Hello Baby

After months of waiting and wondering, my life changed forever on May 26th, as my wife Jen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Matthew.

We went to the doctor on Monday and were told that we would be going into the hospital the next day so that Jen could be induced 10 days before her original due date.  To say that the immediacy scared the hell out of me would be an understatement.  It was like telling a kid that he had to be back at school ten days early from summer break.  I had so much left to do in those last days:  finish reading the baby books, look at the car seat instructions and learn to play a lullaby on the guitar (after learning to play the guitar).  But now there was no time.

Waiting for the call from the hospital to tell us when to come in was more nerve-racking than waiting for the original pregnancy test results.  When the call finally came in that afternoon, we gathered up our bags and headed into the great unknown.

After two hours of being poked , prodded and asked about her medical history, Jen and I were checked in to what is essentially the least comfortable all-inclusive resort in the world.  Where the inconvenience of having the staff come in at all hours of the night to either insert something or ask you to rate your pain is outweighed by the sheer decadence of a never-ending bowl of beef broth.  I imagine that there is nothing more filling than a bowl of the stuff in which I would usually dip my sandwich.

So as we sat waiting, we began sweating over all of things that were to come.  Until we realized that we were mostly sweating because the air conditioner was broken.  After nine months of being asked “Its burning up in here, are you hot?,” I could finally answer in the affirmative.  

Fleeing the oppressive heat, and the low-rise pants of the hospital maintenance man, we moved into the room that would be our home for the next two nights.   While Jen was propped up in what is essentially a cross between a futon mattress and a dentist chair, I got to spend the night in La-Z Boy’s stern, disapproving father.  I’m not sure if hospital’s pick furniture that makes people want to leave early or not, but I think we would have had better luck sleeping in a booth at  Arby’s.

After an exhausting night, we headed into day two.  Hoping to move things along, the doctor’s cranked up the Pitocin and broke Jen’s water with what appeared to be a chop stick.  But I could be wrong about that.  To add a cherry on top of the increasingly intense contractions later that day, Jen slipped on some fluid while a nurse tried to get her up from a chair.  You wouldn’t think that a woman in the middle of labor could do the splits, but Jen came as close as humanly possible.

After moaning through the pain of both the contractions and her hip, and riding high on an anti-nausea medication which had the unhelpful side effect of making her feel like she was tied to the bow a tugboat, Jen called for the epidural.  As the anesthesiologist finished, she didn’t seem too concerned that Jen could still feel mostly everything on the left side of her body. 

At this point, Mother Nature decided to add her two cents as the Tornado sirens began to blare.  The nurses assured us that they had never had to evacuate anyone, so they instead decided to build a pillow fort around Jen.  We barely had enough time to admire their work when we were told that we would in fact have to be moved into the hallway.  So Jen was disconnected from her Pitocin drip and we were on our way.  Luckily, only one night of sleep deprivation let us still see the humor in the whole situation as we hunkered down next to the laundry room for the next hour and a half.

Laughing in the face of danger.

As Jen was wheeled back into our room, the countdown began again and I quickly became desensitized to every doctor on duty coming in and flipping up my wife’s gown and saying, “Let’s take a look.”  At least I hope they were all doctors.

The baby wasn’t making much progress, and seemed to be quite comfortable in his cramped, one-bedroom apartment.  Facing another night in the recliner, I can’t say that I blamed him.

Our doctor let us know that if the baby hadn’t made significant progress by the next morning, that we would have to go with a Caesarean section.  The prospect of which was a little frightening, much like the Caesar haircut I had in the late 90’s which made me look like ER-era George Clooney’s shorter, fatter brother.

The prospect of major surgery married with the world’s most uncomfortable furniture did not lead to much rest as we sailed through a second night of no sleep.  One way or another, tomorrow was going to be the big day.

At around 5 in the morning, the decision was made that Jen would be going in for a C-Section at 7.  So the next two hours were a flurry of activity, with an entirely different set of doctors and nurses coming in and out, and yet another anesthesiologist who didn’t seem to think that it was a big deal that Jen still had feeling on her left side.

In preparation for going into the OR, I suited up in a very stylish paper ensemble.  Any thoughts that I  may have had that I could still be a doctor were soon dashed when my father caught a glimpse of me and laughed uncontrollably.

Looking more like George Costanza than George Clooney.

I waited outside of the OR as they prepped Jen, and a voice came over the intercom at St. John’s with a daily prayer about new life.  A prayer which seemed incredibly fitting for the moment and seemed like some sort of cosmic sign to let me know that everything was going to be all right.  I really wish that I could remember the prayer, but since I was scared beyond the capacity for rational thought and sweating through my paper hat, it is unfortunately lost to me.

I was summoned into the operating room and told that I would have the job of announcing the sex of the baby.  Now, I know the difference between boys and girls (we watched a film strip in the 7th grade), but I was deathly afraid that I would somehow screw it up and be the impetus for years of therapy for my child.  But I had a 50/50 chance, and I liked those odds.

It was hard to watch them work on Jen, and even harder knowing that since she was fighting off exhaustion and nausea, and under the influence of anesthesia, this whole event would be a haze for her. 

After several minutes, I was told that it was time to make my announcement of the sex, and I am proud to say that I nailed it on the first try.  We had a beautiful baby boy with 10 fingers and 10 toes and plenty of black hair.  I took a break from snapping pictures to cut the umbilical cord with what I believe were Kindergarten safety scissors and got to bring him down to get his first kiss from his Mom.

As the doctors took care of Jen, and I thought of how proud I was of her for everything that she had been through to get us to this moment, the next question popped into my head:  We have a baby.  Now what?

Baby Matthew

“All Aboard” or “How an Old Man Scared the Hell Out of Me”

The year was 1994, and as “Friends” debuted on TV and The Crash Test Dummies began what was sure to be a meteoric rise to the top of the charts, I spent my days putting out a bi-weekly newspaper column creatively titled “It Practically Writes Itself” for my college paper.

While most of the visitors we had at the office were either sorority girls dropping off Classified Ads or mildly irritated student government officials, we would occasionally receive a visit from the type of crackpots who seem to gravitate toward college campuses.  And on a steamy afternoon as the school year drew to a close, I had the creepiest experience of my young life.

I know that homeless is the preferred nomenclature, but the gentleman who walked into to the office that day could only be accurately described as a hobo.  He was a bearded, white-haired gentleman in his early 70’s who, despite the heat, was wearing overalls, two shirts, a denim jacket, a kerchief around his neck and, to top it all off, a train engineer’s hat.  I can only assume that he left his bindle containing a can of beans outside.  To the best of my knowledge, he could have been jumping a freight train as early as that morning.

Can you even buy a train engineer’s hat, or does it only come with the train?

Having made the fatal error of making eye contact with this latter-day King of the Road, he settled in at the chair next to my desk.  Sensing the oncoming awkwardness, my fellow co-workers immediately got up and left the office.  Leaving me all alone to sit and listen to what is, to this day, the strangest tale I have ever heard.

While I was never much of a journalist, I doubt that Woodward or Bernstein ever got as much of a response as I did from asking the single question: “What can I help you with?”  He quickly let me know that he was not a student at the school, and as I recovered from the shock of this revelation he continued with the reason for his visit.

The man let me know that there was a book out which proposed the theory that we were in the middle of the next ice age, and while he could not afford to buy the book, he thought that I could read the book and then write about it in the newspaper.  I let him know that our stories generally fell more along the line of “Student Activities Ice Cream Social Enjoyed By All,” but he pressed on.

He began telling me that he was born in Chicago, but that he and his sister were sent to live in Iowa when they were still very young with a grandmother who was apparently the richest and meanest woman in town.  To underscore her menace he told me that she had fed him and his sister green apples.  “You know what green apples do, right?” he asked.  I nodded in agreement in hopes of keeping the conversation as short as possible, but I still regret not asking.  I still stay away from green apples on principle.

He told me stories of his grandma’s twin sons (“One was born white and the other was Italian”), who ran the taxi company in his hometown, and continued to weave tales about his Dickensian childhood.  As the stories went on and on, he became more and more agitated and I began looking around my desk to find any object which could be used to fend off a man who I was convinced had a razor blade in his boot like a character from a Jim Croce song.

As the story stretched on, more of my co-workers would come in to the office, see what was going on, and immediately walk back out the door.

Then, apropos of nothing, he said “I’m a gay you know?”  Once again, I nodded in agreement and let him continue.

He told me that years earlier, he had been rolling around with a boy in the grass at the park and had gotten him pregnant.  More nodding from me.  He said that years after getting the boy pregnant, the boy and his friends were at the local pool hall and decided to get revenge on the old man.  He said, “They were going to wait for me outside and jump me.  Surprise me.  But I surprised them, and I killed them.”

Then as quietly as he had come, he stood up from his chair and said, “Pleasant dreams.”  He walked out, and I never saw him again.

Taking a very brief break from Baby stuff with this blog, but I will be back with the latest news shortly.

A ma’am or a sir? A him or a her?

Like a lot of expectant parents these days,  Jen and I have decided not to find out the sex of our baby since it is one of the last surprises that you can have.  And unlike waiting to see if your car passes inspection, it is a good surprise, since most people will be happy with either gender outcome.  Even if the baby is going to cost a lot more than new brakes.

But while Jen believes in the concept of being surprised, she could not be more pre-occupied with determining the sex of the baby.  Are you carrying the baby low or high?  What is the fetal heart rate?  Every woman we run into turns into a Native American shaman with their own ancient theory on how to unlock the puzzle.  If your elbows itched during a full moon, it must be a boy.  Craving small curd cottage cheese?  Definitely a girl.  (You don’t even want to know about large curd.)

Not finding out the sex also leads to a lot of complaints from people who have no stake in the result but view our decision as personal affront to them. One of the biggest complaints that people seem to have with not finding out the sex of the baby is how can you possibly decorate their room without knowing if it is a boy or a girl.  After telling someone that we were painting the room light green, they told me that the baby would “hate it” if it’s a boy.  First of all, it’s a baby.  If they can’t even hold their head up, I doubt that they have formed a strong opinion on interior design.  Secondly, if we bring the baby home and they are somehow able to utter the phrase “I was hoping for more of a sea-foam green,” I will gladly repaint.

After months of being convinced that she was carrying a girl, Jen has recently changed her mind.  Upon viewing the last ultrasound, she let me know that the baby had my large head , short Tyrannosaurus arms, and blocky Fred Flintstone feet. Signs that could only mean that the baby was a miniature me.  I’m sure there was a compliment in there somewhere.  I’m still looking.

The King of the Dinosaurs never had to suffer the indignity of shopping for a sport coat.

 For me, I am on the fence on whether it is a boy or a girl.  Since both offer their own unique issues, all I can generally think about is what I will face a little further down the line. 

Am I prepared to attend countless dance recitals or bring a little girl into the Men’s room at a Taco Bell?  I have been to some that scared me and that were definitely not suitable for a little girl wearing a pink shirt with a unicorn on it. 

I guess I will finally find out what those plastic trays with the Koala on them are all about.

Obviously, as a former boy myself, I would seem to have the most experience in that area.  But I feel that I am severely lacking in what boys see as the Big Three Categories of Dad Knowledge.

1. Knowing what kind of wood a piece of furniture is made from.
2. Knowing who is the Heavyweight Champion of the World.
3. Knowing what is wrong with a car by hearing people impersonate the noise that it was making.

I don’t know the answers to these questions, so I guess I will just have to make up some standard answers and stick with them.

1. Oak
2. Evander Holyfield?
3. Probably the alternator

At least when it comes to the respective pre-puberty “Big Talks,” I know that Jen will have the girl side covered.  Since my ill-informed explanation would most likely lead to my daughter being featured on a reality show.  And not one of the “good” ones where people dance or hunt alligators.

I will probably only be slightly better on the boy’s side, as everything I learned at that age came from either listening to Jimmy Grace on the grade school playground or watching the movie “Hot Resort” multiple times on HBO.  Both sources turned out to be wildly inaccurate.

I know it is a cliché, but I will be overjoyed with a boy or a girl as long as they are healthy.  And I guess I will just have to figure out the answers to those other questions along the way.  But until that time, I will be sure to carry plenty of Purel and maybe check Jimmy Grace’s availability in 2023.

Gotta get back in time.

As baby day rapidly approaches,  I have been charged with the task of getting rid of a seemingly endless supply of crap to make room for diapers, tiny hats and bronzed shoes.  And last weekend, I tackled my biggest challenge of all:  my childhood desk.  The repository for everything I thought was cool and worth hanging onto from ages 7 to 18.

To say that the contents had lost a little cachet over time would be an understatement, but what I found served as a window into the mind of a young Scott.  The Dead Sea Scrolls of  a chubby nerd in the 1980’s.

Aside from the roughly 30 % Star Wars-related content, the desk held drawings, letters, books, magazines and plenty of pictures.  Pictures documenting the evolution of my still in process awkward phase and pictures of girls from my grade school class with notes on the back letting me know that I was “hilarious” and that they “loved me like a brother.”  There is nothing a 13-year old boy loves more than being thought of by girls as their “funny brother.”

It was your loss girls. My Mom said I was very handsome.

Continuing through my grade school years, I next found a copy of my 6th grade report card.  While I have no recollection of this, my report card would seem to indicate that sometime during the Summer of 1985, I was kicked in the head by a horse or perhaps zebra.

Since I speak English, the D in the 4th Quarter of English class is perplexing.  But where I really seemed to shine was Religion.  I have a vague recollection of getting a 12% on a Religion test on which I wrote in Moses for every answer, so that would probably explain the F that I got in the 3rd Quarter.  For that, I offer my parents an extremely belated apology, since they probably could have purchased a Datsun hatchback for what they paid to send me to Catholic school.

The reason for my poor grades came into a little more focus when I found the “books” that I had not only read, but decided to hold onto in case I wanted to re-read any dog-eared pages which held passages that were particularly meaningful to me.  Literary classics like the novelization of the pilot episode of “Miami Vice,” The Complete Book of Star Wars Trivia, and a CB Radio Handbook.  Nerdiest of all was a Han Solo novel, which I covered in a book report in the 8th grade.  Mrs. Saunders’ only note:  “Really?”

Holden Caulfield. Tom Joad. Ricardo Tubbs?

The magazines that I had decided to keep weren’t much better.  Only slightly cooler than the issues of nerdy kid favorite Starlog, was a copy of the hard-hitting news quarterly Dynamite.  Tackling such important questions as “Who is your favorite member of Duran Duran?” and “Who would win between Transformers and Go-Bots?”  Both questions which I am not sure we have ever truly answered definitively.

I think the tagline "For the 1980's Kid" says it all.

The self-produced items in the desk didn’t cast me in any better of a light.  Several drawings of G.I. Joe characters, recreations of Bloom County comic strips, and the outline for an unfortunately never completed script for “Die Hard 2.”  (Bruce Willis, if you’re reading this, call me.)

As I moved into the high school stuff, I found evidence of  a rebellious phase:  A button which let everyone know that I had attended the K-SHE 95 Right to Rock Rally.  A wild, come-as-you-are event from 1-2 pm in the parking lot of Union Station, featuring live performances from Don Henley and Alannah Myles and the in-your-face political protests of a man in a Davy Crocket-esque buckskin outfit holding a picket sign that read “Free the Weed.”  I risked mob violence, sunburn and an acoustic version of “Black Velvet” to fight for your Right to Rock.  You’re welcome.

While a lot of what I found made its way to the trash, I will admit that I saved some things.  Things that will one day provide my children with hours of laughter at my expense.  But if I am ever going to have to tell them to crack the books, I suppose that I should probably burn that report card.

Yes sir, that’s my baby

With the clock counting down to B-Day, like most parents-to-be, my thoughts are often consumed with questions of who this little person coming into our lives will be.

Is it a boy or a girl?  Will they have Jen’s nose?  My eyes minus the poor eyesight?

Will they be the best possible combination of us or the worst possible combination of me?  A short, sarcastic girl with a neck that keeps her from wearing any off-the-rack turtle necks.  These are all valid questions.

Since we are not finding out the sex of the baby, around our house the little one is affectionately known as Baby McMuffin. A cute play on our last name and a potentially lucrative cross-promotional opportunity for any McDonald’s executives who may be reading this.

For corporate naming rights, I am willing to take cash or those little fried pies you have. Your choice.

The one bad thought that continues to echo through my head is that familiar parent’s curse that someday you will have a child who is just like you.  Since as a kid, by most accounts, I was kind of an a-hole.   In addition to kicking rented bowling shoes into light fixtures, I was quick to bite, followed through on my threats to throw up if I was forced to eat vegetables, and was only recently able to step foot back into Sears.  To make matters worse, I followed the Mafia rule of Omerta, by never admitting to anything, even when I was the only suspect.

From what I can tell, Jen was a sweet little girl who grew up to be a little more wild as a teenager, whereas I became the world’s most boring teenager after an early childhood which may have been the inspiration for the movie “The Omen” ……or at least “Problem Child.”

John Ritter's untimely death means that we will never see "Problem Child 4."

Nobody wants their little bundle of joy to grow up to be one of “those kids.”  The sort that kick the back of your seat on a plane, or scream at their parents that they hate them in the middle of the toothpaste aisle at Target.  All while the parents stand there with a defeated, “what can I do?” look on their faces.

The unsolicited advice of recent fathers doesn’t help to assuage my fears either, as they tell me horror stories about sleep deprivation and temper tantrums.  The fact that each story seems to legally have to end with the phrase, “But it’s great, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world” doesn’t really help.

I guess I need to trust in the fact that we will know what to do.  Or, at the very least, that our baby will be so cute that we won’t seem to mind so much. 

I need to focus less on the what-if’s and start worrying about the real stuff.  Like putting together the baby furniture, and baby-proofing the house, and figuring out how we are going to pay for everything.

But it’s great, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Can I call you Dad now?

I have been called a lot of things over the years: Little Mac, Stimey, Scooter, Mr. Cool (sarcastically), Scotty, Scotty Potty (mostly from 6-year olds),  Scotty Joe from Kokomo and Matt (long story).  But this June, there will be someone out there who will just know me as Dad.

That’s right, in a year that has already brought major changes to my life, the biggest change of all is set to arrive in June.  A little person who will hopefully share the best characteristics of Jen and I, and who, as we speak, is developing fingers and toes, and a look that will one day keep me from going ballistic when they back into a telephone pole with a car that I haven’t even thought about buying yet.

An ultrasound image of our baby, or maybe a Soviet sub. It is really hard to tell what is going on in these things.

Our plans to start a family were nearly derailed by the work of a nefarious photo booth which promised a glimpse of our baby by combining our photos.  The resulting picture, which placed Jen’s eyes and my 5 o’clock shadow on the face of an infant, made us think twice about procreating.  But we forged ahead, hoping that infant razor technology would catch up.

Schick's Baby Quatro Extreme, available at fine retailers everywhere.

Anyone who has ever “tried” to get pregnant, knows that “trying,” more often than not, means “not succeeding. ”  It is like getting one chance a month to win the lottery. And after months and months of negative tests, the well-meaning pep talks from friends and family about things happening “when you stop thinking about it,” start to be less and less of a comfort.

So when Jen woke me one morning from a sound sleep, the first thought that went through my head was that a pipe had burst overnight.  And while the burst pipe would have probably ended up costing us less in the long run, words can’t express how excited we were to find out that our family was about to get a little bigger.

As the news spread, we received a lot of congratulations and even more unsolicited advice.  It is startling to see how heated some people get about nursery colors.  

We have chosen not to find out the sex of the baby before the big day, and since making that decision, I have found that people either react with excitement or look at me like I just told them that I egged their Mom’s house. 

And while the baby name suggestions come pouring in, Jen and I are having a hard enough deciding on a name between the two of us.  Finding a name that the other person likes which doesn’t remind them of an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend, someone who pushed them in the 5th grade, or the ad jingle for a 1980’s butter substitute has proven difficult.

Jen has made lists, read baby name books and, I would venture to guess, put some thought into this subject long before we met.  Unfortunately, prior to the last few months, the amount of time that I had seriously thought about baby names is roughly equal to the amount of time I thought about names for a sitcom I never started writing about a precocious, wise cracking 9 year-old who is adopted by a wealthy African-American family.

One thing that Jen and I can definitely agree upon, is that the amount of crying in the house is up at least 300%.  In the past few weeks, she has wept while watching “The Biggest Loser,”  re-runs of “Friends” and “The Office,” and any animal abuse commercial featuring the music of Ms. Sarah McLachlan. 

Over the years, I have envied dads carrying kids on their shoulders, but also watched in horror as parents stood by helplessly as their 4 year-old had a meltdown because there was mustard on their hot dog.  I know that I will need to be prepared for both.

At 37, I am starting a family at an age when my parents were thinking of sending their first kid to college.  And even though I am older, I still have no idea  what kind of Dad I will be.  But I do know that I can’t wait to find out.  And, at the very least, I know that our baby will have one spectacular Mom.

One year down…

Our lives are filled with changes.   Events that occur, usually without notice, that alter our lives forever.  

Making a pretty girl laugh in the hallway at work was a nice moment, but I had no idea that it was about to change my life forever. 

If I am truly good at anything, it is giving up on stuff.   Diets, books, home improvement projects.  I have seen many come and go.  But if there is one thing that I can honestly say that I stuck with and gave my all, it was trying to make that pretty girl see that she belonged with me. 

This past weekend, I celebrated the first anniversary of marrying my best friend.  A woman that makes me laugh, makes me smile, and has truly changed my life for the better.

In our time together, Jen has always encouraged me to write (so you can give her any credit or blame for having these blogs) , so I wanted to re-print the first thing that she asked me to post.  The story of how we met. 

I love you Jen, and I can’t wait to see where we go from here.  Even if you laugh hysterically at the way that I sew on a button.

About the bride
Winchester’s own Jennifer Mueller has that rare combination of wit, talent, beauty and compassion that makes those who first meet her sit up and take notice. She has been a pianist, a soccer star and a big-hearted lover of animals. The youngest of four, Jen is committed to her family, and is known as a loving daughter, sister and godmother. In some circles, she is even considered the “cool” aunt. Whether they know her as Jen, Jenny or Jennifer, her friends all know her as someone they can always count on and who will definitely give her opinion. She is quick to laugh and never afraid to encourage others to follow their dreams. With dreams to someday own a bison ranch, Jen currently shares her home with her “baby girl,” a 140 lb (but slimming down) Great Dane named Tula. On October 23rd, Jen will welcome another large mammal into her life.

About the groom
Scott McMullin, of the Hazelwood McMullin’s, is a philanthropist, patriot, and one-time scourge of the prairie dog.
A well-known raconteur, McMullin once entertained literally dozens with his weekly newspaper column “It Practically Writes Itself.” Residents of California and problem drinkers probably know him best as the former automated voice of the legal disclaimer option at 1-800-BUD-REWARDS. The middle child of three, Scott is known as a devoted (if sometimes sarcastic) son, brother and uncle.

How we met
In addition to making top-notch pet food, Nestle Purina PetCare has the distinction of being the starting point for one of the greatest love stories of the 21st century (if not history). Popular office sweetheart Jennifer Mueller and Scott McMullin, who Jen described as “the angry loner from the second floor.”

Following an awkward “should I go this way or that way”-dance as they approached each other in the hallway, Scott made a hilarious remark which is unfortunately lost to the ages. Jen’s laugh had him hooked. He promptly e-mailed a co-worker he knew to be a friend of Jen’s and asked if she was single. When Jen was told about the e-mail she uttered those magic words: “Scott who?”

Choosing not to strike while the iron was hot, Scott instead chose the proven strategy of not following up or even speaking to Jen for several weeks.

Scott then volunteered to take on an additional task at work that would allow him to drop off paperwork at Jen’s desk, where she would more than likely be won over by his witty remarks. For those of you who know Scott well, you know that he must have truly been smitten to volunteer for extra work.

Fate then stepped in and brought Jennifer to the same department as Scott. A move that brought Jen to tears, and brought a smile to Scott’s face, as the best thing to happen at work since Taco Friday’s in the cafeteria.

As the months went on, Scott and Jen formed a friendship. He loved her frankness in telling incredibly embarrassing stories about herself, and she was impressed by his seemingly endless supply of dark blue work shirts.

Scott then took the plunge and risked the friendship by asking Jen out in the most romantic way possible: buried in a witty Seinfeld-esque joke about fortune cookies. The sort of half sarcastic proposition that can be explained away as “just a joke” if Jen said no.But she didn’t. She said yes. And that led to a 2 year courtship filled with more awkward stops and starts than a high school driver’s ed course.

But through it all, Scott and Jen became best friends. They were the ones that each other wanted there when things were good and wanted to console them when things weren’t.

As Jen baked Christmas cookies one cold December night, Scott stopped by. They shared a kiss, more than a few cookies and let each other know that they didn’t want to be with anyone else.

Over the next several months, they were welcomed with open arms by each other’s family and friends. They learned so much more about each other, shared many laughs and found out that some people just aren’t cut out for skiing.

This past Memorial Day, as fireworks lit up the sky over Lake Michigan, Jen said ‘yes’ to the most important question Scott had ever asked. And they haven’t looked back since.

On October 23rd, Jen and Scott will begin writing the next chapter of their story, as they share their special day with their family and friends.

Am I ready for some football?

I have a secret.  A secret that weighs on me each year around this time, and that only my close family and friends know about.  And after all of these years, I am finally tired of running (or, let’s be honest, walking) away from it.  I am not a football fan.

College.  Pro. Canadian.  I just don’t really care.  I don’t know stats or standings and your Fantasy Football conversations may as well be in Esperanto.

 I don’t begrudge anyone for their love of the sport, but my Dad did not watch football when I grew up so, consequently, I never watched or understood the game.   Ninety percent of the football related programming that I watched in the ‘80s probably consisted of the Bears “Super Bowl Shuffle” video or secretly tuning in to HBO’s “First and Ten,” to hopefully catch a glimpse of some “Brief Nudity.” (For my Spanish-speaking readers, I am even less interested in Futbol.)

Which one of these kids would rather be home watching "The Super-Friends?"

 Since not liking football pretty much labels you as a nerd in our society, I have done my best to try to pass.  When ensnared by a stranger into a conversation about football, I am generally able to string together enough overheard comments to get away unscathed. As long as there are absolutely no follow-up questions.  I am like a chameleon, slowly adapting my survival skills.  If things get too serious, like they did with a close call at Super Bowl party in 1999, I just tell people that I am from Saskatchewan and that I don’t know anything “aboot” American football.

 My uneasy relationship with the sport began at an early age. As a husky child, I was frequently asked by friends of my father, barbers, and anyone else making awkward conversation with an 8-year-old if I was going to play football.  I was asked so much that I just assumed that I would play when I reached high school, despite the fact that I had never thrown a football or learned the rules of the game.  And the less said about my athletic cup purchase the better.

 When I showed up for football try-outs the week before high school began, I quickly realized that I was not going to be hoisted triumphantly on anyone’s shoulders or given a nickname like The Big Mac Attack (at least not for reasons related to sports).    While some of the other kids trying out were a good foot taller than me and already had a favorite shaving cream, my physique could generously be compared to a tube of uncooked Pillsbury crescent rolls.

 The next three days consisted of three of my least favorite things:  running, 90+ degree heat and more running.  Considering the fact that my results in my grade school’s Presidential Fitness Challenge were just a few points shy of my parents receiving a letter of apology from Ronald Reagan, I should have probably realized that I had made a poor choice. 

"I regret to inform you that your son can't do a pull-up."

 After getting called out by the coach for my neon colored Ocean Pacific board shorts (or, jams, to use the parlance of those times) and nearly hitting the assistant coach in the head with the football while his back was turned, it did not come as a huge shock when my name was called as one of the first kids cut from the team.  And while the kid on the payphone (that really dates this story) next to me cried and cried, I could not have been more excited to call my brother to come pick me up.  It stands as one of the happiest moments of life, right behind my wedding and this one time that Pantera’s forgot to charge me for my pizza.

 In stark contrast to me, my wife (and her family) love football.  So maybe going forward, I will have to become a fan.  But until that time, I am going to have to try to continue faking my way through it.  Quick, does anyone know if Dick Butkus is still playing?

Mom wants to see you

As a kid, I used to always tell my Mom that I was never going to move away from her.  “I’m going to live with you forever,” I would say. 

And, deep down, I think there is a small part of her that wishes I was still under her roof.  Despite the fact that, like most kids, I was the worst possible roommate.  Never cleaning anything up or paying my share of the utilities.  Constantly asking for money or favors.  And feigning illness to get out of all manner of things. 

 Part of the irony of being a mom is that your kids don’t truly appreciate everything you did until they are on their own, or off starting their own families.  When they are sitting up with you when you get sick at two in the morning or driving you and your friends to the movies, you just think that is part of her job description. 

Unlike the moms of the June Cleaver era before me, my Mom worked for most of my childhood.  But while she might not have been there in pearls, with a big piece of chocolate cake waiting for me when I got home from school, she devoted all of her time off to me and my brother and sister. 

My Mom and her Mom.

 

Den mother, field trip chaperone, and unpaid sales rep for every calendar, raffle ticket and piece of candy that was pushed on me by my school.  My Mom held all of those positions and never complained once. 

My Mom and Dad worked very hard to make sure that we were always taken care of.  We may not have always got what we wanted, but we always had what we needed.  (And usually most of what we wanted)  There was not a Christmas that went by that my Mom did not elbow her way through an angry mob of moms (the worst kind) at 7 a.m. to make sure that we had that season’s big toy.  And despite an incident in which I may or may not have kicked the Christmas tree and verbally berated Santa, I now see that the Bat-cycle is just as good as the Batmobile. 

There was also never a summer in which she didn’t plan a road trip in whatever non-air conditioned vehicle we were driving in at the time.  From Disney World to the Tommy Bartlett Water Show in the Wisconsin Dells, I have seen it all.  And you have not really lived until you have seen a water ski show and water-cannon “Tribute to the Music of Elvis” while wearing a heavy fall jacket. 

My Mom is one of the kindest and sweetest people I have ever known and has always let me know how proud she is of me.   She has believed in me even when I haven’t given her much reason to do so.  As a “doesn’t live up to his potential” student, my Mom has sat through her share of parent/teacher meetings.  And even when Sister Christian (who was not nearly as cool or rockin’ as the Night Ranger song of the same name) let her have it in particularly brutal evaluation of me, she still knew that I could do better. 

While my Mom is sweet and a little innocent (so innocent that she only realized what the “doobie” in The Doobie Brothers meant about 5 years ago) she is also capable of giving  a look that can stop you in your tracks and chill you to the bone.  While it was mostly utilized for putting an end to horseplay, I believe that it’s use was briefly considered for putting an end to the Iran Hostage Crisis in the late seventies. 

My Mom purchased every sweater in this photo.

 

As I get older, it is hard to imagine that I was that little kid in the picture above.  But I know that there is someone out there, for whom I will always be her “little” boy.  And in a world that gets a little crazy sometimes, I could not dream of a more comforting feeling. 

I know that I can always count on my Mom, and someday I hope that I can follow her parental lead.  (I need to start working on my “look”) 

So, while I may not be able to live at home with her forever, I hope she knows that I will never be too far away. 

Happy birthday Mom.  I love you.

What do you want to do this weekend?

What do you want to do this weekend?  When I was single, that used to be a pretty easy question to answer.    And the answer was generally, “Not much.” 

My lack of social obligations saved me tens of dollars over the years by allowing me not to purchase calendars, organizers or Post It notes.   And with no one to answer to but myself, I was both the best boss I have ever had and the worst employee.    Need to cut the grass?  It may start raining later.  Make the bed?  I’m only going to sleep in it again.  Paint the kitchen?  As soon as I finish watching “Cannonball Run” for the 20th time. 

Dom DeLuise. You left us too soon.

 Now that I am married, things have changed.   While Jen and I still enjoy the occasional lazy day off, my last three weekends have included home improvement projects, a trip to the zoo, and spending the day at an outdoor craft fair.  Who wants to sit around the house when you could be looking at wind chimes made of old spoons, chainsawed tree stump art or driftwood signs that read “What happens in the camper stays in the camper?”  I’m pretty sure that the craft fair economy would collapse if our nation’s supply of driftwood ever dried up.  70-year-old women will be flipping over cars in the street and bags of Kettle Corn will be selling for $75. 

If only Michelangelo had access to chainsaw technology.

We recently began to work on updating the house that I lived in for the 10 years before we got married.  In the time I have lived there, I have managed to take down some wallpaper, paint a couple of rooms and occasionally cut the grass (when it didn’t look like it might rain).  Over the last two weeks, Jen has thought through more design ideas than Martha Stewart on meth, while the longest time I have spent thinking about renovations was once during a work meeting I daydreamed about how cool it would be to have a brick pizza oven in my kitchen. 

I know that men and women are different, there are whole sections at the bookstore on just that subject, but sometimes you forget that a big part of marriage is compromise.  I have learned to love the fact that Jen could listen to Christmas carols any day of the year and uses the term “pumpkin spice” to describe at least 4 things a week.  Jen and I have a great time together and there has not been a day in which we haven’t laughed with (or often at) each other, but sometimes you have to do things that you just aren’t that interested in.  While I could do without more craft fairs this year, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind not listening to my friends and I have a three-hour conversation about our buddy Shawn’s odds at beating an Emperor Penguin in a fair fight.  (No tricks.  No weapons.  Skill against skill alone.) 

Nature's perfect killing machine?

So what will I be doing this weekend?  I have a feeling that laying down a laminate floor is in my future….unless “Cannonball Run” is going to be on. 

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