The life and times of an irrational father. One man, multiple personalities.
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Like a ragdoll

September 28th, 2010 | Posted by Joe in Bad parenting | family | scared | Tyler - (18 Comments)

One of the great things about this little town we live in is the annual fair. The roads around the downtown area get closed off and the carnival rides get wheeled in. Deep fried Twinkies, elephant ears, rides I’ll never ride and games I’ll never play. Along with all the typical awesomeness of having a FREE fair, is the 4H aspect. Over at the fairgrounds are multiple barns, full of horses, cows, sheep, rabbits, chickens, pigs and many other breeds.

Of course, this is where Tyler wanted to be. He petted horse after horse after donkey after mule and never tired of it. In the pig pens, he had to place his hand on darn near every single pig in there. He pet many animals and loved it. As we walked from barn to barn we mentioned the animals that were coming up. We neared the final barn and asked Tyler if he was ready to see the cows.

“Ohhhh yes,” he replied, happily skipping/running along.

I don’t know the different breeds of cows, so I don’t know if we walked into a dairy barn or some other “cow barn”. All the cows were standing, facing away from us. So, we had a beautiful view of many, many cow butts. Tyler continued ahead of Sarah and I, looking up in awe of the huge creatures. I walked ahead of Sarah to catch up with Tyler. She had just moments ago told him to be careful around the animals. I took another step closer, slightly blocking Sarah’s view, as Tyler suddenly turned and placed his hand on a cow’s leg.

They saw that when tragedy strikes, everything slows down.

In less than one full second, I watched the cow’s hoof kick out and strike Tyler in his chest. In that same one second, I watched Tyler get thrown six foot backwards. I watched his head and legs jolt forward as his body propelled back.

It’s amazing, the details you notice in only one second. Like the fact that the cow’s hoof had already been returned to its original position while Tyler was still in the air.

His head suddenly snapped back when his body slammed into a stack of hay. I heard the metallic clang as his neck and skull hit the metal pail on the ground.

And then I went blind. I distinctly remember running to Tyler, but my brain couldn’t process the visuals. I was blind to the world, but seeing everything. I knew that he would be unconscious. I just didn’t know how bad it would be.

All in one eternal second.

I picked him up, but still my brain either wouldn’t or couldn’t allow me to see what was happening. A thought entered my head that I shouldn’t touch or move Tyler, yet I still lifted him to me, embracing him.

I heard him draw a deep breath, then begin screaming. Unable to move, I stood there and held him, asking if he was ok. In another sobbing scream, he yelled “yeeeeeeeeeeah,” in response. I felt Sarah next to me, putting her arm around Tyler while trying to push me a little further away from the cow. I whispered “I’m sorry” into Tyler’s ear.

He screamed again.

Sarah asked if she could look at him to see if he was hurt. He tightened his arms around my neck and said no. We all stood there for a couple minutes. When Tyler’s hitching sobs slowed, I stood him on a wooden chest nearby, so we could look at him. The muddy hoof-print on his sweatshirt showed us where to start. There was no mark. He did have a scrape under his eye, which we can’t explain. I picked him up again and held him tight, kissing his head over and over again. As we walked, Sarah found the cure to Tyler’s ailment.

Whispering in his ear, she asked, “Ty, do you want some cotton candy?”

I spent the next fifteen minutes, eating pink and blue cotton candy with Sarah and Tyler. The entire time, I wondered how it was possible that I saw what I saw and my son has little more than a scrape on his cheek that he says “hurt a liddle bit.” I watched him SHOVEL handfuls of cotton candy in his mouth, and “ooh” and “ahh” with Sarah at some horses walking by, befuddled that we weren’t presently rushing to the hospital with a limp and unconscious child.

Later, at home, Tyler asked, “Daddy, why a cow kick me?”

“Well, Tyler, you know how when we see a fly near our food and we tell it to go away and wave our arms at it?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Well, when you touched the cow’s leg, it tickled him a little bit. He didn’t know you were a boy because he couldn’t see you. The cow thought you were a fly and tried to kick you away. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“My cheek ouchie. Why cow hurt me?”

“Why did I just tell you, buddy?”

“Cow think I a fly.”

One Second

June 7th, 2010 | Posted by Joe in camping | family | scared | Tyler - (6 Comments)

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There was a single event during our five day camping excursion that shook me to my very core.

On day 2, Ganpa and I took Tyler fishing at the lake. Actually, Ganpa took Tyler and I fishing. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve been fishing. Fifteen years, maybe more. In preparation of this trip, Sarah and I previously bought a Spiderman fishing pole for Tyler. It’s got a small plastic fish tied to the line, so there’s no worries of Tyler taking a barbed hook, covered with worm guts, to his own cheek. That being said, there was a worry of him taking a worm-gut covered, barbed hook to his cheek by my inexperienced hand.

Tyler watched Ganpa hook a worm and cast his line, but lost interest pretty quickly in his own fishing pole. He’s a little young still and doesn’t quite have the dexterity to cast or reel a line anyway. Instead, he busied himself by playing in the water, with and around some of the other kids that were there. Ganpa walked twenty feet down the shore to see if he could get any bites out there. I remained with Tyler.

Sarah stopped by a few minutes later. She was halfway through her jog and needed a small rest. We talked for a bit about her run and how things were going, while I fished and watched Tyler play in the water. I told her that Ganpa had caught a bass and that Tyler touched it. I cast my line out again and slowly reeled it in while telling Sarah about the fish.

“JOE! JOE!”

My eyes immediately flicked to Tyler, who was face down in the water, struggling to stand up. I dropped my pole and raced into the water. Not a single thought entered my head. Water soaked through my shoes and splashed up my legs. As I ran, I saw Tyler, head submerged, bring his arm up. A small wave of relief hit me when I saw him move. He put his arm back down, trying to push himself up. His hand broke the plane of the water, giving him no surface with which to push. The five seconds that passed were a parental eternity. I watched as Tyler unsuccessfully tried to lift his head out of the water. My son was effectively blinded and unable to breath. Fear gripped me harder as the resistance of the water slowed my run.

I finally reached Tyler and lifted him out of the water. He looked confused and scared, but otherwise intact. The thinking center of my brain resumed its duties. I set Tyler, feet first, back into the water and put on my happy, “nothing to worry about over here”, face.

“Did you fall down, buddy?”

Still scared, Tyler started crying. I grabbed him by the hand and walked him to shore. Sarah was on the same “don’t let Tyler know how freaked-the-f—-out you are” page and remained calm and passive.

She asked, “Are you okay, TyTy? Do you need a hug from mommy?”

“Yeah.”

As mother and son hugged each other, I mentally started kicking my ass. I looked away for one second. One second! One? Maybe five. Maybe ten. I really just wasn’t sure how long. I remembered then that I can’t swim. What if he was out further? What if he wasn’t breathing? I don’t know CPR. I get the concept, and may be able to “wing it,” but don’t know the proper technique. I forced myself to remain calm. I never want Tyler to have the same fears of water that I have (from a traumatic childhood experience of my own, no less). We comforted Tyler for just a moment, and talked to him about what happened. I knew it was my fault. Sarah knew it was my fault. All the parents on the shore – presumably watching their own kids – knew it was my fault. The truth is, I really didn’t know that I wasn’t paying attention to Tyler at the time. I was enjoying the fishing experience, and talking to Sarah. And Tyler has always just been so… good at everything. He’s big and strong, and he’s got a pretty uncanny sense of balance and awareness that amazes me daily. So, I dropped the ball. I keep telling myself that this is part of parenting. That even though something tragic could have happened, it didn’t.

Mark my words. I will know how to swim before the summer is over.

The Fight or Flight Response

March 30th, 2010 | Posted by Joe in family | irrational dad | joe | learning | Sarah | scared | Tyler - (7 Comments)

Is your family important to you? If something were to happen that put the lives of your loved ones in danger, how would you react? It’s not until something really happens that you realize just how important your family is to you and just what you would do to keep them safe.

I swear to you, this is all true.

Sunday night, I slept poorly. It was easily the worst night of sleep I’d had in months. I lay in bed, tired but wide awake, as if there were an energy in the air keeping me awake. I’ve had nights like that before, where my mind was furiously working through a problem that it just couldn’t let go of. That wasn’t the case two nights ago. I simply could not drift off to sleep, and I didn’t know why. I dozed in and out a few times, and finally went downstairs around two in the morning. My head had begun to ache and throb, so I went down for some little white pills and some water. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that I should have been cycling into a REM sleep cycle. The house was silent.

After swallowing my two pills, I made my way through the dark house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Back in the bedroom, and under the covers, I settled in and hoped the sandman would visit.

And I lay there, eyes closed but still wide awake. Tired but alert. Again, I was hit with the feeling that there was something in the air, keeping me awake. Soon, I finally began drifting  to sleep. Slowly. Just as I reached that in-between state, the state where we sometimes jerk ourselves awake with a subconscious body spasm, something terrifying happened. I heard somebody in our house. Specifically, I heard a door being shut. A door in my house. The one place where I have an expectation of safety for myself and for my family.

There was no thought. No wondering what I should do, or if I really heard what I know I did. The only thing that ran through my head was “my family.” The next few moments are burned into my memory as a strobe-effect; simply a series of images. The ceiling fan, as my eyes fly open. The bed sheets, in mid-flight, as I rip them away from me. My feet hitting the floor and me pushing off the bed. Delilah taking post at my heel. My hand closing on the door frame. In just one more moment, I will be down the stairs in two jumps, praying that I hit the light switch with my first attempt. Then, I don’t know, but I will protect my family.

In the instant before I pulled myself into the doorway, I remembered something crucial. Earlier this day, my little tyrant of a son learned how to open his own door.

I stepped around the corner to see him standing before me. Innocent. Relief – and fresh anger – swept over me. In the fog of near-sleep, Tyler’s newly acquired skill had been forgotten. Also forgotten was the fact that this was the third or fourth time tonight that he had gotten up. The two main differences were that he was much quieter before, and that Sarah got up those times to put him back to bed. On this particular instance, he opened the door and (I think) accidentally slammed it behind him.

In an angry whisper, I told him, “Get your butt back into bed, right now!” In my head, I added, Jesus Christ, boy, I almost killed you.

“Mommy,” he cried.

“Mommy is making her night nights. You get into your bed, now Tyler!”

As I tucked him in, and my heart slowed back into its normal rhythm, I kissed Tyler’s cheek. “It’s time to sleep, Tyler. You stay in this bed, okay?”

Tyler whispered, “yeah.”

“You do not get out of this bed again, and you do not open your door again, got it?”

Still in a whisper, “yeah.”

“I love you, buddy.”

“luh-loo.”

I pulled his door shut, and tied a shirt sleeve around the knob, hoping to make it more difficult for Tyler to turn, should he disobey my orders. He didn’t, and he slept through the rest of the night, presumably in his bed.

Today, Sarah reversed the door knob so that we can lock him into his room. And, today, Tyler took an unheard-of three and a half hour nap.

We’re still smarter than you Tyler.

Fear

January 5th, 2010 | Posted by Joe in family | scared - (9 Comments)

Picture of Joe and Tyler

I’d like to say that I exude confidence. I really would like to say that. And maybe I do exude an air of knowing just what the hell I’m doing, because I do try to. But beneath my smiling exterior stands a fragile man, unsure of so many things. Worry eats at him daily. He barely treads water in the ever-thickening pool of anxiety. Masked with happiness, I’m scared. Scared of the unknown, scared of making the wrong decision, and mostly of not being able to provide for my family.

Those fears have cemented my feet and prevented me from doing anything differently than I have for the last three years.

I have a great job that does exactly what I need it to do; provide. We have a roof over our head, no shut-off notices (except for that one month that I forgot to pay the water bill, whoops), clothes on our backs, and food on the table. It also has its perks, with one of the biggest being that I set my own schedule. I can be home just about any time I want to. I can spend the entire afternoon with my family, so long as I get up early enough to get my hours in. I can take Friday off, if I’ve worked longer days the previous four. There’s a high level of flexibility, which is huge when you have a family.

But this was all supposed to be temporary.

I took this role for two reasons. To provide and to learn. This job afforded me the ability to put Sarah through school, with very, very little need of financial assistance. Provide… done. I won’t delve into the learning aspect, but suffice to say that, while learning never stops, I certainly feel that I’ve attained my goal, plus some. It turns out, though, that the whole “providing” thing never stops either. It evolves. When Sarah neared graduation, and we finally saw the pin-hole of light at the end of the tunnel, the decision was made to start a family. And that, my friends, is a lifelong commitment. One that I do not, and never will, regret. But partly because of that decision we decided to stay. Then we found another reason, then another, and then another.

The issue is that my current role required us to relocate. We live in a truly great little town, but it isn’t what Sarah and I consider to be our home. That place is two hours away. And while I’m sure that isn’t “far” by many standards, it is far enough for it to have an impact on our lives. Not all bad, but not all good either. After three years, it’s really taking its toll on me, which means it’s REALLY taking its toll on Sarah. We miss home, and everything it brings. Two things I will never miss, though, is the traffic on one particular street, and the mountains of “lake effect” snow that fall on “home” every year.

The opportunity to move back has been offered a few times. More than a few, to be perfectly honest. Deep down, I wanted to move back – WE wanted to move back – yet I turned them all down. We made excuses to keep everything the same. Moving down here was easy, because it was just Sarah and I; two able-bodied adults that can care for themselves and be accountable for their actions. The baggage we will be bringing back has a heartbeat and is one hundred percent dependent on us to do the right thing.

I took the first of many huge steps yesterday. I told my boss that I was ready and that I would like to talk about my options. I just hope this decision isn’t one opportunity too late.

So, now, one very small gear in a very large clock has begun to turn, and quite frankly, I’m scared.

bananas

August 12th, 2009 | Posted by Joe in irrational dad | parenting | scared | Tyler - (9 Comments)

With my family being in a different state than myself for seven days, I regret to report that I do not have a picture to post for Wordless Wednesday this week. I hope to remedy this by possibly posting a Wordless Saturday instead.

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One of my favorite things to do on a Sunday morning is read the newspaper. This doesn’t usually take much time. Aside from local news relating to my county, I typically just read a couple comic strips and peruse the ads. Anything newsworthy from a national or worldly level, I’ve already read online the day before.

A recent Sunday morning found Tyler sitting in his highchair with breakfast, while I settled into my newspaper reading routine. I prepared a wonderful meal of eggs, ham, and a pancake for my little man. And ketchup. He has to have ketchup to dip his eggs into. And his ham. And his pancake. He gets his taste for ketchup from his mother. I never use it, unless it comes pre-slopped on a Whopper. Otherwise, I don’t touch the stuff. I held onto a secret hope that Tyler wouldn’t like it the first time it was offered, but after personally witnessing him grab a handful of applesauce, dip it into ketchup, and slurp it into his mouth, my little bubble of hope burst ever so silently into an infinity of nothingness.

On this particular morning, Tyler brought his bottomless pit of a stomach to the table. He eats some meals then tells us that he’s all done. And he has some meals where we seriously start to wonder if he has forgotten how to say that he’s all done and is confusing that sign with “more”. This meal was the latter.

“More more more,” he would sign.

Wiggling both of my hands, I asked a leading question. “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘all done?’”

“More more more,” he signed again. This time he followed up by pointing to the bananas on the table.

“Do you want a banana?”

“Dath.”

To drive his point home, Tyler started bouncing in his chair. I peeled a banana, cut it in half and gave one of the two pieces to Tyler. I returned to the newspaper. I looked up after a few moments as I turned the page, and saw Tyler choking. I jumped up and ran to him. Before I got close enough to smash my hand into his back, he was able to dislodge the banana-mush on his own. I pondered exactly how many years have been subtracted from my life due to Tyler’s little escapade. One would think that Tyler would ruminate on the events that triggered his momentary choking. One would be wrong. Instead, Tyler went to work in cramming what was left of the banana into his mouth. And before he had a chance to chew it, he started pointing at the second half of the banana resting on the table.

To his credit, and much to my relief, Tyler took bites and chewed the second half. I watched Tyler adoringly as he took his final bite…

“More more more,” he signed.