Hooray for Poo: Part 1

Dirty diapers are a major part of having a baby. It is amazing the lengths my wife and I will go to in order to attempt to NOT have to change our son’s diaper. The most clever tactics involve talking to our son and avoiding each other altogether.

“Oh, did you poopey? Daddy said he wants to change it, because he loves you.”

Now, what am I going to say?

“Nope, Daddy doesn’t want to change your diaper because he doesn’t love you.”

Of course in the midst of this verbal warfare we forget that our child is 7 months old and has no idea what we’re saying.

The point is that NO ONE is happy about having to change a diaper…until IT happens. Many of you have already guessed it: CONSTIPATION. It starts with a questioning expression on your baby’s face, followed by grunting and reddening of the face that makes you think he is about to turn into the hulk. There came a time when my son’s Herculean efforts would produce something so pitiful that even a rabbit would be ashamed. We went into panic mode.

I don’t know how much prune juice a baby can physically handle, but our son may have been close to a Guinness World Record. It turns out he loves the stuff. However, it caused no movement in the nether regions.

It came time to call the doctor. What is it about calling doctors? For me it’s the fact that I know they are going to just say, “Bring him in,” and I’ll be the father sitting in waiting room trying to keep my son plugged up as he tries to fill his diaper.

What the doctor suggested to me made me question his knowledge. Heck, I wasn’t even sure if it was legal. Yet, we were coming upon five poopie-less days and this was no time to question. He wanted to me to lay my son down in a warm bath and massage his…you know…with a rectal thermometer. My day only got worse from there.

I set up the bath and began undressing my son for the procedure-that-must-not-be-named. He was excited. Poor kid. He didn’t know what was coming. All he knew was that he was getting a bath in the middle of the day and that was a serious bonus! I carried him into the bathroom and held him up so he could see himself in the mirror. He loves seeing himself naked. It’s probably his favorite time of day. This day he was really excited, because he started peeing…on our toothbrushes.

I should have taken this as a warning, but I continued on. I laid him back into the tub and began the procedure. Did it work? Define work. Stuff happened. Nothing I want to talk about right now. The verdict was that we still had a long way to go.

I got him dressed. Sat him in front of a video (only once a day for thirty minutes-don’t yell at me) and cleaned up the mess. What I saw when I came back I will never forget. It was a sight that would have sent many people into cardiac arrest.

Maybe it was bath. Maybe it was the thermometer. Maybe it was the five gallons of prune juice he drank. All the matters is that my son had filed his diaper and most of our former living area with feces. 

I’ve never been prouder in my entire life...

You Want to Read Your Blog

So why do people blog?  What makes anyone think anyone would ever want to read something that you've written?  If our kids followed the logic of adults, then we would never get an assignment of any quality turned in.  We have kids write to practice mechanics, but also to reflect, reason, and reach conclusions.  Is there a magic age when we no longer need to practice these skills?

I discovered one more reason to blog today.  I found one more person who really enjoyed reading my writing - me.  I wrote an article on 9/11 a few years ago, and read it again today.  I was moved to read my own descriptions and feelings which I don't even recall a few years later.  I learned lessons I had at some point forgotten.

I have never seen my father write anything longer than his name, yet the one regret he has expressed to me about his life is, "I wish I had written something down every day.  I just can't remember the details of those moments that were small at the time, but I really want to remember now.

When you consider whether it is worth taking the time to write a blog, and you feel embarrassed to share details that you feel others could care less about, remember that there is always one reader who will be interested and find it of value. (No, not me - you.)

The Tooth Fairy and Other Failures

My seven year old has been nursing a loose tooth for about two months now. Every time I have looked in his mouth I have been disturbed by the little dangling participle.  On several occasions I have offered to "take a look" or "just give it a little wiggle" hoping to pluck out the little sucker, but he has seen right through me every time and run away.  Two nights ago my wife was out with her lady friends and I was having a "Daddy-night."  As he brushed his teeth, I could see the thing dangling by a thread.  I put to work a new strategy that goes something like this:

"Oh, man, what is that?!?"

"What, Daddy?"

"There's something right there. (point at mouth)  Come a little closer.

"What is it?!?!"

"Here, I'll get it real fast."  (Quickly snatch tooth)

This tooth would have come out of his mouth if I had breathed too hard.  He didn't even notice until he saw it in my hand and started celebrating.

We got out the Tooth Fairy pillow and did the bedtime routine.

With the house put to bed, I went to my wallet to get a dollar, but (no surprise) it was empty.  I made a mental note to ask my wife for a dollar when she got home.

A while later I told my wife that our son had lost a tooth, but I didn't have a dollar.

She replied, "Okay," and got a dollar out.

The Next Day...


(Screaming from the bedroom)

"Daddy, come here!!!!"

"What's wrong?"

"Daddy, it's terrible!!!"  (At this point I am thinking he has lost a limb or at least discovered a limb in his bedroom.)

"The Tooth Fairy didn't come!!!!"

At this point my stomach dropped.  Crap.  My brain scanned back through the night and I realized that my wife had retrieved the dollar, but left it up to me to make the transaction.  What to say?  How did I recover from this to keep the cruel illusion alive?

"Sorry, pal, I guess she was really busy last night..."

He screams, "Curse you, Tooth Fairy!!!"  from the bottom of his toes.

I managed to calm him by inserting a rule that if the Tooth Fairy missed a night, then she brought two dollars the next night.  He then informed me that he would be hiding the tooth for 1500 days in order to receive $1500...

The Tooth Fairy came last night.

The Life and Death of Dorothy the Goldfish

Dorothy the Goldfish came into our lives on December 1, 2005.  She was a “gag” present from my sister and her husband for my oldest son’s 2nd birthday.  Dorothy was an ordinary orange fish from the Meijer pet section and was named after the more famous fish that starred on Sesame Street with Elmo.  My wife was a bit annoyed with this present since we had a newborn baby to deal with, but my sister assured us that it wouldn’t be around long.  She had gone through six or seven goldfish in the past year.  Still, my wife wasn’t going to be bothered with it, so I took charge of Dorothy’s care.  This was the first strike against the poor goldfish.  I once had one of those Beta fighting fish on my desk at work that died from neglect after a week.  I left it there until its body disintegrated.

For most of the first months of her life in the Roseberry household, no one paid much attention to Dorothy.  We stuck her up on the counter in the kitchen and I cleaned her bowl out whenever I started having trouble seeing her through the feces or my wife nagged me excessively.  We didn’t bother giving her much attention because we knew that she was going to end up belly-up any moment.  That’s what these kinds of fish did and it’s why they cost a quarter.  They are disposable.  

Dorothy didn’t have any plans of going away so easily.  After six months, she was still with us...and thriving.  My oldest son was old enough to pay her a little bit of attention, and she took to wagging her fishy tail at him whenever he came near.  

One afternoon we were leaving for a family event and my wife asked if I had cleaned out her bowl.  I said I would take care of it when we got home.  She gave me a judgmental look which I chose to ignore because…come on….it’s a stupid goldfish.

When we came home later that evening I glanced at her bowl and saw that she was on top of the water, upside down, but with gills still moving.  I glanced back and my wife was busy messing with the kids so I sprang into action.  I could not be the cause of death for my son’s first pet.

I threw her in a glass, washed out the bowl and rocks, and poured in the clean water with chemical treatment.  Just as I was about to throw Dorothy back into the clean bowl, my oldest noticed my panicked motions and came over beside me.  

“What are you doing to Dorothy?” he asked.

I looked into the glass and she was upside down and floating towards the bottom.

“Nothing,” I lied, “Just giving her some fresh water.”

I dumped her into the clean bowl.  My oldest son watched her flop to the bottom and then rise back      

upside down to the top while grotesquely flapping her fins.

“Dorothy is swimming funny,” he commented.

“I think she’s trying to do a trick,” I replied.  

This just kept getting worse and worse.  My son looked at me and, even at two and a half, he knew I was full of crap.  He ran off to tattle to the parent who didn’t kill Elmo’s friends.

In a final desperate attempt, I grabbed Dorothy the Goldfish out of her bowl.  She was limp and motionless in my hand.  I held her upright between my thumb and forefinger and moved her back and forth in the water as I have seen fisherman do on fishing television shows as they release their fish (“Oxygenates the gills” they said.) At first nothing happened, and I started practicing the excuses in my head.  (“Dorothy ran away from home to go and live with Elmo.  Dorothy turned into a rock.  See!  Dorothy is visiting friends and will be back tomorrow.”)  

Suddenly, Dorothy began wiggling between the fingers and  took off darting around the bowl.  I peered down at her with amazed and grateful eyes as she swam quickly from side to side.  I breathed a sigh of relief and marveled at the realization...I had just CPRed a goldfish.  I felt like the greatest dad in the world.  I regaled my wife with the story and she wasn’t nearly as impressed with my revival skills as I had hoped.  The following day she took over Dorothy the Goldfish’s day to day care.

When we moved into our new house, one of the first things my wife did was place Dorothy in her exalted place on the bar above the kitchen sink.  She upgraded her to a larger bowl with brighter and more lavish rocks.  Dorothy had natural light from windows and glass doors on three sides, and our lives literally revolved around her.  This loving spot was indicative of her new role in our family.  My wife had taken to feeding her faithfully every morning with a sweet, “Good morning, Dorothy,” and cleaning her water once a week whether she needed it or not.  Over the years, her longevity became a major discussion point among friends.  There wasn’t a friend or relative who visited us who didn’t know and appreciate Dorothy the Goldfish.

There was one living creature who loved Dorothy more than anyone else, and that was Trina the cat.  Trina spent almost every waking moment perched by Dorothy’s bowl watching her gracefully swim from side to side.  At first we feared that Trina was looking for a snack, but in truth she only wanted companionship.  She had always been an only pet, and treated more like a child than a feline.  Trina, however, fell deeply in love with Dorothy.  She couldn’t even be bothered to leave her fish friend to get a drink of water.  Instead, she would simply raise herself up and take a drink from the bowl.  Dorothy didn’t panic.  Trust is what true friendships are all about. 

The tragedy of the doomed love affair (and this is a different story, different time) is that Trina developed bladder tumors the next fall (most likely from the bowl water) and passed on beyond us in 2007.  Dorothy was looking a bit worn and transparent, but she had more living to do.  Over the next three and a half years, Dorothy watched from her bowl as the boys gained inches and a new son joined our home.

On July 17, 2008 we came home from a day trip to find that Dorothy the Goldfish had died.  There were bags to unpack, dishes to put away, dinner to fix, and a dance class to get to in a little over an hour, but attention needed to be paid.  My wife draped a dark green scarf over her bowl, and we talked about what she had meant to us.

My oldest son was very upset.  He was a little over the top with the drama, but I could see in his forehead and downturned cheeks that he was feeling some very real emotion.  He kept saying over and over, “Did you forget that Dorothy died?  and “I can’t believe I’ll never see Dorothy again.”

We made plans for a funeral later that evening, and my wife took my oldest on to his dance class.  Me and my other two sons were in charge of the coffin.  I asked them what they thought we should put Dorothy in and my middle son said, “Put her somewhere in the yard so a bunch of animals can eat her!”

While his understanding of the circle of life was admirable, I didn’t think that solution would fly with the rest of the family.  I searched through the house looking for something disposable, biodegradable, and somewhat respectable.  While I paused briefly when I found a toilet paper roll in the trash can, I ended up with a band-aid box which only housed a few band-aids.

An hour later all five of us were outside standing over her grave in our garden while my wife said a short prayer.  I looked around at all of the solemn faces and couldn’t help but smile at all of the fuss and emotion for a little critter who cost less than a pack of gum.  A little fish that my wife happily greeted every day as she took her first sip of coffee.  It seems like such an insignificant gesture, but suddenly you look back and realize you’ve had over 1300 mornings with a goldfish that should have died within days of arriving in our home.  My wife told me afterwards that she also couldn’t help but smile during the ceremony.  Her smile came not from amusement, but from the image of two old friends, a cat and a fish, finally back together again.  

Technology...Baby

Having three kids with five years between the oldest and the youngest, I find it amazing how much technology has changed during the time in-between.  I now understand why our parents, 30 years removed from the rearing process, scoff at our fancy cribs and five-point-harness car seats.  They put us to sleep in drawers, strapped us to the dryer during nap time, and gave us Benadryl so we could nap on the floor mats during car trips.  This sort of practicality makes it difficult for them to comprehend the use of products such as Snugglies, Boppies, and Bumbos.  

Communication technology has simply exploded, leaving us parents to wonder if we should be valuing “quality” time over “quantity” of time.  With our first born, I felt a constant tug every moment at work of all the magical moments I was missing.  In this day of texting of messages, pictures, and videos, I can now get a stream of status updates via text message.  I can be walking down the hallway and find out my five-year old just smacked a friend, or sitting down to lunch and watch a video of my three-year-old telling me he has diarrhea.  Some days I could print out the pictures I receive and make a flip book.  More importantly, cell phones have helped streamline mommy and daddy “disagreements.”  These days you can argue, get a divorce, and remarry all without saying a word or leaving your workplace.

However, the advances in baby technology have turned out to be a double-edged sword.  One example is the transition of the baby swing.  Our first swing shook the baby back and forth violently and looked like a medieval torture device.   It was neither effective nor particularly safe, but the baby went unconscious just to escape its unfortunate predicament.  New swings glide two different directions at fourteen different speeds with lights and ocean waves all while cuddling your child in a soft papasan chair, and teaching them Mandarin Chinese.  This swing is brought to you by the makers of the technology for spit-grills and the hot dog-cookers at gas stations.  The downside is the outrageous battery consumption.   For 2 “D” batteries a day or approximately $15 a week you can put your baby into a deep sleep that doesn’t result in you popping a vertebrae out of alignment.   Any parent of a fussy child will tell you this is a bargain.  Two hours of sleep is worth at least $120 a day to a new and desperate parent.

Perhaps the best example of the love/hate relationship with baby technology is the so-called “Bouncy-Seat.”  This device will vibrate your baby into an instant coma.  If I could find a bed such as this without going to an hourly hotel, I would so be there.  While wonderfully effective, the ”Bouncy-Seat” will demand the sacrifice of your pinky toe every time you walk by.  Beware – this is not an exaggeration.  I swear that I will give myself three feet clearance as I walk around the possessed thing and it will still manage to pop out and snag my toe.  Even the kids are heard slamming to the floor and screaming as the “Bouncy-Seat’ takes its payment.  You can set it up high, put it in the other room, or place it upside down, but the “Bouncy-Seat’ will find a way to wishbone you.  Deal with it.  

New parents will find themselves cursing loudly and waking up the baby, thus canceling out any sleep-inducing benefit.  I knew there might be a problem when my five-year-old told me to put the baby to sleep in the “Son-of-a-Bitch.”  Experienced parents learn to control their pain and loss of toe in a zen-like way to achieve two hours of luxurious freedom.  Heck, most parents would lop off their own nose with a butter knife if that was what was required.  

Every parent will have to make their own decision regarding the blessings and curses of baby technology.  I have noticed at gathering of friends and family members with little ones that the crowd is generally divided into two groups: those who look deathly tired, and those will a smile on their face who are limping violently.  The choice is yours.

Flowers, Balloons, and Babies (Oh my...)

I wanted to get my wife and my baby home from the hospital. It seemed like an easy enough task the day before, but this was a new day and a new world.  After the labor, the birth, seeing him for the first...well, I didn't know how my wife was doing, but I had come unglued.  

No one prepares you for this part. The magazines don’t talk about it, but it ate a hole in my stomach just thinking of the technical elements that would have to come together in order to get our stuff from the hospital room to the safe haven we had prepared at home.

At 3 a.m. of the big day, my wife and I sat planning our attack as she fed our son.

I would begin making small trips with suitcases at 6 a.m. directly after I had retrieved breakfast for myself at the hospital cafeteria, which was located approximately 17 miles down the hallway. Afterwards, I would bring in the car sear, read the 732 page manual, and attempt to strap our son into the device. We would walk calmly down the hallway with her carrying the final bag and me toting our child. I would pull the car around, we would load, and then….wait…I would have to drive...

I am 27 years old. I have been driving for 11 years. All of a sudden I was quite sure that I wasn’t capable of driving a straight line. It never mattered before how I drove the car, or if someone else hit me. All of a sudden I felt that I would be an ant on the highway trying to avoid all of the giant maniacal drivers. I took a breath, avoided the temptation to curl myself into a ball in the corner, and we went back to sleep.

We woke up at 5:30 am. Go time. 

I sprinted to the cafeteria, spooned out four pounds of eggs and ran back to the room. I immediately began cramming our belongings into suitcases. Things were proceeding as planned.  I could do this.  I could pack a car,  Heck, I could probably drive the damn thing.  I will most likely be able to keep this ridiculous small human alive for the next 18 years.  I was basking in the glow of optimism that can only be born from life-changing events, lack of sleep, and way too much coffee.  

It was at that moment that I saw them. Flowers…balloons...and ridiculous amounts of them.  I felt myself slowly detaching and floating from my body. 

You can’t pack flowers! You can’t cram a balloon in your suitcase...I tried. 

My first thought was to leave them behind, but then I realized they now had an emotional significance. These were HIS flowers, HIS balloons. Obviously, I MUST get them home.

After considering the possibility of tying the balloons around my neck, balancing a suitcase on each shoulder, and carrying the flowers in my teeth, I decided this was no time to be rash. I picked up the six vases and balloons all at once.  Obviously I needed to get them all packed in one trip or everything would be lost.

I made it to the elevator without breaking a sweat. What threw me off was the elderly couple in a wheelchair who entered two floors below. They pushed two buttons that they thought were for the ground floor, which caused the door to open for absolutely no reason on our trip down. 

I felt a bead up sweat run down my side. One of the balloons came loose from my grip and floated to the ceiling. It was the traditional “It’s a Boy!” balloon. This balloon must not pop. I grabbed it with my elbow and held it with my tonsils. I gripped the vases even tighter.

  Finally the elevator opened on the ground floor. I maneuvered my way around the couple and walked briskly for our SUV. It was a beautiful day. I had forgotten what real air felt like in my lungs. Our SUV came into sight, and for one brief moment I thought it was all going to be okay. The first trip was within my grasp. 

        I don’t remember exactly how it happened - where it all went wrong - but as I went to reach for my keys the “It’s a Boy!” balloon came loose. 

        I lurched for it in a panic, dropping all of the flowers and spilling water all over my pants. I couldn’t lose this balloon. This balloon represented my son, my new life, my ability to take care of a family that I didn’t want to disappoint. I must retrieve it.

        To my delight, the balloon became entangled in a small tree only ten feet away.

I ran towards the tree. I loved that tree. Just as I reached the beautiful heavenly tree, a breeze came from behind me and shook the balloon free. I lunged and felt the tip of the string barely brush my fingertips. 

I stood in silence watching the balloon float over the parking lot and into the city.  My heart ached and my eyes started to well with tears. 

         My first lesson…letting go.