A day with the G-man

Yesterday was the first time I spent the day with Griffin, just the two of us. He wasn't very ill, but he was running a temp, and our boys usually experience what can be politely described as gastrointestinal distress in accompaniment with fevers. Fortunately, while smaller, Griffin appears to have inherited a heartiness his brother lacks, when the rewards of the genetic lottery were dispensed. Other than a mild fever, his appetite and attitudes were otherwise normal; but the fever is what our daycare would be concerned with, so home he stayed.

Normally Kate would spend the day with him, her job being part-time and of lesser salary, and mine being reputedly "important to national security." However, Kate has what I consider to be an abnormal dedication to work. Unlike me, she has not been ground into a cynical paste by the pestle and mortar that is government contracting. For her there is still hope of achievement; for me, daily gnashing of teeth. So I was all too agreeable at spending a day away from work, bonding with my youngest offspring.

I approached the day with more apprehension than necessary; times past spent with only Malcolm for company called for a strong cup of coffee by evening, the kind that substitutes whiskey for sugar and cream.

However, Griffin behaved very well for me, perhaps to Kate's chagrin. Breakfast went well and I started making tentative outdoor plans. Of course, it started snowing heavily by noon, nixing any ideas I'd concocted; I was certain Griffin would be a bundle of potential energy waiting to go kinetic as soon as I took a relaxed position on the sofa. Instead he played on his own for awhile, then began to bring me things he was playing with - one for him, one for me - with a look of concern on his face that perhaps I was not having fun and this was unacceptable. Next came the books, something big brother is interested in that he hasn't fully grasped. The day progressed thusly: so long as I kept him fed, and let him entertain me, all was right with the world.

The reason I'm writing all this: have hope, ye of trying child. As difficult as Malcolm can be, we still had another, knowing he could have been higher maintenance than the first. Instead we were blessed with a happy little boy that is eager to please his parents and big brother, so long as there is a constant conveyor of love (and food) dispensed to him. And Malcolm, our resident Drama King, throws his biggest fits when he has to be at school - away from the people he loves the most. I too often focus on what is going wrong with our boys - what they are getting to that they shouldn't, what they aren't getting into that they should - and how I am going to remedy the problem, that I forget about all that is right.

Still, not so right that we want more kids. We agreed that we are done a while ago. But now if I am forced to eat those words, at least I know they won't taste so terrible.

Once more unto the breech

So wow, offline for awhile, huh? As I suspected, my intentions for keeping up with this blog fell flat, though I feel slightly better in this attempt because I managed to continue it for longer than I expected. I also managed to continue writing offline, so in the sense of keeping my writing skills honed, it's a major triumph. Lessons learned all-around; thank God no one actually reads this thing.

I think the major problem was trying to keep up with it daily; I just don't have enough I feel worth sharing. Unlike most people, who can write "Tales by the Watercooler", I'm not able to talk about my work except in broad generalizations. It's part and parcel of working at a secure location with classified material; anything I write about can give away minute details, and minutia may be assembled to create larger pictures. The best way to avoid becoming a security risk - the proverbial, ship sinking "loose lips"- is to not discuss anything whatsoever. A shame considering how many rage-filled, curse-laden rants I could invoke on a daily, and occasional hourly basis.

Another issue is a simple underestimation of time. I resumed blogging during a slow period at work, on a day of heavy inspiration from like-minded individuals. My motivational rocket can only be powered so far on that initial launch energy - around 6 months as it turns out - before it is consumed in the icy, grasping tendrils of "other shit to do." These tasks aren't nefarious or unsavory to me; they are simply things that are more important to me. Few people know how seriously I take being a father, and how vital it is to me to be active in that role, stinky diapers and all. Fewer still know how much I do to keep our house from being what my parents used to describe as a pig sty (yeah, like they ever got within 10 yards of an actual porcine refuge.)

I don't mean to engage in a symphony of horn tooting, but my evenings don't consist of roosting on the sofa with a remote while Kate cooks dinner and "rears the youngins." If dinner is being cooked, I'm the one doing it. Dishes, garbage, and the ubiquitous "picking up around the house" are all part of my nightly, one-man-dance. Laundry is another task quickly becoming part of my evening routine. Seasonal chores such as mowing or snow shoveling are likewise unaccompanied, and I don't get the beer or hot chocolate for a reward unless I make it myself. As for the boys - diapers, baths, feeding, entertaining and transport are shared duties (or Divide and Conquer anyway.)

It isn't a complaint, merely matter of fact. I don't necessarily enjoy doing so much, but I rather like the outcomes, even if those results don't reveal themselves for many moons. It's a sense of satisfaction born of years as bachelor-complete-with-pad. Plus it's easy, mindless work that yields consistent results.

Comparatively, writing is very cerebral and your results may vary. There is greater personal investment, particularly if you are publishing your work to a (potentially) public audience. And it is quite humbling - nothing reminds you of your flaws quite like re-reading some verbal spew you rendered and wondering what the hell you were thinking.

Anyway, that wall of text is my way of saying I'm returning from self-imposed exile and blogging again. Rather than set myself to schedule, I'll simply write as time and mood allow. Unlike my previous attempt, I'll not mention this on Facebook; that means some things will probably repeat there on occasion.

I'm hoping this time around I'll be able to more efficiently harvest the joy of writing. Or at least not fall back into the Sarlaac Pit of monotony.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Project 2996 - Michael R. Canty

Eight years ago, I was 26, working on contract for Mercy Hospital in Anderson Township, Ohio. A day like any other, unremarkable, a Tuesday of which I should have no recollection.

But I do.

Because on that day I watched two passenger jets fly directly into the World Trade Center in New York City. On that day nearly 3000 lives were lost; everything they were and would be, ended in an act of violence unparalleled in peace time. On that day the whole world changed.

The effects of it are still felt today, not a ripple in a pond, but an asteroid striking a mountain, global and irrefutable. It changed everything about the way the free world behaved, not just about terrorism, but about their own country, the people around them, perhaps even about themselves. But no one felt the impact more than the families and friends who lost loved ones to that murderous act of terrorism.

This year, I remember Michael R. Canty, a 30-year young man from Schenectady, New York who worked for Carr Futures as a trader. Michael was a guy that got along with everyone, a true people person who enjoyed sharing a beer with like minded individuals. He enjoyed making new friends, and his friends knew him as the go-to guy, the one you could talk to about anything.

Born the seventh of nine children, Michael was also a family man, a favorite uncle to his 16 nieces and nephews. He kept in contact with his parents and all 8 siblings on regular basis, and often visited the family home in the Berkshires.


He had dreams of starting a family of his own, too; being a husband and father was a great aspiration of his, and he was going to begin reaching it by proposing to his girlfriend, Erin Clifford. He already had a ring on deposit, and a plan for the proposal: he would take her out on a boat near the Canty family home, pull closer to the shore, and have his 16 nieces and nephews hold up a huge sign stating "Will you marry me?"

Eight years ago, those dreams would come to an end, when a jet airliner hijacked by Islamic extremist terrorists crashed into Tower One. Michael worked on the 92nd floor, above the impact zone, cutting off chances of escape.

Yes, I know I ended his story tragically abrupt - because that's how his life ended. But I'm not writing this to remember his death; I'm writing it to remember his life.

I only know Michael R. Canty from the memorials, tributes and articles I read as part of my research on him for Project 2996, the growing memorial tribute to victims of the September 11th, 2001 terrorist attacks. But I wish I knew him in person - he was a guy that I wanted to be like, that I still aspire to be like everyday, a genuine role model and example to others.

When I started research for my tribute in the Project, I thought how kind it was to set aside a day to remember a person, a total stranger, whose life was cut short so needlessly. I've come to realize that the memorial is only one aspect of the Project; another, just as important, is to remind you how precious life is, how fortunate we are to be able to share it - the joys and woes - with other people, and that how we live our life affects those around us after we have departed.

So thank you, Michael, for the lives you touched when you were here, and for the legacy that continues to affect your friends since you've been gone. You've made another friend this week, and another person to carry on your example.

Monday Musings

This weekend, aside from one minor outing, we went nowhere particularly interesting. And it was AWESOME. I don't feel bad about it in the slightest because it was Jungle Hot outside; any time of day you went out was like walking into someone's gigantic sweaty armpit.

• Friday was the day my poor Audi's windshield was to be replaced by Safelite. The delay wasn't their fault - if anything it was mine, because I insisted on the Audi OEM glass instead of a 3rd party product. The car had, at the time of the windshield damage, less than 3000 miles on it, so Progressive covered it 100% whether or not I got the original glass. Anyway, Safelite did an amazing job and the result looks factory new.
• Speaking of insurance companies... well, I have another post in the works about that. Suffice it to say that I have had a lot of ire for them in the past and that has only grown with recent experiences. Whatever your stance on NHS for the US, if you can tell me you're fine with the current practices that insurance companies employ, I can tell you that you're full of shit. More later.
• Friday night continued the Audi theme with me receiving the cable necessary for modifying some of the computer codes in my car. I wanted to do this mainly because my Daytime Running LEDs turned off when the turn signal is on and also because I am a huge nerd when it comes to motor vehicles.
• Saturday was the laziest day we've had in some time; I don't think any of us were showered before 3:00 in the afternoon. The most work I did before that point was making pancakes for breakfast. Usually when the boys nap, we take advantage of their downtime to get things done; all we got done this time was some napping ourselves. If Brad and Michelle had not called us about going out to the Boulevard Bash with them - a festival 5 minutes from our own house - we'd probably have called the whole day a loss.
• It was great to see Brad and Michelle for the first time since they had Adam, and our first time seeing him as well. It still surprises me how tiny newborns are, even though we had one ourselves just 7 months ago. Where has this year gone?
  
• It took most of our time at the Bash before Malcolm actually enjoyed himself. He wouldn't go on any of the rides, even the bounce house, because I wasn't able to go on with him. But he redeemed himself splendidly later when, after some goldfish and cotton candy (his first taste), he danced with Caroline and some other kids on the lawn near the stage. We let him wear himself out, and he went right to bed once we got home, exhausted and happy.
• I did not go to bed, instead opting to play Gears of War online with Jason until 2 AM. It was just like the old days, except that Jason was in Oklahoma instead of my living room. The Internet: It's Like Magic!®
• Sunday we partially redeemed ourselves for Saturday's slothfulness by actually doing some work around the house. We got some household chores done, the Pack-and-Play put away (as it had become a haven for cats and wayward baby items), and the living room rearranged and organized. We later went to BestBuy and picked up an LCD TV/DVD combo unit for Malcolm, thus reclaiming our own TV from the grip of non-stop Noggin and children's DVDs.
• The purchase of Malcolm's TV wasn't all selfish. My theory was that the smaller screen, positioned properly, would encourage him to watch less and play more, as the big 50" HD can be seen from anywhere in the living room. So far my plan is working, and there's a possible bonus that he will be more interested in the shows we watch on Discovery and Animal Planet.

We're 3 days away from our annual trip to Camp and I've never felt less ready. There's a bit of a grim shadow over this vacation - more on that later too.

Yes, I majored in English, why do you ask?

The conversation last night while getting Malcolm ready for bed:
(Malcolm brings me 4 of his foam letters - P, L, M, and E)
Me: Thanks buddy. Let's see... I don't think I can make any real words with these though.
Kate: MELP?
Me: PELM, obviously.
Kate: PLEM.
Me: That's a word, right?
Kate: No. Of course not.
Me: How about LEMP. That's a word. It is now anyway.
Kate takes the letters. She holds up P and shows it to Malcolm.
Malcolm: P! Itsa P!
Kate: That's right, and I know a word that ends with P that is appropriate for right now.
Malcolm ignores her. I give a blank look.
Kate: It has 5 letters.
On a roll now, I continue with the blank look.
Kate (forcefully): IT BEGINS WITH S!
Me (after a pause): SLEMP?