Big face and a fun new playgym.


Charlotte has two playgyms, both from Ikea, and she loves both. Both bear being written about so that you can enjoy them, too, if you’re in the market for one (or two).

Without raving about either, she’d like to wish everyone a Happy Memorial Day weekend. Today, we’re going to see Grandpa off for his camping trip (on which Daddy has to sit out this year); going to her first campfire Saturday; and celebrating Uncle Joey’s birthday Sunday with a small family cook-out.

Mommy and Daddy both go back to work next week, and we’re not happy about it.

Honeysuckles in the morning.


Charlotte and I took a walk early this morning.  We exchanged many “Good Mornings,” enjoyed a nice breeze and savoured the smell of honeysuckles and freshly-cut grass. If she ever manages to stay awake in the baby carrier, she now insists on being able to look around at her leisure. This requires not only her usual sun-hat, but also sunglasses. Usually though, like today, she is asleep before I even hit the elevator, rocked by the nice warmth and softness of Daddy’s belly.

Adorable thing our daughter does: Arms up!


During The Big Ultrasound in November (the one wherein we found out Baby’s gender), GE was there selling 3D machines. So we were able to view (but not record) a 3D ultrasound of Charlotte. We could see her cute little face but were having trouble getting a steady shot. Because. She loves to put her hands to her face.

Even in the low-res, 2D versions, you can see her hands up to her face.

As soon as she came into the world, she was putting those arms up.

When she came back from the nursery, right after she was born, her face was red and raw from scratching herself up.

Whether playing, fussing or sleeping, she loves having those hands up on her cheeks and chin.

Somewhat shameful beginning of fatherhood.


It’s no secret that I write more when I’m sad, mad or stressed out. It follows that those are the times that I blog more, too. But it does seem that all of my blogging and journal writing over the last five weeks or so is negative, even angry. I have been blissed out over being a father, over watching my wife become a mother and over cuddling, playing and walking with my adorable daughter.

But I’ve also spent a lot of time being really, genuinely, deeply pissed off. A shortened list:

1) People who put their issues over what is best for our child, even over what’s best for us as parents and as individuals. This started mere hours after Charlotte was born when someone thought their own issues were more important than, you know, the birth of a child. And our parenting instincts reared themselves in a flash, showing us both to be not only intensely protective of our daughter, but also violently so — if words and feelings can be violent in their own way (which I think is so).

2) People who feel entitled to our daughter. This includes demanding that we let whoever wants to hold her do so whenever and for as long as people want, despite not contributing to her welfare in any way (that is, people who just want to hold babies and think that they are entitled to it, like babies are fashion accessories to get your picture taken with and uploaded to Facebook); expecting that we not only arrange our schedule around when they demand a visit but also that we should arrange the needs and comfort of a newborn to their availability; people who, for some reason, think they deserve our time and attention when we have a newborn who actually does deserve it and need it.

3) People judging our parenting, whether they’ve done it before or not. This has ranged from two people exchanging “knowing” looks when we said that Charlotte does not like her formula heated up, to people telling us what to do, to people assuming they know our kid better than we do — even after spending five minutes with her. All kids are different, and it’s insulting to assume that anyone knows our kid better than we do. She likes some weird stuff, and some things that would drive a lot of kids crazy don’t bother her one lick. She’s also moving very quickly, in some ways, developmentally.

4) People not thinking. This includes being more rough than we like, blowing cigarette smoke, being too loud, coming to our home and getting our week-old daughter sick, etc. I’m sure this is a universal symptom of parenthood. But so is watching your child get sick, falling down, moving out — and knowing that you’ll miss a good chunk of his or her life because you’ll be dead. I don’t like those, either. Who does?

The worst is the effect it has on me as a father and as an overly-reflective person in general. I see unwelcome and unfounded criticisms and questioning of our parenting as a personal attack on my intelligence and worldly wisdom. I want to smack people who want us to arrange our child’s life around their schedule and availability and then get mad and passive-aggressive when we don’t (because we can’t). I walk around in the grocery store with our sweet little baby strapped on, plotting with my wife how to avoid situations that just make us mad, when I should be enjoying Charlotte, or, at least, getting the shopping over with so we can go play. I get mad when people do things I don’t like and don’t think are good for my daughter, and then I get mad at them for the fact that I don’t have the stones to set people straight unless I’m closely related to them. I get mad when people don’t respect our (really mine – everyone respects mothers’ “authority” more than fathers’ in my experience) position as The Boss[es] because we’re new parents, but I don’t really do anything about it other than get mad – and then I get mad about that.

But I have to get over it. Some of this is just a case of jerks who have found new ways to be bungholes and a general state of people being lazy and selfish (not that I’m immune, certainly). Some is just new. I’m sure that people are not going to stop judging and criticizing our parenting anytime soon, and we’re upset about it because it’s so new. Sheesh, wait until she grows up an unbaptized vegetarian riding the bus! We need and I need to assert our authority when people do things we don’t like or demand things they have no right to. People are always going to offer her things we don’t think are good for her, teach her things we want to teach her ourselves or don’t want her taught, bring things (smoke, judgments, sickness) around her despite our best efforts. I suppose that, if I want people to remember that we are in charge, they need to reminded it when they over-step themselves.

One thing we try to judge things by is what effect this or that will have on Charlotte. Someone is demanding our time. What have they done/will they do to benefit Charlotte?

My parents do a lot for us and a lot for Charlotte (Hi, Grandma!), and she already looks at them differently than she does other people. They have an open invitation to visit whenever they want, and I’m glad that they take us up on it regularly. On the other hand, someone who never expressed interest in Mama being pregnant, who never called or emailed or anything – well, we’re not going to break ourselves arranging our lives around a visit with people who don’t care about Charlotte but are just curious or bored. No one is entitled to Charlotte in any way, not even her parents. Someone demands our time as individuals (as opposed to as parents). That takes away from time with Charlotte, and I don’t know anyone I like that much. My patience is reserved for my child who can only express herself by crying and screaming and flailing her limbs.

When we relate everything back to Charlotte, the right course of action or thought is clear. What makes us better parents and what benefits Charlotte wins. Period. Her parents having the final say without being subject to constant judgment, without thoughtless people making demands on their time, without having grudges held against them because we don’t schedule our child’s life and needs around their free time – these are good for Charlotte. They win. Everything else is poo, and I know a lot more about poo since becoming a father.

Then I marvel that love can be the source of anger and frustration – and even hate – when it’s protective love for a child. It seems that loving my child intensely precludes loving certain people and things that are bad for her or bad for her parents in a way that affects her.

In the end, the being who makes all of this mean anything comes to the front again, and I just sit and stare at my daughter and feel like a sillybutt for letting myself get upset over such diddlypoop.

The fertile soil of relief.


Since starting this blog in early 2004 (I know; I’m an ancient blogger), I have always been enrolled in a PhD program in philosophy, specializing in “American” philosophy/Pragmatism/“something that, in a discipline that doesn’t matter, does matter”/etc. I spent three years on-campus, then one year in Baltimore researching and writing full-time.

Then, I was job-hunting, serving two years in AmeriCorps and suffering in that limbo known as being ABD (All But Dissertation), of being a “doctoral/PhD candidate” for a total of three years. This was unpleasant for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that a lifetime of Catholic education certainly seems to breed into you a certain “work guilt” (my uncreative term for it) wherein you feel this wet rug of shit you should be doing hanging over your head all of the time. For instance, if I remembered a pleasant weekend or our fun traveling from fall 2006, my work guilt kicked in, said, “But you’re not finished your dissertation,” and I had to occupy myself with something else to stay sane.

During my first year of AmeriCorps (my second non-working-on-school year), I proofread (not edited) my dissertation and sent it to my director. Not much happened until the fall of 2009, when we decided on some edits and when I set about making them. I don’t want to underplay the sleepless nights since September spent worrying about whether or not we’d be able to get to Carbondale before Charlotte was born to defend, but we got dates set in January. I was, as you might remember, ecstatic. I never realized that I was under so much pressure from this damned thing for three a years on a constant basis. I defended in March. Bingo. Made more changes, formatted it, submitted it, and all was finished. Even double-checked the paperwork with the grad school.

Folks were congratulating me after my defence, but I was obsessed with getting my revisions made (I did nothing but work at my job and on my dissertation for ten days to perfect everything my committee wanted), and for some reason, I couldn’t imagine life with my decade-long formal education being over and done with. Nothing would really be “official” until graduation day in May, anyway, right? Last Friday, that is.

So I should say that I USED to have to live under the shadow of that unfinished doctorate. I USED to sometimes wonder what the point was, since I was not pursuing employment in academic philosophy anyway. I USED to be a student.

Now, I’m finished, and I have those three little letters after my name.

It’s only been a few days, and pretty much the only thing in the world I care about these days is my family. So I haven’t picked up my journal, gone for any walks or really thought about what it means to me now. That is, not beyond serious relief.

If the most significant result of my finishing a PhD (aside from debt) is relief, that would almost seem like a let-down.  But, for a largely guilt-driven person like me, relief is excellent.  Like the Greek “pleasure” at the absence of pain, I am thrilled — so far — with the relief that the goal to which I’ve been working since I was 18 years old and hadn’t met my wife yet (though I would that month) has been attained.  Maybe now I can use the energy I was wasting on feeling guilty and procrastinating into something positive, beneficial, useful or fun.

Of course, I feel weird now, having a doctorate that I pursued in order to do something which I have no intention of doing anymore.  Nietzsche says we can do with any HOW if we have a WHY.  I lost the WHY and kept going.  I was already in debt and had already missed most of my 20s.  Stopping didn’t seem like a good idea to me at the time, and I’m glad I finished now.

But, bejebus, think about your WHYs more, Johnny.  Geez.  Making a decision at 18 and sticking to it might not be the wisest thing to do, for a person who values good judgment, flexibility and genuineness.

White flight?

A friend of ours has a teenage son who refers to White Marsh as “White Flight Marsh.” While I do love the Ikea therein, I think it’s funny — even if not entirely accurate. I mean, I know people who were born and raised there, which means they didn’t flee (though maybe their parents did). Still. The Avenue at White Marsh certainly feels different from any part of any city I’ve ever been to, for better or for worse.

Now it seems that whities are running to the cities:

WASHINGTON – White flight? In a reversal, America’s suburbs are now more likely to be home to minorities, the poor and a rapidly growing older population as many younger, educated whites move to cities for jobs and shorter commutes.

I certainly think it’s beneficial in a lot of ways when people start returning to The City (less driving, denser living, greener living, more fun stuff to do, improved safety), and I’ve noticed this about Baltimore over the past few years. But the idea that The City is going to get Whiter is a little unsettling to me somehow. And, of course, despite pretensions to the contrary, Baltimore’s getting just as gentrified as any other city in which educated and consuming people move back in.

Example: I live more cheaply in Roland Park than in Hampden, which is not crappy anymore somehow [?]. I mean, I live in the least white building in Roland Park and one that is certainly not as expensive as the rest of Roland Park, but still. As our manager says, “Roland Park is Roland Park.” And she feels as mixed about it as I do.

I mean, I don’t hate white people. My daughter is 3/4 white. You know. Maybe Baltimore will just become more diverse. That’s not bad. I mean, you see non-white people in Hampden after dark sometimes now. That’s something, right?

Read the rest of the article here.

And sometimes, she does this.


She cries.  Her tear ducts work now; so it’s terrible to see.  Especially if it’s because you’re administering nose drops and sucking out boogies with an aspirator because some jackass knowingly came to visit with a cold.  And if you’re at the ER when she’s less than two weeks old because she’s breathing funny because of said cold, tears are that much worse.

Three weeks old, and we have a revenge list! (kidding)

Interesting facts about the birth of our daughter.


I’m tempted to do a play-by-play. But, for one, I barely had the energy and time to journal about it. For another, there was a lot of gore and fear and terror and love, and I don’t think I’m a good enough writer to do it justice. In the end, though, I think it’s not my place. Yes, I was there. I was scared and shouting and crying and smiling and gasping along with Charlotte’s mother. But I didn’t get sewn back together and almost give birth without medication. I feel like it’s Mama’s to write about, and she’s not a blogger.  So these are just the facts, Jack.

Mama’s contractions got so bad that she cried, screamed, dropped to all fours. The jokes she told me to remember to tell her when the time came didn’t help at all. Neither did a walk, a movie, etc. The midwife on call at the hospital told her, No, don’t come in. We tried to go to sleep at midnight, but apparently I passed out on my own.Mama  woke me up at 1am telling me that it was time to go. In my stupor, I begged her to come back to bed.

At the hospital, I had to keep running around to get guest passes and had to leave her twice. I hated that.

By the time we got to Labor and Delivery, Mama was beside herself with pain. She was also 7cm dilated. The epidural was ordered, and we were admitted to a room. I had to get another pass from security, and the guard was not at his post and was a jerk when he got back.

We got to the room, and two young residents were discussing how dilated Mama was, where the on-call doctor was and whether there was time for the epidural. Sparing scary and TMI details, it was almost too late for the epidural because the midwife let us stay home too long (confirmed verbally by three doctors — I have no beef with midwives, just that one) and because the anaesthesiologist was taking too long to show up. My wife screamed, “Please!” to give her the damned epidural and even begged at one point, “Why can’t I have it?!” In retrospect, this melts my freakin heart and makes me feel like a wanker for not jacking up whoever I had to in order to get her the drugs she was begging for. The mean anaesthesiologist finally came, complained that my wife’s back was sweaty and then left the room without turning on the drip (luckily, the nurse noticed). Once the drugs were in, Mama was her old self again.

We didn’t wait long before it was time to break the water and PUSH. Geez. I had to hold a leg, while a room full of people encouraged Mama. In the end, Baby needed a little help from the vacuum, and Mama had a pretty large episiotomy. Very large. Baby was stuck on her way out, and the vacuum and cutting were necessary. Plus, she’s our kid and has a big head.

Baby came out like a starfish with a tube in her belly, screaming. My wife’s joy cries and terror cries are the same, and I thought for a second that something was wrong. But they asked, “Does Dad wanna cut the cord?” and I was handed this instrument that looked fit for cutting off my own hands. Once the cord was cut, they gave Charlotte to Mama, then to me, as they had to bring in another doctor to sew Mama back up again.

Yeah, there was blood and poop everywhere. Baby pooped on everyone but me because she’d become stressed by being stuck. And Mama was really torn up. The man who they had to bring in was oozing with competence somehow, and that made me feel better. I also felt, well, happier than I’d been in my thirty years that I got to hold Charlotte for the better part of an hour, while Mama was getting repaired by a room full of people while she was completely awake.

Charlotte was looking around, blinking slowly, taking us all in. She seemed to recognize her parents by our voices (and her grandparents later in the same way). I’d never had a better hug in my entire life than the cuddles we had while Mama was getting repaired.

And, to back up the three pieces of identification that they put onto her before she left the room, she has my family’s butt-chin! She looks like all the men with my last name, that is, the four of us still alive from my Dad’s side of the family.

They took Charlotte to the nursery, and I walked as far as they’d let me. Once Mama was put back together, Grandma and Grandpa came in, and we all watched the morning unfold in downtown Baltimore. Uncle Tom and Uncle Joey were on the way with coffee and donuts.

All was right with the world.