Too Much Blue Sky

Come on By, Y'hear?

Fri, 14 Jul 2006 04:32:29 GMT

Hey, I'm done moving! I'm all moved now.

By that, I mean that this blog is closing down. I'm not renewing my license, so this little neck of the woods is closing up shop. The Salon blogs have become little more than a virtual ghost town, and I see no reason to pay for the minimal visibility I get here.

My future home is over at Blogger. Change yer bookmarks to http://toomuchbluesky.blogspot.com/.

Now come over and visit me, would you?

Please?

Oliver's walking, bit by bit, and there's so much more for him to do. He's going to be talking soon, and you don't want to miss that.

Plus, I'm going to have a new job soon, and you don't want to miss all of the (hopefully exciting) details.

So come visit me!

Seriously, people. The thing I'll miss is the community of the Salon bloggers. You know who I'm talking about. Phil? Meg, with her never-ending store of quizzes and polls? Birdie - dear sweet kind Birdie? Nancy (and the Alien, once she's ready for the internet)? Everyone else that I'm forgetting, or that has been lurking for months and never commented? I'll miss you, but it'd be so much more fun if you come over to visit, so we can still ... you know ... hang.

Until I see you on the other side, this is Sky Bluesky, over and out.

Confidence - L'il Walking Oliver

Fri, 14 Jul 2006 04:03:11 GMT

Many things happened while we were in Boston. There was the whole reason we were there, R's sister's wedding. It was beautiful, and small, and heartfelt. Both her sister (who we'll call Pickle, for reasons known only to me) and her hubby are in their 30's, and didn't want something that was too big or too traditional. So they wrote their own vows, planned everything from the pre-wedding champagne toast to the reception. And it was great. It actually made me think about what me and R had missed by eloping - the chance for families to come together, a real public celebration, the cake and the dancing and all that.

But the big news - possibly bigger than the wedding - was this.

Oliver took his first steps.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I waited for two freaking weeks to tell you. But I've been busy! (See previous post.)

I was away at the bachelor party for the future Mr. Pickle, and Pickle and R were at home with little Oliver. At some point, R was walking him across the hardwood floors, hand in tiny hand, and suddenly he let go, and he took two little tiny steps just like that. Bang. There it was.

(R didn't remember to tell me until sometime the next morning. I almost spit out my coffee.)

He did it again two or three times while we were out there. Once, the future Mr. Pickle stood a few steps from him and dangled my watch (a favorite toy of Oliver's) in front of him. "See this? You've got to come here to get it!" And he did - six steps, right to Mr. Pickle and the watch, while we watched with our jaws on the floor.

And that was fun. And we were all excited, because suddenly we had a genuine! walking! baby! But then we came home, and suddenly he showed no interest in walking. We'd try to get him to do it, taking him on little strolls, then releasing his hands and whispering "Come on, Oliver. You can do it. We know you can do it," while the other person teased him with a book or a toy. And he'd plop right down on his bum and crawl over to the other person. He took the very occasional step or two, but nothing to get excited about.

And then, a few nights ago, he remembered. Nothing seemed to change, there was no great bolt of lightning or shower of fireworks going off, but when R would let go of his hands, he stood for a minute, giggle maniacally, and then step... step ... step. And he did it again, and again, and again. Once, he went for a good twelve paces before he let gravity take hold again. And every time, the wild giggle, like he couldn't believe he was doing it either.

Like silly people, we applaud every time he takes steps on his own. And we try not to groan too loudly when we stand him up, and instead of walking, he drops down on all fours and crawls instead.

Tonight was the absolute best, because after taking a few hitchy baby steps, he started clapping himself. It seems only fair. He's the one who's doing all the work. It's only fair that he should get to applaud himself.

P.S. At the same time, he's suddenly learned how to turn his wagon around by himself. (I complained - gently - a few posts ago, because he was using the wagon like a maniac, but daddy or mommy had to turn it around every time he hit a wall or a corner.) All of a sudden, we saw him doing exactly what daddy did - tilting the handle back, pivoting the wagon until it was in the right direction - and then tearing off again. Once he got the mechanics, he was very nearly unstoppable. (Well, if it weren't for the toys that kept logjamming under his wheels.)

And once he could control the wagon, I realized that I had made a horrible miscalculation. During the early days, when I was trying to coax him into using the wagon at all, I would encourage him to use me as a target. "Come on. Come get daddy." And then, when he was a few steps away, I would leap away with a little scream. Well, now he's decided that the game is Hit Daddy with the Wagon. And I'm jumping out of the way more and more now, and no, it's not fun anymore. He's still laughing, though, every time he gets me lined up in his sights.

Confidence - Me

Fri, 14 Jul 2006 04:01:44 GMT

I've been sending out resumes since around February, even though I was still Oliver's stay-at-home dad until very recently. It's what the experts call "hedging your bets." I originally planned on going back to work this summer, once Mrs. B came home for her summer vacation. But it seemed like a good idea to start looking, just in case I got lucky before the summer started.

Well, it's been a tough haul. I've gotten the occasional interview, but only one at a time, and never more than the first interview. I guess I sent over two dozen resumes out, with only three interviews to show for it. It's been very frustrating.

Recently I took two weeks off from the job search. One weekend, we were preparing to fly out to Boston, and I was too busy preparing to think about sending resumes. and the next weekend, we were actually in Boston. The first Sunday after we came home, I tore open the classifieds and found ten different jobs - ten! - that I was qualified for, and that interested me. I sent out a ton of resumes. And suddenly, everyone is calling me back.

It's as if a dam burst open. I had an interview yesterday at 10 am. I had another interview today. There's another one scheduled for tomorrow.

And for Monday.

And on Tuesday, a second interview.

And on Wednesday, another interview scheduled. That's five separate employers who want to talk to yours truly.

Both of the interviews so far have gone very well. I've found myself fantasizing about the ideal scenario - what if I have two (or three? Or even four?) jobs to choose from, and I have to turn someone down? What if there's - gasp - a bidding war for my services?

But then I calm down and I remember that right now, I don't have one job. So getting just one offer will be good.

My confidence re: jobhunting is increasing stratospherically. I think it comes out in the interviews, too. I don't feel needy. I feel like I'm the best candidate they have, and I talk with confidence about my experience, my skills, and my vision for my next position. It's a good feeling, after months of rejection and silence on the job front.

Back to Regular Dad

Sat, 01 Jul 2006 02:49:08 GMT

I know that ticklish spot, right under Oliver's chin, and I know that when I hit it with my bare toe just right, he goes spasmy with giggles.

I know that sometimes, his favorite thing is rolling across the floor like a log going down a hill. And that, if I gently nudge him with my foot, he'll roll and roll until he hits the window, softly giggling the whole time.

I know that he takes his naps almost like clockwork at 9 am and at 3 pm.

I know that he loves aquariums. And peekaboo. And watching birds. And watching the construction trucks that stream by our apartment. And anyone walking by our window.

I know that he smiles and occasionally waves at strangers. And he flirts with every woman who works at the grocery store, and they all flirt right back.

I know that when I eat snacks, I'd better put down a handful of Cheddar Bunnies or Veggie Booty for him, or else he'll get resentful.

I know that my little boy loves me. I know this. I know if I lay on the floor, sometimes he crawls right up to me and puts his little head against my chest for a few moments. If I'm really lucky, he'll crawl up to my face and give me a wet, sloppy, open-mouthed gooey kiss right on the lips. And that's the best thing ever.

Today is the last day I get to be a stay-at-home dad.

Mrs. B came home tonight and began her summer vacation, which is (unfairly) only six weeks. She gets a month and a half to be the primary caregiver for Oliver, while I try to find myself some gainful employment. And then, when the fall comes, both she and I will go to work, and Oliver will go to the day care seven blocks from our house.

I think back to those early days, when I worried if I was ever going to get the hang of taking care of him all day. (Actually, that first day, I was really worried if he was ever going to take a bottle from me.) Naps worried me. Feedings frightened me. I was constantly worried that I would poke him in the eye, or drop him, or something similarly awful.

And here we are, ten months later. Naps don't scare me any more. The bottles aren't even an issue anymore. We do two meals a day, two naps, hours of playing, and sometimes I'm exhausted and nap while he does and sometimes I don't even bother. I can keep up with him. He doesn't scare me anymore.

It's been nearly a year that I've been taking care of him, and we've grown so much together. I feel privileged to have had this much time with him, that we've been able to afford (barely) to do this. I have a bond with our little boy that not enough fathers get. My own father never had the connection with us from the early days that I get to have with Oliver.

Now I have to readjust to being just a regular working dad, one that drops his kid off at daycare in the morning and sees him at night for dinner and sleep. (Actually, the daycare won't start until late August, but stick with me, folks, I'm on a roll.) I won't get to see him play during the day, giddily tearing through his books or tossing around his blocks, one by one, with a squeal of glee every time one flies into the air. Those moments will just be on the weekends.

I'll miss all the intensive time with him. Hours of playing on the floor, hundreds of books read, balls tossed, blocks stacked and tumbled, messes made and cleaned and made again. I won't miss the problems: the difficult naps, the teething miseries, the days of complete distraction where he couldn't do anything for five minutes without screaming in frustration.

Well - I say I won't miss that. But I will. Because when things went wrong, I was the only one he had during the day to make things better, and almost always, I figured out how to make it better. I got him to sleep. I provided teethers and (before he had actual teeth) my fingers to soothe his aching gums. I found ways to keep him entertained. I figured out how to be his parent, the caretaker, the one he relied on. I learned how to take care of him, and he learned to trust me.

I don't ever want him to forget how much that time meant to me. I know I will never forget it.

Sleater-Kinney - the End of the Road

Fri, 30 Jun 2006 16:54:20 GMT

Sleater-Kinney is breaking up. The website says it's an "indefinite hiatus," but I know a euphemism when I read it. They're done. Corin Tucker will move to widely acclaimed and occasionally misunderstood solo albums. Carrie will throw down as a guest artist on albums by Pearl Jam, the Gossip, and the Queens of the Stone Age. Janet Weiss will still play with Quasi, and some other group will have the good sense to sweep her up. She may be the only drummer strong enough to replace Matt Cameron, should he ever leave Pearl Jam.

Sleater-Kinney is breaking up. They released the most unexpected and devastating record of their career, the one that makes everything else look like an elementary school project. Then they folded up the tent. I'm left with a new sense of sadness every time I hear the blowtorch opening of "The Fox" or the vicious interplay of "Entertain." This was the last album by this band. This was the one that killed them.

I've been comforting myself with overload. I've been watching clips of them on the Henry Rollins show and live segments off the website. I'm listening to two live concerts from 2005 posted here (and my sincere gratitude goes out to the host. The cover of "Fortunate Son" is a gem, and the retooled versions of old songs are remarkable.) I've been reading their biography off the website, the birth I missed, even though I'm out in the land of evergreens and coffee. I didn't pick up on S-K until "The Hot Rock," and I didn't really hear them until "All Hands on the Bad One." And then I was hooked. I explored their catalog backwards, only recently hearing their remarkable debut album. I've only seen them once, during the AHOABO tour, playing a 1/3-full Key Arena and blowing the lid off it.

It's a week of transition here at Casa Bluesky, and it only hit me yesterday. This is the last week I'll be home with Oliver full time. Next week, Mrs. B comes home, and hopefully, I'll be working somewhere, either temping it or suddenly seizing a full-time gig. We have today and tomorrow, and then it's over. I'll talk more about this in a later posting. (I'm not ready yet.)

So what I'm doing today is project all of my emotions of loss and sadness about ending my stay-at-home tenure into my sadness about losing Sleater-Kinney. That's the only explanation for why I started getting weepy halfway through the (weird, foresty, blurry) video for "Entertain." That's gotta be it.

I saw something online that suggested that Le Tigre might be breaking up, too. If that's true, I'm just gonna fall apart.

Off to Boston

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 04:55:01 GMT

Hey, faithful reader(s),

Me and Mrs. B are flying to Boston tomorrow morning for the wedding of Mrs. B's sister. We'll be gone until next Tuesday, so the blog may be quieter than usual. Slightly.

It'll be the first plane trip of Oliver's young life. We've got layovers coming and going - one short flight and one looooooooooooooong one. If all works well, little O will sleep and eat snacks and play peek-a-boo with the people sitting across from us, and he'll be adorable.

If not ...

Well, wish us luck.

Bouncy Bouncy Bouncy

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 04:54:05 GMT

We have been bouncing Oliver to sleep for nearly a year now, using a giant red balance ball, as sold in inumerable sporting goods stores. I have lost an inch off my waist. My arms are more toned now than at any time since high school, and my shoulders are broader. I think this should be an official exercise regimen:

The Baby Exercise Routine

1) Get a long pillowcase. Buy twenty five pounds of stuffing - buckwheat, couscous, flour, it doesn't matter what as long as it's the right weight.

2) Fill the pillowcase with your stuffing. Sew it shut, making sure that the stuffing is equally distributed, more or less. If one end is heavier than the other, label it "head." Label the other side "feet."

3) Write down the following numbers:

5
5
10
10
15
25
30
30
30
45
60

Write down each of these numbers on a piece of paper. Every time you exercise, draw one of these numbers out of a hat. This will be the amount of time you exercise.

4) Get a balance ball. Place it in your bedroom, at the foot of the bed.

5) Every four hours, get your pillowcase (just for kicks, call it "the baby") and sit on the balance ball, balancing "the baby" across your outstretched arms. "The baby" should be resting on the insides of your elbows, with the weight mostly on your forearms and biceps.

6) Bounce with "the baby," keeping the "head" and "feet" level. If you really want a challenge, sew a bubble level into the center of your pillowcase and watch the bubble. If it moves out of the center lines, stop and start again.

7) After you've bounced for the proper amount of time, stand up with your "baby," continuing to keep the "head" and "feet" level. Place your "baby" gingerly on your bed. If at any point, the "head" and "feet" are not level, get back on the ball and bounce again.

8) For a change of pace, try this additional step. Once a week (on random days), draw two numbers out of the hat. Use the first number and bounce for this amount of time. Put down your "baby," and leave the room for five minutes. Go back, pick up your "baby," and bounce again for the amount of time on the second piece of paper.

Walking for the First Time

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:50:30 GMT

As one of his birthday presents, Oliver got a little wagon (officially, it's called a Toddler Wobbler, which seems prescient) that could be used as a walker. The wheels have adjustable brakes so it doesn't go flying out from under him, and it's just the perfect height for him.

Oliver had it for a week or so and didn't seem to know what to do with it. He put toys into it and pull them out, and sometimes he would push it across the floor with his hand.

Then, suddenly, one night he climbed up, grabbed the back of the wagon...

and he was off, wobbling his way across the living room. We were stunned at how quickly he went, and how eager he was to walk once he figured out how to do it.

He made probably a dozen laps, back and forth, across the living room, stopping only when he hit a wall or another obstruction.

Then his legs started getting wobbly. He still didn't stop. Didn't stop, even when he could no longer stand up and he was pushing the wagon on his knees. Didn't actually stop until we took him away from the wagon, and he fought us even then.

So now we've got an official toddler. He's compelled to walk now, the same way he was when he first learned to crawl. The urge is so powerful that we have to hide his wagon so he won't just walk back and forth all day. Then he'll just take the laundry basket, or the Incrediblock seem above, and use them as quasi-walkers. To hilarious effect.

Bonus! If you go here, you'll be able to see a very grainy and in-your-face video of the boy walking on his chubby little legs. Enjoy.

Everything

Thu, 01 Jun 2006 00:03:40 GMT

Everything changed.

People use this phrase all the time. Everything changed on September 11th. Everything changes once you're old enough to drink. Everything changes once you drive a Hemi. Everything changes once you listen to the Doors.

On May 31, 2005, everything changed for us.

I remember so much of that day, and the days leading up to it. I remember exactly where I sat and where R lay when she had the misoprostol treatments. I remember the restaurant on Capitol Hill where we ate our last formal meal pre-baby. The antiseptic smells of scrubs and clean towels. The bathtub where she tried using hot water to stem the pain of her contractions, to postpone the epidural just that much longer. The salmon from the cafe, the location of everything in the room - the tv, the bassinet, the sink, the bare padded area where I slept while my wife worked to bring our baby out of her body and into the world.

I remember seeing the crown of his head emerge, as magical as anything I have ever seen. I realized then the weight of creating another human being. We weren't just creating ultrasound pictures or something to put in the crib. We created a person, and here was his head, and here were his shoulders, and the umbilical cord caressed his throat gently, like the last kiss of a lover, and then the doctor's scissors snipped it away and he sprang out into the cold light of day. It was 5:32 am. It was a Tuesday. Today is Wednesday. We have gone fifty two weeks and one day since that magical moment, and today is the anniversary of his birth. It's his birthday.

I want to say that we were playing his lullaby CD, the one that's playing now as he slumbers in the next room. I could be wrong. We could have been playing James Taylor or Cat Stevens or Enya. But my heart wants it to have been that lullaby CD that welcomed him into the world.

I remember so many trivial and hugely significant moments that splash against each other in my mind like ripples in a turbulent sea. I remember his tragically feline cries from those early early days, and I remember how much he slept as his body struggled to draw as much nourishment as he could. The desperation of those early days, until the lactation consultant came and taught R about latches and the satisfying clunk! of his swallows, and he began to feed in earnest. Then it all comes in cascading waves. Meconium diapers. Blankets. His play gym, and the way he would lay on his back and bat a fist at his little hanging frog.

The frightening first day I spent alone with him.

Baths. Strolls in the Bjorn and in the various strollers. I remember the first time we went to the store in the Bjorn - he spit up on the padding and I didn't even notice until we entered the store and I saw the white patches against blue fabric. (I had nothing to clean him up with. I had to learn.) The first time I went to parenting class, feeling awkward and slightly desperate and wildly emotional in a room full of mothers who were equally emotional if not more.

More memories. Solid food. Smiles. Laughter. Tears and crying jags that evolved from catlike cries into real babylike sounds. (No less tragic.) Naps that were blissfully still and long, and naps that descended into chaos and tears on both sides. All of it.

I remember it all, and the things I don't remember sneak up on me unexpectedly. I remembered suddenly this morning how tiny his first diapers were, and how small his body was, like a doll.

I used to be so tired that I would fall asleep on the couch carrying him, and we would sleep together, sprawled together in a pile of fatigue. I fell asleep holding him that first day, sitting upright, and I startled myself awake with nightmare visions of how I could have dropped him, how I could have somehow slipped and had him tumble out of my hands. I don't believe that now. Even that first day, I was his father, and there was no force, not even my own exhaustion, that would have caused him to slip from my grasp.

Our boy is now a year old. 365 days ago, everything changed for us. My career changed. The way I looked at everything - television, food, baseball, alcohol, plastic, honey, electric fans, newspapers, everything - changed. My new world is exactly one year old, and I'm only starting to get used to it. He is the joy of my life, and the greatest thing I have ever been associated with.

Happy birthday, Oliver.

The First Time

Tue, 16 May 2006 23:48:45 GMT

The interview last Friday went well. Good rapport, good answers, blah blah blah. I'm waiting to hear from them.

What really mattered to me is that Oliver was a gem in his first daycare session. He was charming, he was playful, he only had one serious crying jag. He also was nearly asleep on his feet when I came to pick him up - the interview went longer than I expected.

I've been at home with little O for nine months now, and last Friday was tough for me. It was like the beginning of the end. If I don't get this job, I'll get another one, and we'll be putting him in someone else's hands for eight or nine hours a day. I don't worry about the daycare provider - she's great and kind and loves Oliver. It's just ... well, it's not us. It's not me.

When I came to pick him up, I was disappointed that the main daycare provider wasn't there (she had to pick her own kids from school.) The other person there wasn't able to give me a full rundown of how the day went, only the short time she had spent with him. Before Oliver saw me, I peeked in the door and saw him playing contentedly with the daycare worker. I called his name a few times (it felt like several hundred) before he looked my way. And then he let me pick him up. And then burst into tears.

And yes, I felt nine shades of awful. A little girl looked up cautiously and asked, "All right?" He was all right. Tired. Maybe hungry. Maybe a little spooked at having suddenly been dropped into the hands of strangers, with a gaggle of other kids he'd never seen before. But of course he was all right.

I took him home and he almost fell asleep on the eight-block drive home. He was down for a nap in minutes, and only then did I allow myself a few tears at the new bridge we had crossed.

Interview

Tue, 16 May 2006 23:47:07 GMT

Note: originally posted 5/11/06 to the other blog. Sorry, Salon readers.

Hokey smokes. I sent out a resume last night, and twelve hours later, the organization called me back to set up an interview.

I can't tell you the organization, obviously, but it's a fundraising job and it's a much larger organization that I first realized. My interview's at 1:30 tomorrow (Friday.)

My contract work with my previous employer dried up at the end of April. I finished everything I could do, and though it was tempting to invent some previously undiscovered work so I could bill them for more hours, I dutifully reported that my desk was clean. (One of these days, they'll realize that I still have office keys.)

As much as I want to continue being a stay-at-home dad, things are tough on one income. I could hit some temp agencies, but they're all M-F businesses, and my M-F daytime hours are busy. (I can't imagine sitting Oliver in the waiting room of a temp agency while I do typing and grammar tests for hours.)

So after sending out two dozen resumes, I got a lightning-fast bite. The job description is comprehensive, the voice over the phone was friendly, and these folks really look like they've got their act together. I could really enjoy being just another employee in a well-oiled machine of a development department. Cross your fingers for me.

Oh, and we're also going to try daycare for the first time tomorrow. While I'm interviewing, little O is going to be hanging out at an at-home daycare for an hour or two. It's the first time he's been away from both of us since he was three months old. So cross your fingers and toes. Between the new experience of daycare and the job interview, I am in an emotional state commonly referred to as "freaking out."

Moussaoui Lives

Thu, 04 May 2006 22:23:55 GMT

At last, the grotesque spectacle is over. Zacarias Moussaoui, the only person convicted (however periperally) in connection with the 9/11 attacks, will spend the rest of his life in prison. The United States will not be carrying out his execution.

Those of you who are longtime TMBS readers know my feelings on the death penalty. For you new readers, here goes. I'm against it. Always. In every instance.

Why? Because I have a soul, and I don't believe that I should kill other human beings out of revenge. If I won't do it, I won't have the government, acting on my behalf, do it and dress it up in terms like "the ultimate punishment." It's killing. We, as a civilized society, should not be in the business of executing people. This is not an abstract discussion for me. I've had my opportunity to face this decision directly, when the man who killed my brother was sentenced, and when it came time to make the call, I couldn't do it. I could not be a party to murder, even for a man who had murdered my own brother.

The federal prosecutors had two challenges in this trial. First, they had to convict Moussaoui for something that would tie him to the 9/11 hijackings, even though everyone knows he was in jail in Minnesota when the planes took flight. So they wrangled a conviction on the grounds that Moussaoui should have confessed he was part of the plot when he was arrested in August 2001. As many civil liberties lawyers have explained, this is essentially convicting ZM for not implicating himself in a crime, which he has every right not to do under our Fifth Amendment. The precedent is disturbing, and no doubt will be challenged for years to come.

So part one was successful. ZM was tied to 9/11. The jury decided he was eligible for the death penalty based on this bizarre conviction. Now they just had to push the jury to decide in favor of his execution. This is where the trial went over the edge from bizarre right into horrorshow.

The prosecutors showed video of people jumping from the World Trade Center and hitting the ground. People on fire. Body parts in the street. They played the cockpit recording from Flight 93, the final moments of 40 people's lives who fought to save the U.S. Capitol or the White House from catastrophe. Giuliani was called upon to describe his personal anguish as a witness to the WTC attacks. Phone calls were replayed. Countless ghoulish scenes of death and chaos were shown. Tears were shed by nearly everyone in the courtroom.

"That was a man on fire as he fell through the canopy. Those are the remains of his body," Rosbrook testified in U.S. District Court in Alexandria.

And yet the jury refused to execute Moussaoui. When the prosecution mounted an all-out blitz of horror to push the jury to their emotional limit, they maintained their humanity and spared Moussaoui's life. He will not be released, of course - he spends the rest of his life in prison, and will die a tired old man instead of a martyr.

On NPR this morning, I heard that Moussaoui claimed that the United States had lost, because they weren't able to get an execution. When we have a system that cheers murder as justice, when someone like Moussaoui practically begged to be executed by America's hand, and the jury was still able to hold onto their decency, I think the opposite is true. I feel pride today for those twelve jurors, our representatives of justice and, amazingly, of mercy.