Pet Cobra

The Matter

Sound carries through the big house; he heard my muttered string of profanities from downstairs. Open office window, open back door. I'm usually smarter than that.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

Where to start? The computer, like that red wheelbarrow upon which so much depends, was on the fritz, not picking up the Internet signal (see: red wheelbarrow). There were posts that needed to be written. My latest contact gig ended with no notice. There were checks that had not yet arrived. There were bills that were overdue. October was drawing to a close, the holidays and the end of another year and the rest of my goddamn life were rolling in like a black tsunami.

I looked at him for a second. That was all it took, all it usually ever takes.

"Nothing's wrong. Go grab your rugby ball. We'll play catch."

Movember, Day Four: In Which I Find An Ally In My Neverending Struggle Against My Most Hated Enemy

My lack of swarth is apparent. Yet, more progress:

The battered trucker hat will be a nice touch, once the thing finally starts to bulk up. (As a reminder, support the DadCentric Movember Cause here. Don't let this be all for naught. Even though "this" is admittedly fairly sparse.)

All this talk of excess body hair makes me cringe, for it reminds me of my seething, terrified, fully rational hatred of primates in general and monkeys in particular. 

Some people don't like spiders. Some have an aversion to rats. Many people don't like snakes. I hate monkeys. Hate and fear them. They are shifty hairy little bastards who'd just as soon bite off your scrotum as look at you, and even if they only looked at you they'd eventually throw their feces at you and jerk off and shriek and pick nits out of each other's fur and eat them and O fuck you monkeys fuck you straight to Hell.

And don't get me started on gibbons.

The problem with having The Monkey as mortal enemy and being a parent is that kids loooooove monkeys. When we took Lucas to the zoo, he and Beth insisted on seeing them. I gagged back a scream as the kid watched a particularly jocular orangutan stick his leathery red ass against the ape-cell glass. Lucas knew a little Baby Sign Language; he tapped his fingers together in delight and said "Mo' mo' monkey, daddy!" when the hideous creature shuffled off to do whatever orangutans do. (This one jumped on to a tire swing and began to hoot loudly, which I can only assume was a vital component of  the ape community's plan to rise up and enslave their human masters.) I've tried to convince Lucas that monkeys are an abomination ("Dad, what's an abomination?") to no avail. They have him under their malignant simian spell.

I was giving Zoe a bath tonight; it was Shampoo Time, and of course the bottle of Suave Kiddie Shampoo has a picture of a grinning monkey on it. Bet you're thinking of eating your young, you prehensile-toed..."I don't wike monkeys."

"Excuse me?"

She wore a grim expression. "I don't wike monkeys, Daddy."

"You don't like monkeys."

"No. I wike horsies!"

Intriguing. "Do you like...cats?"

"I wike cats."

"Do you like doggies?"

"I WUV doggies!"

"And you like horsies."

"Uh huh. I don't wike bears. They scare me."

We did watch a lot of Colbert while she was in the womb. "You don't like bears. And you don't like monkeys."

"No. I don't. Wike. Monkeys."

"Excellent. We've much to discuss, you and I."

The White Stripe

Kids, your high school guidance counselor was right: you need to have goals.

Four weeks in to my return to martial arts training, and I was floundering. It had a lot to do with the fact that when you're forty, your instructors are half your age, and most of your classmates are half your size, you feel your age. Acutely. On my best days, I feel competent. Bob, one of my classmates, is my bitch - I can snap his head back with my sidekick, or crush his ribs with a front snap kick. (Of course, Bob never blocks me, and never moves out of the way, as he's a rubber sparring dummy.) On my bad days, I feel slow and lost, tripping over my own feet and tangling myself in my arms, my bones filled with cement instead of marrow.

Last night's class: seemingly endless repetitions of Basic Form # 3, a cycle of middle blocks, low blocks, and side punches. Some tweaks to my stance, but otherwise, I had it do. "Looking like a Black Belt!", one of the instructor kids told me. "Thank you, SIR!", I replied, without a hint of irony. Then on to my 45 Degree work: stepping out from your attacker at a forty-five degree angle, block his punch, knife-hand jab to his ribcage. Repeat from the opposite side - and that's where I got flummoxed. I'm sure a neurologist could explain why I can step RIGHT/block LEFT seamlessly - stylishly, even, like Neo - but when I'm required to step LEFT/block RIGHT, I suddenly become early 1960's Jerry Lewis. Work through it, I thought. Again, repetitions - step left, block right, step right, block left. Again. Again. Again. Show that Left Brain who's boss. 

Martial arts classes with a bunch of kids: at once deadly serious ("You don't ever want to start a fight - that's what bullies do, and being a bully is against everything a Martial Artist stands for - but if a bully starts one with you, you want to be the one who finishes it.") and sublimely goofy. The class concluded in the goofy vein: we took turns pairing off against each other in a silly melee'. Foam pool noodle in hand, we stood in opposite corners, were told to close our eyes and keep 'em shut, and spun in a circle fives time fast by the instructors. The goal: in pitching, wheeling blackness, find your opponent and bop him on the head with the piece of foam. First one to do this wins the match. Everyone took turns staggering around like drunks at sea, foam tubes flailing wildly, to the cheers and laughs of their classmates. (I lost.) 

Goals. We end each class with a formal salute: line up, bow to the senior instructor, bow to the senior student. This time, our senior instructor had something for us. "You guys did GREAT today. Everyone worked hard. As you work towards your next belt, you get something when you show us that you've mastered certain techniques. Something that shows you've reached a goal. Anyone know what that is?" A bunch of small hands and one big one shot up. A small voice - Lucas' - answered. "Belt stripes, ma'am!" The instructor approached each of us and wrapped a piece of white electrical tape around one end of our belts. "Three more of these, and you guys will be ready to test for your next belt. Good job! Keep it up!" 

Lucas and I drove home; I stripped off my sweat-soaked uniform (another painful difference between me and those kids - to me, Tang Soo Do is a friggin' workout) and wandered into the kitchen in search of Gatorade. "Mom!", Lucas yelled. "I got a white stripe! So did Dad!" "That's great, honey! I'm really proud of you! Both of you!" A month in, and some tangible progress. I gulped down the Gatorade, and patted myself on my stiffening back.

Our CBS News Interview, About Which I Will Now Shut Up

In case you missed it. Our segment is brief, but the spotlight's on the kid, where it should be - he's really what this is all about. Beth and I have received many, many emails and tweets containing many, many good thoughts, and for that we cannot thank you enough. 

Watch CBS News Videos Online

NOH8

Cool pic, eh? Here's the backstory, from the people who took it.

"On November 4, 2008 Proposition 8 passed in California, amending the state Constitution to ban same-sex marriage. The defeat provoked a groundswell of initiative within the GLBT community at a grassroots level, with many new political and protest organizations being formed in response. The NOH8 Campaign is a photographic silent protest created by celebrity photographer Adam Bouska (http://www.bouska.net) and partner Jeff Parshley in direct response to the passage of Proposition 8. Photos feature subjects with duct tape over their mouths, symbolizing their voices being silenced by Prop 8 and similar legislation around the world, with "NOH8" painted on one cheek in protest.

Nearly one year since its inception, the NOH8 Campaign has grown to over 2,000 faces and continues to grow at an exponential rate. The campaign began with portraits of everyday Californians from all walks of life and soon rose to include politicians, military personnel, newlyweds, law enforcement, artists, celebrities, and many more. 

The NOH8 Campaign has received overwhelming support from around the world, appearing on various local and national news programs and publications. The images are currently being used on various social networking sites to spread the message of equality, predominantly Facebook and Twitter. Eventually the images are expected to be compiled for a large-scale media campaign.

Funds raised by the NOH8 Campaign will be used to continue promoting and raising awareness for Marriage Equality and anti-discrimination on a global level through an educational and interactive media campaign. For more information (and more great photos), go here.

You'll Shoot Yer Eye Out, Kid.

 

Cure JM!

                     

I'm giving up space today for a special guest blogger, my fellow DadCentrician Kevin. His story brings up memories that I'd just as soon forget, or have erased, Eternal Sunshine-style. We share the pain of watching our kids suffer through diseases that few know about. Read on, and do what you can to help cure JM. 

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, part of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out. That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

*

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit the Cure JM Foundation. 

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to my personal FirstGiving page or the Cure JM donations page.

The Job

I read somewhere that you're not supposed to let them brush their own teeth until they're at least seven. So as I do every morning, I brush his. He's got a Wall-E battery-powered toothbrush; the irony of it, of some waste-disposal robot finding this very toothbrush in a pile of garbage hundreds of years hence, is not lost on me. 

"Are you going to work today, Dad?"

"Nope, I'm working from home. Actually, I'll be working from home from now on. I'm done with my other job."

"Oh. Why? You didn't like it?"

"Not really. Plus they ran out of money to pay me. That happens sometimes."

"So your new job is being a writer?"

"Yep. I get to write about all sorts of stuff. You, Zoe, books I read, movies I see, songs I hear. Surfing. Any place that we go visit, I'm going to write about. I might even write a book or two."

"Oh! Being a writer is a really cool job."

"Second best in the world, dude."

"Oh - what's the best?"

"Go grab your hoodie, dude. We gotta get you to school. Maybe we'll listen to the Boston CD on the way."

January 20, Dawn

The day begins like any other, like every other. I beat the alarm: eyes snap open at 6:20, and there's a tinge of sunlight. Shuffle out into the house proper; the front of the place gets cold, so I turn up the heater a few notches. It wheezes and fires. Coffee. Six scoops, one per cup...eh, maybe a little more. There were martinis last night. I click on the TV, flip it over to the NBC affiliate. Did I run the dishwasher last night...yes, skillet, stovetop, medium high, carton of Egg Beaters, slice of cheese, English muffin. The coffeemaker gurgles and hisses. Hurry up, I think. Tendrils of sleep still cling to me. The baby monitor is lighting up; Zoe's awake. Quick diaper change - I do this with the speed and precision of a NASCAR pit crewman. Into the highchair with a bottle of milk. She grins. "BA!", she exclaims. I pour a cup of coffee. Beth and Lucas and Mick are still asleep. I sit down next to Zoe, and we both watch the TV for a few minutes, the clear cold blue sky, the flags, the monuments,  the sea of faces, thousands, millions. 

Anduril

First, I need you to read this, and if you have, humor me and re-read it. That was four years ago.

We're not born to be what we are. We're forged. We are hot malleable steel and our defining moments are the blacksmith's hammer-strikes. We shatter and we are poured back into a crucible and made anew. We are reforged. What was broken within us as we looked down at him lying on that hospital bed was remade. The Japanese swordmasters had a mythical technique of folding steel, hundreds of times over upon itself, so that the razor-sharp katanas that the samurai carried into battle were strong enough to slice through stone, indestructible. We don't think that we have that strength but we do; good steel is supposed to bend, but not break, and it's a surprising truth that we're of the same caliber. Distance and time have not made bearing those memories any easier, but we are katanas, we are swords of legend, and we are not easily destroyed.

The baby who was so stricken has grown. Saturday he suits up in his do-bak to test for his yellow belt. He can kick, punch, chop, and block. He does so with determination, but also with a particular glee. He too was forged on that hospital bed, though it's taken us a while to recognize. His joy is that shared by most four year old boys - the joy of being a child in a big wondrous world. But it's also the joy of one who's known battle, who has faced down a particularly virulent enemy, and who has emerged triumphant.

Of course, we were very fortunate; the disease has claimed far too many victims. For more information about Kawasaki Disease, visit the Kawasaki Foundation website, at www.kdfoundation.org.