There were some very nice seasonal events, too many to list, actually.  I don’t mean to say that I didn’t have a lovely holiday.  It was just fast.  Really fast.

And it reminds me of the truest thing every parent has told me about raising a child.  It flies by!  Charlotte is closer to 21 months old than 20, and she walks and talks and has favorite toys and programs and movies.

I should use one of my favorite Christmas presents (a new camera!) to take pictures of some of my favorite of Charlotte’s presents (is that a sentence?).  She’s got a huge collection of Sesame Street figures (and the accessories) that she calls her “guys” after what I called them.  She sitting there playing with them now.

Now: winter.  And my century-old apartment is so drafty that the heat literally will not turn off.  Instead of the whole shebang turning on and off, the system stays on while the “auxiliary heat” comes on and off.  I shudder to think of our electric bill and environmental impact.  We console ourselves with the fact that we won’t be here next winter.

I have chronicled only a small portion of a percentage of the shit I have gotten, and still get, for my education.  I don’t like talking about it because one of my worst (and probably unfounded) fears is for people to start believing that I define myself by three letters or — even worse still — that I look down on other people because of it.

But, nonetheless, and in case you were wondering:

Mean-spirited teasing toward too-educated people marks you as resentful, jealous,petty and, well, stupid. Because if you don’t realize how jealous and petty this kind of shit makes you look, you must be stupid.  Or you don’t care.  And everyone I’ve met who cares that little about being an asshole has also been, one and all, stupid.

This includes:

“You [sic] got a PhD, and  you can’t XXX.”

(Actually, I can XXX, and I can do it while reading Kant.  Can you?)

“All that education and XXX.”

(Fuck you. You didn’t pay for it or help me or, if you’re talking like this, support me. Once again: fuck you.)

“Well, I don’t have a PhD, so XXX.”

(Am I supposed to feel badly that I traded my 20s, a large part of my sanity and a student loan debt that could literally buy a house to get a PhD I thought I needed for a career I thought I wanted to pursue forever?  What’s it got to do with anyone else that I need to hear what people feel about it so fucking much?)

“What, are you stuck-up now that you’re a Doctor?”

(No. Are you insecure now?)

“[Perceived shortcoming of mine] And you’re a Doctor?!”

(Well, shit, I was busy studying philosophy and shit, not learning to XXX. Silly me. I guess I got into the wrong fucking program.)

In conclusion, there is nothing magical about a PhD — except it’s magical ability to often turn “Doctors” into assholes and — more often, I’ve found, unexpectedly — to turn everyone around said Doctors into assholes.

And that is all I have to say about that.

P.S. Call me “Doctor” please. : )

Along with all the “advice” you don’t want (“My mudder put wissy on ma teef, and Ohm Okay.”)*, you’ll get useful advice and hints from people from whom you expect it (your parents, your friends who are parents) and from people that might surprise you (a guy in line at the grocery store, a blogger). My great-aunt says that there are only two rules to raising a baby: don’t yell at them, and don’t give them booze. When your daughter ignores you and keeps getting into the cabinets and such, you appreciate the first of those rules.

While there are people who will still nearly run you and your yellow (!) stroller over with their SUVs, you’d be surprised by the people who will go out of their way to make way for you. Coming back from a long walk to Belvedere Square last month, a huge pickup truck with a huge trailer backed waywayway up to let us pass, when they really weren’t in a position to have to and were really barely in a position to be able to. For every jerk who doesn’t yield to you in the crosswalk, there’s another who will stop without needing to, nowhere near one.

Okay, so for every ten people who get on your ass and refuse to cut the new parents any slack, there’s one person who will forgive you for anything. But. Still. That’s one person who seems to understand.

Having a kid changes all of your relationships.  I know I have drifted a little from some people and gotten much closer to others.  Being parents can really bond two friends or cousins or siblings together.  We have friends (who are parents) who are incredibly supportive, even when that means just being available for a coffee and a walk.

I don’t get to hang out with my brothers as much as usual, but they don’t seem to hold it against me.  Rather, one is gaga over Charlotte all the time, while the other has often been a comrade to relaxing with some much-needed fresh air and a beer (or two), even two weeks ago when we relaxed over Coronas and did some bitching.

I’m not going to lie and say that my parents (who probably read this blog!) aren’t often a source of frustration, and that I don’t know that I probably frustrate them as well.  This isn’t news to any new parent, and if your parents are automatically used to the idea of you as a parent yourself, well, that’s just bizarre, brother.  But my parents also always there for a trip to the store to get something we really need, to babysit when we have an important obligation, to chat, etc.  For as many times as we want to kill one another (Hi, guys!), we’re still a family.

I’m probably forgetting a lot of stuff and a lot of people.  But this has been a hell of a lot of blogging for one day, and my laptop feels like it’s about to melt.

*(“My mother put whiskey on my gums while I was teething, and I’m not completely stupid, not completely.”  Said by one very Hampdeny Hampdenite.)

[See also here.]

It was poop.

Poor thing.

Charlotte’s had a fever before, but she’s never just had a day where she didn’t feel well without anything visible being wrong (aside from another fever). Yesterday, she wasn’t her playful self. She was too weak to practice walking. Her head was heavy and hot. She wanted to cuddle, to sit on my lap, put her head on my chest and chill.

Now. This child. Unless it’s bedtime or storytime, she doesn’t not like to sit still on a lap for long. This was strange behavior indeed.  Her fever wasn’t high enough to merit medicine or a visit to the doctor. Her stomach seemed fine. It was nothing big.

But there was also little I could do for her to make her feel better. I didn’t necessarily feel helpless so much as just bad. I felt badly for this usually bubbly and happy little kid who just plain felt like poop. All I could do was cuddle her, change her diaper and make sure she had enough to eat.

Her fever is lower today, and she’s interested in playing.  She also got up an hour earlier — in anticipation of changing the clocks this week?  Is my daughter that smart already?

Luckily, a coffeemaker with a timer showed up yesterday and got me out of bed earlier this morning.  It also could be the very thing that woke Charlotte up early.  She’s never heard a coffeemaker before.

Usually, I’d sleep over at my family’s house the night before Thanksgiving.  Wake up to the smell of turkey.  Pre-2002, I was an eager turkey eater.  The dad in A Christmas Story had nothing on me.  Starting in 2002, I’d smell it, hunger for it, and my mouth would water for it.  This sounds like I’m blaming someone for the heavenly smell.  What I mean is that strict vegetarianism never made me hate the smell of turkey.

This year, this was no smell.  There was a fancy contraption outside the house when I got there with Charlotte and Mommy, full of oil that cooked the turkey.  My brothers needed a third set of hands getting the bird out, and I was glad to help.  Then the smell hit me.  And, for a second, well.  I was tempted.  Then I looked up its bum, saw ribs and spine said outoud (without meaning to), “Woh, you can see….that it used to be alive.”  Temptation over.  I ate a lot of other good yummies and what is most likely the best pie (homemade pecan!) I have ever eaten.  Ever.

And, it turns out, Charlotte doesn’t seem to like green beans.  Much better luck with the carrots today, though.  She got them all over a little frog toy and then ate them off, licking her tiny lips and smiling.

Also, and this is no insignificant thing, I received a food dehydrator as a birthday gift from my parents. “What the hell would a 31-year-old want with one of those?” you ask?

Well, immediately, I can dry a lot of the chilis and basil I grew/am growing this year. Also, well, holy shit, those babies are awesome! No more trail mix full of crap I hate and also without fruit because the stuff at the market is not great (not enough to spend the cash on anyway). Meals ready to eat? Yes. When we go camping, I take my own food so as not to be a pain the ass, since I’m the only vegetarian. This means that I have to lug it all myself, with a cooler to boot. Not if I learn to make my own dehydrated vegetarian cuisine!

This is not to mention that Charlotte and I can make all sorts of delicious things.  I’m picturing her taking bags of dried fruit all over Baltimore during  the winter, from delicious things I got at the farmers market in the summer.

I was raving to my mother a few weeks ago that I grew too much basil this year and had to freeze a lot of it and even murder a plant.  I said I wanted to diversify next year and get a food dehydrator to keep myself (and family) stocked with home-grown herbs all year.  What I didn’t think of until last night is that the chilis that don’t normally dry well and get frozen instead can be dried this way and used for all kinds of excellent goodness!

My mom listened.  My mom rocks.

I think my father called me yesterday to ask about what to do about a situation.  My mother (Hi, Mom!) complimented my people-reading skills last weekend.  I am glad for all of this.  I shudder to think how many times (even recently) I’ve bugged the shit out of my parents, asking for advice, a perspective, an opinion.

My wife and I were talking this morning, and I said, “If people seek you out for practical advice in dealing with people, power-structures, their emotions, etc., does that make you a philosopher?  That is, if you seem to have wisdom that people want to use?”

I think I have excellent judgement.  But I think that I also seldom use it.  I don’t think that personal idiocy precludes being able to help other people.

Maybe I’m just, as I suspect, a good listener.  I think I’m entirely too young and too dumb for people to be coming to me expecting sage advice.  But listening is a good skill, especially with fatherhood on the very near horizon.

I forgot where I was going with this.  It’s raining again, and I need to get to work.