings doc had dished out. He was contentedly sucking on his pacifier and looking about the room.

It was hard to change E's diaper for about a week as he healed up. The skin around his "area" was pink and raw, and I felt nauseous every time I looked at it. However, three and a half weeks removed from the event, E seems to have healed up nicely. Our pediatrician says the circumcision looks good, and per my inquiry, doesn't believe E has suffered any long term emotional damage brought on by the ordeal.

I still look forward to teaching my boy to catch a football, how to properly submit an opponent with a kimura, how to shave, tie a tie and play a G chord on the guitar. So, I guess all's well that ends well. If I have another son, I don't know if I will watch him get circumcised. It's too soon to tell whether or not my fragile mind is capable of withstanding another round. If I do indeed have to witness this rite of passage again, I can assure you that I will be heavily sedated.

The insomniac texts, 1st entry

Sept 5th, 3:27 am.

I am currently on my 43rd hour of not sleeping since bringing our newborn children home from the hospital. Tired...so tired. The sounds of my children squeaking and squawking fill the air; they are incessant. Helpless though they may be, their whimpering has kept me awake for longer than my mind can bare. Unsure of what is reality and what is merely a sleep deprived hallucination, I drift to the kitchen stopping only to say hello to the leprechaun burying his treasures beneath the tile in our hallway. As I open the refrigerator, a light bulb goes off in my head. I make a note so I won't forget my brilliant idea later, "solar powered cow" I scribble on the notepad magnetically clinging to our fridge. Upon further review, I'm unsure what this means, but assume I will figure it out tomorrow.

Right now I need something...but what? Fruit Loops! Toucan Sam stares at me from the back of the cereal box, "Do this cross word puzzle" he beckons me. I stare at his first clue, "A _____ a day keeps the Dr. away" 5 letters. I should know this. It's there on the outer rim of my consciousness... but I cannot recall it from the nether regions of my memory.

Tired...so tired.

The cereal loving cartoon Bird is smiling, his multi-colored beak is mocking me. His lifeless eyes seem to speak to me saying, "Bawk! I can sleep whenever I want to, stupid human. Bawk!".

"You will pay for this Toucan! I will empty this box in a days time!" I exclaim aloud. Too loud. The children stir in their sleep, I fear I may have awoken them and further delayed my chances of ever falling asleep.

I hold my breath and dare not move for fear of making a sound and waking the children fully. "Lub dub, lub dub", I can hear my heart pounding in my head. Can the children hear it as well? Every sound in the house is amplified. Please God don't let them wake up yet, I need to sleep, I will do anything, please!

Tired...so tired.

The children begin to stir. "Blast!" I shout under my breath. I run to their bed side, and begin to sing Brahms lullaby to them. Unsure of the actual words, I make them up as I go. "Go to sleep, Go to sleep, Go to sleep little babies. You are sleepy, freaking sleepy, Toucan Sam is a jerk." Slowly the children's breathing settles, they shift ever so slightly and fall back asleep. Exhaling stealthily, I lay my head on the floor and sing Brahms lullaby to myself.

Tired...so tired. Drowsily the room around me begins to fade. Miraculously, I slip away into REM sleep. I dream of hunting the Toucan with my new found friend the leprechaun. I am awoken a mere three and a half minutes later to the piercing shrieks of my kids crying for food. Noooooooooo!!!

Tired...so tired.

It's Game Time part 2

Before we go any further, let's back up to about week 31 of Jami's pregnancy. Our doctor told us to go to the hospital because we thought Jami was going into pre-term labor, due to the fact that she had more than 6 "contractions" in an hour. Whatever those symptoms she was having, I have a hard time calling them contractions.

Back to the birth story. As we sat in triage, Jami was experiencing the grandeur of real contractions. The difference between the contractions of 31 weeks, and her current contractions was significant to say the least. Her previous "contractions" were almost ticklish compared to what she was now experiencing. Jami said it felt like a really intense and painful version of abdominal crunches that one might do to tone one's midsection. Judging by her reaction when the contractions hit, it looked more like doing a crunch whilst being tortured by a electrocution device made from a converted car battery and a piece of chain link fence in some Vietnamese POW camp; I kept waiting for Jami to answer any questions I might have had by repeating only her name, rank, and social security number.
"How are you feeling babe?"
"Private first class, Jami L. Cecil, 318-49-1234!"
"Can I get you some ice water?"
"Private first class, Jami L. Cecil, 318-49-1234!"

If you've ever seen a woman have contractions, you know that they come in waves. You also know that it's obvious when she's having one. She has a sort of distant stare, as if she's remembering a far off time when she thought getting pregnant would be a wonderfully beautiful experience. If you've ever seen a woman have contractions, you also know NOT to ask her questions or take her picture. She can't answer your questions because contractions literally take her breath away. She doesn't want her picture taken because she believes you are in some way making light of her current painful state, which YOU are responsible for. Since I had never had the pleasure of witnessing contractions before, these realities were unknown to me. I was taking pictures like Ansel Adams, until Jami gently asked me to cease and desist.
"DO NOT TAKE MY PICTURE RIGHT NOW!" she said in a guttural voice several octaves below her normal pitch. I was half-way expecting her to start speaking in Latin, and for her head to begin spinning around. I was reaching for some Holy water just in case this whole pregnancy thing was just a ruse and I actually needed to do an emergency exorcism.
"The power of Christ compels you." I said under my breath.

Eventually our doctor stopped by to tell us that we could go ahead and do the C-section at 12:30, which was a little less than two hours away. I was conflicted, three emotions were stirred up within me.

1. Joy. My little guys were almost here! I have been waiting so long, imagining what they would look like and what it would feel like to hold them.
2. Empathy. I felt really bad for Jami, she was clearly in a lot of pain. I wanted to be able to take it all away from her.
3. But also...Fear. I felt woefully unprepared to be a father in less than two hours. Shouldn't we wait a bit longer? I mean that's only thirty minutes after lunch, I seem to remember something about not going swimming for at least twenty minutes after you eat; I can only imagine that something as immense as giving birth would require at least a two week waiting period following a noon time meal. Let's just slow down there doc.

From about 11:30 till about 12:30 when we were moved from triage to the delivery room, life sort of got blurry. Probably because my world was spinning at a pace akin to those contraptions astronauts find themselves spinning in for gravity defying training purposes.

We arrived in the delivery area, where Jami and I had to part ways momentarily. The nurses took Jami back to prep her for surgery, which included the much needed spinal anesthetic that would help Jami's labor pains evaporate. I was given some materials to wear over my clothes so as not to contaminate the sterile environment of the delivery room.

I opened the package I was given, inside I found what I at first thought was a "Haz-mat suit". Between my frazzled nerves, and the intricate structure of the suit I had to wear over my street clothes, it took roughly 45 minutes and the help of two nurses, a physical therapist, and a hip-replacement patient that had just come out of surgery to help me into my new duds. I had my booties on, my jumpsuit zipped up, a mask pulled taught against my face and a lovely hospital-blue hair net to cap off the ensemble.

Trying to calm myself down, I paced back and forth across the hospital room stopping repeatedly to sanitize my hands with the foam dispenser attached to the wall. Left, right, left, right, left, right, turn; left, right, left, right, left, right, sanitize. I was like a germ-a-phobic Buckingham palace guard with OCD. My routine was finally broken when the nurse came back to get me and bring me in to the delivery area.

Jami was sprawled out and strapped down to the operating table. The doctors had set up a base camp comprised of a tent of blue sterile napkins covering the lower half of Jami's body. Her belly was rising up from the middle of the sanitary blue ocean like a Leviathan out of the deep sea.

I've heard many a person say that watching the birth of their child was one of the most beautiful events they'd ever witnessed. I'm not sure what program they were watching, but it can't have been the same thing I saw. What my eyes were privy to, was a cacophony of violence and a menagerie of bodily fluids. It began with a thick coat of rust tinted iodine slathered across my wife's stomach. With the skill of a samurai, the doctor took her scalpel and made a careful and precise incision just below my wife's waistline; that was the last I saw of anything I would classify as skillful, careful, or precise.

The doctor and her cohort maneuvered both of their hands on either side of the gap the incision had made. They proceeded to lean back with all their weight, tearing the gap and the tissue beneath even wider. It looked like they were having a tug-o-war using my wife's abdomen for a rope. Once the exit wound was wide enough, the team of doctors and nurses began the process of securing the portal from which the babies would be brought forth; this included a lot of clamping, sucking, and more tugging. As the queasiness began to rise up inside of me, the surgical team began to stuff a giant hoop inside the hatch they had carved into my wife's belly. I proceeded to throw up a bit in my mouth. I was later told that the hoop was a gentler way of performing a C-section which allowed them to not take several major organs out including the uterus. My thought is: if this is a newer gentler way, what did the old way look like?
"Nurse hand me my field knife, and give the patient a stick to bite down on...this is gonna get messy." said the doctor in the movie that was playing in my mind's eye.

The doctor said something to the effect of are you ready, and plunged her hands into the cavity in my wife's midsection. When she withdrew her hands there was a tiny human head gripped between them. I can remember a Christmas when I was young and my cousin let me hold her new baby at grandma's house, my mother kept cautioning me to be gentle and support the baby's head and neck. You can imagine my horror then, when this medical professional was yanking and twisting my offspring out of their womb...by the neck!

My first thought when I saw my children for the first time was pure joy! They were finally here, with me and their momma. The whole moment was surreal, and a tear welled up in my eye. Once I caught my breath, I realized that my children were beautiful yes, but...also kind of gross. They were covered in goop, had a blueish gray pigmentation, and heads that were seemingly too big for their little bodies; but mostly covered in goop. Let me reiterate, that when the doctor presented my children to me fresh out of the womb, they were beautiful yes; however I did want to ask the doctor, "Hey doc, you're gonna clean those up before you hand em over to me right?"

Thankfully the answer was yes. Once the kids were pulled from whence they came, the medical team quickly took them over to little stations set up in the room. As I followed the flurry of action, I saw people poking, prodding, wiping and weighing my babies. Excitement and emotion grew inside me, I can't believe these are mine. When the doctor finally told me I could touch them, I was overwhelmed. I extended my finger and touched my daughter's hand, to my amazement she gripped it and squeezed. Inside I melted, and decided as soon as I got a chance I would get on the internet and buy my little girl a pony. Seeing my children grab hold of daddy's finger was one of greatest moments of my life.

After Jami was sewed up and cleaned up, the babies got to meet their momma. To see the love in her eyes as she met the children she had been carrying for 9 months was another of the greatest moments of my life. I have a new appreciation for my wife; what she is capable of, her unconditional love, and her selflessness amaze me.

So there we were, Mom and dad; with our babies 50% me and 50% her. We were a family for the first time. My heart was, and is...full.

It's Game Time part 1

8:45 am- Wednesday morning, I'm sipping down the last few drops of my coffee getting ready to head in to work. I was thinking about how my day was going to look, when my beautiful wife sticks her head around the corner and says, "I should warn you, I think I'm leaking."

My first thought, "Leaking? Humans don't leak."
"I don't know if that means my water has broke or not." Jami elaborated.

Understand that this is a lot to take in before having a full cup of coffee, I'm still a little groggy and zombie-like at this point. Jami tells me she'll keep me posted on her plumbing issues as I head out the door and off to work, my mind never really registering the weight of her words.

10:15 am- I'm sitting behind my desk typing some emails, when my phone rings. "My water's broke, they want me to come in." Jami said rather bluntly.
"Who is this?" I offered.

The oxygen level in the office immediately drops by 82%. My saliva glands unanimously agree that it would be in everybody's best interest to stop working, and my mouth feels like I just had a snack of cotton balls, sand, and crackers. Adrenaline releases into the bloodstream, which tailspins me into hyper-alert mode. Unfortunately, though I'm hyper-alert, I have no real direction; as such, I'm kind of like a crazed lumberjack lost in the woods hacking his way through the forest cutting down a lot of trees but not really getting anywhere.

10:17 am- In a moment of clarity, I realize that I should probably pick Jami up, seeing as she is the one carrying the children in her womb. I make it from my desk to the driver's seat of the Pontiac Vibe in just three strides. (note to self: Check with Guiness Book of World records to see if I've set a new land speed record...will probably need to measure distance)

I take off in the Vibe, and reach 80 mph before I've even left the parking lot. A slew of injured critters, and possibly a sweet elderly woman in a motorized cart, mark the trail I blazed back to my house; they should've seen me coming...I had my hazard lights on.

I make it home in just under 13 seconds. I walk in the door and see Jami is comforting the dog, or maybe it was the other way around, I didn't stop to ask. I hurdled both dog and spouse, head to the bedroom to pack my bag; socks...check, underwear...check, sweatpants...check, t-shirts...check, jeans...check, toiletries...check. For some reason I ask Jami if I should pack my bathing suit? Not sure what I was thinking there, perhaps I might have time for a leisurely swim before we bring two new lives into the world.

I stuff my items into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I race out into the hall, I pick Jami up in a fireman's carry and sprint towards the car. I throw Jami into the car, and realize that in my haste I accidentally picked up Bailey our Golden Retriever. I go back into the house with dog, exchange her for the wife, she refuses to be carried, I still have no saliva and can't seem to get enough O2 into my system. I'm trying to stay composed so I don't panic Jami, inside I'm a hot mess and I'm afraid it's starting to show.

10:20 am- With 2 car seats, a double stroller, breast pump, diaper bag, mom's bag, my bag, and my contracting wife in tow; I pull out of the drive way and make a B-line towards the hospital. The sound of steadied breathing filled the car. Breathe in 2, 3, 4...out 2, 3, 4. I talked myself through these ancient breathing techniques desperately trying to calm myself down, Jami was having a pleasant conversation on the phone.

10:21 am-We pulled into the hospital, I parked in the closest space available. As I ushered Jami from the car, I struggled to swallow because my saliva had yet to make its trumphant return. Voices were shouting at me from every direction, confusing me. I was unsure which voice to listen to.
"Sir you can't park here!"
"Sir you need to move your car immediately!"
"Sir this zone is for ambulances only, you're blocking an emergency lane!"

With squealing tires, I started to take off towards more civilian type parking. Jami's contractions were picking up in intenstiy, so she serenely suggested I drop her off out front; as serenely as a woman can be when she has a vice grip around her husbands throat. I dropped Jami off and moved my car to the next closest parking space, conveniently located in the long term parking lot several miles from any entrance. As I rode the tram back to the hospital's main entrance, I sounded the alarm to alert the media that I was about to become a father. Two mass texts to our friends; and a phone call to mom and dad, "come on if, you're comin!", was all my saliva deprived mouth could say. I stood before the entrance of Clarian Hospital, like Frodo before the gates of Mordor, I knew my life was about to be radically changed.

to be continued...