Cheeky's Hideaway

You've Come A Long Way, Baby! Happy Birthday, Cheeky!

How has it been five years?  Seriously?  OK, sure, sometimes it feels like you've been around FOREVER (usually on days when you haven't had enough sleep and you're treating your parents like a pinata) but it still seems like just yesterday when you came into our lives and turned our worlds upside down.  But what a joyous, splendid, heart-expanding ride it has been.  Happy Birthday, kiddo!  We love you!

As a reminder....

Day One

 

Year One

 

Year Two

 

Year Three

 

Year Four

Year Five

 

Who Wants Ice Cream????

The way some kids talk can be pretty cute.  The slight lisp they have as they're getting to learn pronunciation can lead to some hysterical and downright adorable figures of speech.  And with a child who can only exhale in complete sentences that means hours of entertainment.

Unless she's almost five.  That's when you start to wonder if your daughter has a speeth imfediment.

Setting aside the irony of taking a non-stop talker to a speech therapist, we snuck Cheeky out of school a few weeks back to get a professional opinion.  Mere moments after we arrived, they peaked down her throat and nearly recoiled in shock.  "We'd love to help, but kids with tonsils the size of coconuts are hard to retrain."

Whaaaa?

Sure enough, one glance down Cheeky's throat (a challenge without proper hazmat protection) revealed the Pillars of Hercules in the back of her throat.  It was a miracle air molecules could travel between them without lining up in single file.  Suddenly the breathing that sounded like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet and the night of tossing and turning made much more sense.  It was one of those head-smacking moments when you question your parenting skills.  After all, it's only oxygen to your child's brain...no biggy.

It wasn't a tough call to make.  Those fists in the back of her throat had to go. 

But how to tell her....

This is the true art of parenting.  The tactical use of misdirection. Creative emphasis.  Deception.  Illusion.  

In other words, how do we turn a tonsillectomy into an adventure.  Woo hoo!  Surgery!

I'm sure every parent is hyper-conscious of flat-out lying to out kids.  We want an honest relationship with them, and it's important to be as straight and clear as possible with them so they learn, grow, and trust you.  On the other hand, that doesn't mean that every fact in a given scenario needs be explored.  My solution to this, as always, is to speak in parentheses.  For example:

"The doctor is going to make your throat feel much better (after ripping glands from inside your nose.)"

"You'll blow into a mask like an astronaut (full of a dissociative hallucinogen also used as an oxidizer in rocketry and motor racing) until a balloon blows up."

"Afterwards we can play games (if you're not in too much excruciating pain) and eat ice cream (which will be laced with medicine you're too stubborn to take yourself)"

This works wonders in the days leading up to it.  As we were wincing our way out of bed at 6 AM for unnecessarily early appointment, Cheeky bounced right up and was ready to go.  She flirted with doctors, cheerily chirped about the procedure (what she knew about it, at least) and rode down the hallway to the surgery room in a plastic red car.  

I felt that pang deep down in my gut.  The one that resonates with equal parts pride in the bravery of your child, and guilt over the innocence that was about to be ripped away.  

Oodgie and I were second-guessing our strategy in the waiting room.  Did we give her enough credit?  Did we tell her enough?  Was our strategy cruel?  Would this be the start of years of therapy?  Or would she wake up from her anesthesia, blood dripping from her mouth like she'd just slaughtered a zebra, and resume the incessant chatter that has become the soundtrack of our lives without skipping a beat? 

We're only a few hours into it, but it's still difficult to say.  Cheeky was surely NOT happy when she came to, her throat apparently throbbing like it was caught in a bear trap.  There were heartbreaking moments when her composure would break into intense sadness and (I presumed) mystification at why she was suffering.  But just as often she'd perk up with some semblance of the old Cheeky, usually raspily chuckling at one of her farts (which, I might add, seem to have electromagnetic properties...more on that later) or holding our hands as we rewatched Sleeping Beauty for the gazillionth time.  

It's hard to walk your child into misery, even if you know it's for the best.  And you have to hope that as the shock and pain fades their trust and faith in your will be restored, provided that your decisions are for the best.

And most important of all--and I cannot over-emphasize this enough--you MUST use such opportunities to justify copious amounts of ice cream in the house.  Because if there's anything that doesn't ease suffering--both hers and mine--it's that.  Now pass me the spoon again...it's melting.

Super Bowlpocalypse

There aren't many holidays I actually care about.

July 4th is just picnics and cheap fireworks.  St. Patricks Day and New Years ceased being remotely enjoyable after 25.  Thanksgiving is a cavalcade of guilt and horrible travel experiences. Most of the rest of the calendar holidays are there to give kindergarten teachers lesson plans.  And don't even get me started on that manufactured trap of unfair expectations and depression in mid-February.

That leaves Christmas, my birthday, and the Super Bowl.  And not in that order.

Every year we throw a party for the big game, and up until this year that generally meant one Patriot fan and one Giant fan hanging out in our living room eating Bacon Explosion until Oodgie was drunk enough to play Rock Band with us.

But this year, when the word went out on the streets of Austin that we were having a Super Bowl party the response was enormous.  Pretty much everybody we'd ever met, from our next door neighbor to the homeless guy using taekwondo on apparitions outside Alamo Drafthouse, had promised to come.  And with space to actually host that many people for the first time in our lives, we were pumped for a Mardi Gras-sized shindig. 

Alas, parenthood rarely allows for such straightforward planning.  Particularly when viruses are involved.

On Friday, when Oodgie picked Cheeky up at "school," our little Sea Gal had the demeanor of a George Romero extra.  By Saturday night she was hallucinating, punctuating slurred references to closet monsters and Mesoamerican architecture (spoken in the original Toltec) with blood-curdling screams that had us debating emergency room visits.  Her lethargy on Sunday morning--with her little arms hanging loosely at her sides as she watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse with glassy eyes--prompted a serious debate of canceling the party.

The thought of a game day scratch went against every fiber of my NFL-loving being, but to spring a plague-victim on a crowd of unsuspecting guests seemed irresponsible.  So we sent a note out to everyone letting them know the story.  Beer was chilling, and the Saints and Colts were going to play anyway, so if your leukocytes were sufficiently resilient you were welcome to join us.  But germaphobes or the infirm were welcome to bail without consequences.

I'll bet you can guess the next sequence of events.

Two friends who just recovered from the flu ducked out.  Three sets of parents, all with similarly afflicted kids, dropped out as well.  Symptoms were reported by an invited co-worker, while another could barely cough out an e-mail apologizing for his own recusal.  Then lame excuses like "we don't want to be a burden" and "we've got a lot of work to do on Monday" started to take hold.  Our party for thirty had rapidly become a party of eight.

It was shocking how quickly the domino's fell.  Apparently God had sneezed on Texas and left only a handful of survivors standing.  I debated whether it was time to pack up the family and head to the Boulder Free Zone.

But in a weird way it was almost a relief.  A more intimate affair isn't a bad thing, especially if fewer people are blocking the TV.  I was feeling guilty about my torn allegiances between socializing with friends and my sick child (as demonstrated by a tense showdown over whether she'd take her medicine which roughly corresponded to Pierre Garcon's dropped pass in the second quarter) and the collective bail-out made me feel a little less selfish.  And most importantly...more beer for me.

Maybe next year we'll be safe and send bottles of Tamiflu with our invites.  I just wish it came in dinosaur chicken nugget shape so Cheeky would take it, too.

Looks Like Someone Was in a Hurry

My brother sent me this today.  He was at Microsoft this morning and spotted this.  I wonder if they'll be blaming a faulty accelerator.  Or Windows Vista.

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

Usually this time of year I start compiling my annual awards list, coveted by so many as acknowledgement that the 1,179,091st most popular blog on the internet has admired or condemned your work.  In years past I've handed awards to Eva Longoria, Dane Cook, and Somali pirates (you can see the connection) but this year I'm going to follow the lead of Copenhagen Climate Conference and put it off until next year and get a little thoughtful.

Because...man, what a year.

It started out innocently enough, with a great Super Bowl and a cardiac arrest.  Things were going swimmingly, with Cheeky trudging through the snow to her celebrity child-filled school while I hoisted my computer bag over my shoulder every morning and took the 4 train to Union Square.  As long as we ignored the flight delays from Cleveland to La Guardia and the balance of our checkbook things were pretty OK.

Today I drove IN MY CAR to work IN TEXAS while Cheeky plays at her DAY CARE and Oodgie takes the ornaments off the fire hazard in the living OF OUR HOUSE.

My mind is numb from all the change.  Friendships built with trips to playgrounds or shared elevator rides are now reduced to occasional text messages and Facebook updates.  Cheekys occasional overnighters at ECG's house have been replaced by multi-day extravaganzas with airport pickups, shared bathrooms, and vain searches for authentic Thai food.  I recall long walks past brownstones and bodegas, but now any store worth visiting involves traffic lights, freeway exits, and GPS.  I recognize myself in the mirror every morning, but I hardly recognize my life at all.

Not that it's been bad.  You could hear a deafening tearing sound as we left New York, but in the months since the promises of a better life are starting to be tangible.  Despite inadequate staffing, chaotic clients, and periodically obnoxious hours I feel like I've FINALLY got a job I can both love and thrive in.  Cheeky spontaneously yells "I love Austin" when we're walking around the lake or playing in the yard.  It was 68 degrees the day after Christmas.  Oodgie, long known for her resistance to happiness in most forms, has gone weeks without uncontrollable flatulence sobbing.  There are even things we flat out love about the place.

It's been a crazy journey, but a new year is dawning which will be more about looking forward than looking back.  I look at 2010 as the beginning of "best years of our lives," and I mean that in the most cliched way imaginable.  But dammit, we deserve it, right?

So quickly, as the torch of 2009 starts to sputter and cough in the fading light, I want to pass out a small handful of awards.

The Ryan Bingham Award for Humanity in the Face of a Shitty Situation:  To my old friends at iCrossing, who were kind and supportive after the company kicked me to the curb.  Ironically, it was the work of a handful of them that made this new life possible.  You know who you are.

The Winston Wolfe Award for Efficiency with Style:  Tom Thornton.  A billion houses.  3 days.  A signed contract within hours of negotiations.  Best.  Realtor.  Ever.

The Lindy Chamberlain Award for Strength through Tragedy:  ECG, who spends more time in Austin than the governor.  Thanks for not suing for custody of Cheeky.

The Little Miss Fun Award for Perpetual Happiness (Except When Resisting Potty Training):  Cheeky.  Seriously, drop that kid in East Timor or Tora Bora and she'd probably have a great time.

The Tami Taylor Award for Grace Under Pressure:  Oodgie (duh).  It hasn't ALWAYS been graceful, but she's been a trooper during what has been a heart-wrenching experience, and has been the wing nut that holds our lives together.  I love you, Oodgie.

I'd give myself an award but that's pretty self-serving, especially knowing exactly how influencial the 1,179,091st most popular blogger is. 

And if you're reading this you deserve an award for coming back after two months of staring at my kids Halloween pictures.  Don't you have some reruns to watch?

Happy New Year, everyone!  May 2010 bring you joy, prosperity, and consequence free nachos and beer.

The Obligatory Halloween Pictures: 2009 Edition

Behold, Fairy Princess Princess Butterfly Cinderella Butterfly Princess!

 

 

THIS is Why those Damn Princesses Scare the Bejesus Out of Me

I've mentioned my deep distrust of Disney--and its sub-context of feminine enslavement--before, but for those of you deaf to my pleas this should help bring some clarity to my concerns.

Just one more reason to introduce Cheeky to Star Wars.  At least THAT princess killed a Hutt.

Like a Kelsey Grammar Show, And Unfortunately Just as Funny

Apparently you forget a few things when you live in a city apartment for a decade.

Like what to do with all that shit in your yard that can't be mowed.

Or how far away things are when you leave them upstairs.

Or the importance of getting your garbage out on time.

Or just how many bugs there are in the world.

Everyone else on the planet has already figured this out.  You've probably all got rakes and screen doors and a baseline knowledge of how to adjust your water temperature.  We, on the other hand, curse that vile temptress Fate that would give us a house that requires cleaning and maintenance...and thought.

It's sort of pathetic, really.  A couple of flies buzz around our heads and we start swinging wildly in the air, like inflatable advertisments. We cook without pot lids because we can't remember which drawer we put them in.  We shrug at burned out ceiling lights. "Too high...guess it can't be fixed."

The vastness of the challenge should not be underestimated.  Walking into Home Depot I feel like a Cold War refugee who's just defected.  The embarrassment of riches on every aisle is invigorating, but she sheer magnitude is terrifying.  The visceral thrill of owning and wielding a chainsaw or cordless drill is more than offset by the drudgery of selecting window shades or debating screw sizes. 

It's not always easy to find the humor in this.  The way Ikea designs hanging lights, for example, is definitely not funny.  But if I step back and imagine myself changing a shower head, soaking wet and low on plumbers tape, I have to chuckle. I'm sure I look like what I feel like--an idiot.

I'm learning.  Some old tricks are coming back.  I know to turn off the electricity before changing a plug.  Our water now approaches a temperature slightly above liquid nitrogen.  And I know where the spatulas are now. 

But I tend to fall back on the advice a friend gave me not long ago.  "When it comes to having a house there's only three words you need to know."

"Call the guy."

The guy should be about done cutting our shrubs by now.  Thanks for the advice, Murph.

* Kelsey, I loved you on Cheers, and Frasier was great until every episode became "a very special episode."  But dude, when your new show is pre-empted by "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" it might be time to give Cliff and Norm a call and find out when the reunion special is.

It's Cure JM Day...what are YOU gonna do about it?

My boy, Kevin of Always Home and Uncool, has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.  These are his thoughts, and I encourage you to offer your support to combat this disease.

 

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, one 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 Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

 

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

Stuffed!

Holy crap, do we have a lot of stuff.

I kept thinking this as the second day of our pack 'n' move dawned last week.  The first day was an amazing feat of disassembly.  Before I'd finished shaking hands with the movers our walls were stripped bare, and I had to keep moving around the apartment to keep from getting stuffed in a wardrobe box myself.  At the end of the day I figured we were almost done and I could spend the afternoon laying under the trees at Shake Shack.

But on Day Two I went downstairs to our storage room where the unwanted detritus of years of cohabitation had been stacked and shoved.  The piles had been swollen with furniture and appliances we'd move to stage the apartment, and underneath lay the barrow of old tax returns, useless electronics and miscellaneous curiosities we'd ignored for what seemed like centuries.  I'd dreaded this moment, hoping that the task of organizing this would fall to some amateur archaeologist or distant unborn heir.

Nope. That's our shit. And it's coming with us.

This scares the living hell out of me.  We've spent the last two weeks arguing about what color to paint our bedroom (Benjamin Moore is naming a paint color after Oodgie as thanks for her patronage) and the prospect of unpacking all this unsorted debris in our sparkly new home together has about as much appeal as being a Kentucky census worker.  Oodgie is much better than me at giving things up than I, but this task may be beyond even her considerable skills. 

And just because we suddenly have more space doesn't mean we suddenly want to fill it.  Despite what our recent credit card statements might say.

But here we are.  We're committed.  On Friday an 18-wheeler will fight its way through ACL traffic to park in front of our new house, bearing our dead plants and enough cardboard to construct a scale replica of downtown Denver.  I can hear the conversation now:

"Armoires upstairs, couches downstairs, under-promoted business inventory in the attic.  If it sparkles or has frilly things on it it goes in the room that looks like this. Trust me...you can't miss it."

"And the comic books?  Oh, let me take those from you before Oodgie sees them..."  Whew.