No Vacation Goes Unpunished

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See a book as it is being written.Coming soon, a memoir about being a stay at home dad by Tincan Caldwell.

Thursday, November 25, 2010 Chapter 2: Before Having a Baby You Should Take a Class, or Alex Wears the Fat SuitThere is nothing like being handed a diploma while wearing a ridiculous hat and silly billowy gown that makes all that class time seem worth it. Im not sure where all of my degrees and diplomas are at this moment, though I do have a small laminated version of my high school diploma in my wallet that was neatly tucked into the corner of the bigger version that I was handed on that memorable day in the year of our Lord, 1996. I regularly show it to police officers when I am pulled over, hoping that they will see that I am a responsible high school graduate and let me off the hook.

I have taken too many classes in my life. Perhaps it was the many years of college (four years squeezed into eight) combined with twelve years of school that causes me to break out in hives when the thought of sitting in another desk or classroom is presented to me.

Dont get me wrong, each step along the educational road has been worth it, and I certainly enjoy having the degrees to look at.(Wherever they may be)

But I can wholehearted recommend taking a birthing class and getting that degree.

As I rushed to the hospital on the night (does it always have to happen in the middle of the night?)I was secure in the knowledge that my birthing class diploma was stowed securely in my overnight bag, and that I would not be one of those poor sap fathers who were doomed to wander the halls, mumbling incoherently to themselves because they were not allowed to the birth of their child on account of not having a birthing class degree.

I was shocked when there was no hospital procedure for checking the degree status of the father before the birth.

Shocked.

But it was worth it none the less, if only for those graphic videos and chance to wear a pregnancy suit. But Im getting ahead of myself.

It funny to walk in a class setting like this and see the variety of folks who are having babies these days. Apparently its all kinds.

I immediately wondered if the other folks in the class took one look at me walking in with my beautiful little wife Julie and say what was she thinking, I mean letting a goofy guy like that marry you is one thing, but to then let him impregnate you?

Sometimes I feel like my lovely wife is the degree I was awarded for all those hours in the classroom of life. (An unlike those other degrees and diplomas I know where she is this moment because and she would greatly object to being put in a box)
Birthing class is a great check on the old ego, because you are immediately put in your place by the slightly militant way that the instructor commands respect.

Okay class, its time for breathing.

This is not a suggestion; you and your partner must breath. One two three four, one two three four

All of the sudden you have come full circle. You could be a professor or mathematician or Supreme Court Justice with thousands of hours of class room time and then all of the sudden your in kindergarten again, counting. One two three four, one two three four

It was enough to make me start looking around for the graham crackers and milk and story time rug.

I think I fazed out for a minute during the breathing session and Julie said Alex, are you paying attention?

Yes dear, ABCD, ABCD

Next comes the big blue ball of comfort.

Now, this is another kind of curse, because you are handed this big, beautiful rubber ball for your wife to sit on and relax, and you are not allowed to even once kick it. This, to a room full of males is torture. Wait a minute, youve got us counting over here like kindergarteners, and then you give us this huge ball and wont let us pay kickball with it?

Torture.

It turns out that this big blue baby ball will be present in every one of our delivery rooms and is the latest thing in birthing circles, and I cant help but think that somewhere someone either lost a bet, or that the French are pulling another trick on us. Jean-Claude, first we got them to buy bottled water and eat goose liver, now we are going to get them to sit on a big blue ball while they give birth! Next we are going to get their adult males to practice counting to four again!

At some point the task master/drill sergeant instructor will pull out the pregnancy suit and ask for a male volunteer to don the suit and run an obstacle course. (Again, somewhere the French are laughing their rear ends off)

I recommend trying on the suit for two reasons. It really does give you empathy for your pregnant wife and how often do you get to pretend to be Michael Moore for an hour?

During the hour that I volunteered to wear the suit the following happened to me:I traversed an obstacle course of objects place precariously in my path, had a sexy comment whispered in my ear by Julie (no dear, Im not in the mood at this moment, my back hurts, my ankles are swollen from jumping over these dumb obstacles and Im sweaty) was laughed at by twenty or so pregnant women and actually hurt my back as I casually bent over to pick up yet another set of papers dropped by my instructor.
We have pictures, and they prove what I already knew. I would make the homeliest pregnant woman you ever saw.

Another surreal moment is when they start handing the medieval implements of torture around, again making you feel like youre in some inquisitional kindergarten class. There is a hook, a suction device and a clamp that looks like it should be used for picking up large frozen fish down at the wharf. These objects will be inserted into your wife and used to pull out your child, and you are expected not to try to punch out the doctor who is using them.

Its also around this time that the instructor casually mentions that there is a slight possibility that the doctors will need to better hear the babys heart beat, and to do this they insert a small electrode in the babys skull to better monitor the childs vital signs. This is followed by the reassuring comment The baby will be fine, it only goes into the first layer of the skull.
I quietly reminded myself to pack a taser in my overnight bag.

And then come the videos.

I recommend not eating during the video session.

I have been to medical school and I have worked in a clinic and I have never seen anything like the videos they show at birthing class.

I would hazard a guess that the shocking nature of the videos are to snap you out of whatever blissful haze all the baby propaganda you have been exposed to has put you in, and to get the screaming out of you before hand so as not to react that way when your beautiful wife needs you to be calm, supportive and stable.

As a famous banner once said, Mission Accomplished.

As I sat there in shock, nursing my sore back and twisted ankle, I realized that the poor souls in the video would soon be Julie and I.

Now, I have been through boot camp. I have been out on the ocean in wild storms. I have climbed dangerous cliffs and jumped off high objects, and I would put having a baby up there with these experiences in terms of intensity.

There is fatigue, there is high emotion, there is pain (not for me, but my Julie describes the whole process as being hit by a truck) and there is excitement. And Im glad that I was adequately trained and prepared for this event. As much as I may joke about it, Im glad I had a previous encounter with the hook and the clamp. In fact I was surprised how nonchalantly I held them as the doctor got in position. (Did the inquisitors assistants feel this way after a while? (Igor, get the rack ready, stoke the coals for the feet burning and go get me a latte)

On the final night of class I proudly volunteered to put away all the blue rubber balls like an eager kindergartener (It was a great moment when we put them in the classroom next door and gave each one of them a satisfying kick to their positions at the other end of the room) and accepted my baby class graduation degree with pride.

Our stern,(actually as I look back on it she was very pleasant and patient) instructor gave me a smile and a pat on the back as she handed the paper to me, but the funny hats and billowy gowns were strangely absent. Little did I know that very soon (and I mean very soon, as in two days later) in their place would be hospital gowns and small baby hats.

I wonder where that diploma is right now.Posted byTincan Caldwellat5:35 AMNo comments: Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest Wednesday, October 20, 2010 Chapter 1: A Word From U.B.A.T.Y.Hi Mom and Dad. Do you have a moment to chat? No, I dont mean in the eventual lets talk about boys sense, I mean we need to talk, and its got to be right now because Im feeling the need to take a nap (Im feeling a little grumpiness coming on) and after that its time to watch Elmo and then snack time, so I need to catch you guys up on something right now. So why dont you two take your chairs while I set up the presentation from my bouncy seat here.

Ready? Good.

I have been chosen as your Union Rep. to brief you on some new guidelines being issued by the Union of Babies, Toddlers and Youth (the U.B.A.T.Y.) because, well, as you know, I can neither walk yet, nor drive and I still need someone to change my diaper. So the union decided to assign me to this house. Also, no one else seems to be able to understand what Im saying.

Though you may know me as your daughter Jenny, for the duration of this presentation I need you to address me as Union Representative Anderson and not Jen Jen Peanut Little Bing Bing or The Munchkin. Your cooperation on this point is appreciated.

Okay, lets get started.

Im going to be reading a few selections from the Unions newly issued document entitled New Procedures and Guidelines Concerning Routines, Schedules, Norms, Practices, Habits and Customs for Babies and Toddlers

Dont let that dynamic title fool you, its really a down to earth, practical publication that I found riveting. In fact, I think Im a little cranky today because I stayed up a little too late perusing it by the light of that darling ladybug nightlight you got me a few months ago.

These guidelines represent months of tense negotiations, (including quite a few temper tantrums) so while they may at first seem harsh and unreasonable, they represent the finest compromise that we could offer on several key points.

I have highlighted and annotated the sections that we will be covering in this session, so if you could be so kind as to fetch my bottle and a few Cheerios well get to the business at hand.

Section 4, article 15-8: Bedtime

At the appointed time of slumber, we your children pledge the following:

If a certain beloved stuffed animal / doll / toy cannot be located for bedtime we your children pledge to cry, drag our bodies around the floor and genuinely put up such a fuss that you will be forced to tear apart the house or car in search of said item. Substitutions will not do. It must be the beloved item or nothing at all. And, the later the hour the better.

If at nap time we have already slept for a period of over five minutes, we your children promise to stay awake for the whole nap period and bang on the wall with a toy so as to indicate our "rested" state. We then affirm that we will be surly and grumpy the rest of the day.

If there is at all the possibility of holding our bowel movements till the time of the nap we pledge to wait it out and go approximately fifteen minutes into the nap session. (You know the kind of movement of which we speak.)

If we are in a different household we pledge to sleep as little as possible and to wait for the exact moment that you, our parents go to sleep to wake up and cry out loudly. We also reserve the right to wake up at five a.m. and skip our nap that day.

Okay Mom and Dad, I know that weve only just begun, but I just wanted to stop and see how you are doing. I know that I was up a few times last night and sometimes the next day can be a little hard on you when it comes to focusing, so if I may be so bold, I think a pot of coffee might be in order.

There, I think that will help, lets dive back in.

Section 7 article 1-8a: Vacation

Should you take me on vacation I affirm that I will act out of sorts and make every effort to sabotage enjoyable situations. If taken to the beach or any other natural local I will be forced to act grumpy and make a scene whenever possible. I will tailor my efforts to the number of people around the immediate vicinity. For instance, if there is another couple or family around I will merely cry. But if there are many onlookers I will scream and expend all of my energy in a fit.

Please know that there is no malicious intent here, I am simply protesting a change in the normal routine. In the future please continue to bring me camping, to the beach, the amusement park etc. My protests and odious behavior will lesson over time.(There is a formula that applies to these situations that you may reference in the appendix of this document)The good news is that if you can stick it out I will exponentially get better on vacation until I become a teenager where behavior on vacation will revert to grumpiness again. I recommend taking lots of pictures and video in the in-between time.

Mom and Dad, you no doubt see the faint inference here to the much referenced summer of 07 incident. It was in fact this very vacation that prompted the work that has come to fruition here before you. We feel very strongly that this educational attempt on the unions part will encourage you to again test the sometimes chilly waters of vacation.

Section 10 article 3-1.6: Moving

If a family move is in order, we will require a ten day wailing period. This is a customary time of mourning that we ask that you allow us to observe. Please know that this does not mean that we object to the move per se, but we are simply remembering the old home, and any reference to the old house, neighborhood, state etc. being better is not a pure judgment call, but an observation born out of emotion. We shall return to normal after the required period and most likely find new things to love.(This process may be shortened a bit by the following being a feature of the new house: A firemans pole connecting my room to the living room, a root beer option on all the faucets or a new puppy.)

Okay, sorry to keep disrupting the flow, but I wanted to take a moment and address the move our family has recently made. To this move I say bravo well done. My new room is spacious and reasonably well lit (those My Little Pony posters were a great touch) and the play room that adjoins the laundry room is above par. I have found the yard to be most adequate and I rate the new swing set four and a half stars. Im sorry if my period of morning was slightly confusing to you. Again, this is one of the many reasons this document is so vital.

This last highlighted section I have saved for the end as it contains references to a very recent, life altering change here in the Anderson household. Of course Im referencing the recent birth of little Sarah. This event was most earth shattering to me and not all together agreeable at first. My views are changing day by day, and I pushed to include language concerning such events that has helped me formulate my thoughts on the birth and subsequent parent hogging of the little beast / ball of sunshine.

Section 16-3 article 7: An Addition To The Family

Should you choose to bless our home with a new baby, we your established children reserve the right to shake up our sleep pattern, including refusing bed time for what might be the first time, getting up at precisely 4:58 and generally acting out in a mystifying fashion. Many of these behaviors will seem strange and alien to you at first, but we ask for patience during this difficult time of transition. We will soon return to familiar routines and good behavior that fall within agreed union parameters. (Again, the intensity of this period of time can be greatly reduced with the introduction of the afore mentioned puppy.)

Well, thats all our time. I can see by your slightly dazed expressions that I have chosen a wise stopping point. We have covered a lot of ground here today, and you two have faired very well. I commend you for your attention to detail and the willing spirit you have displayed in the face of tough negotiations. We will all benefit from these guidelines.

As a bit of a heads up, a panel has been convened to take a look at starting the teenage addendum to this document, but not to worry, that is a distant ten years away.

Now, switching gears a bit, perhaps we could see about that diaper change?Posted byTincan Caldwellat6:26 PMNo comments: Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest Monday, September 13, 2010 No Vacation Goes Unpunished: Prologue

I am a family man, traded in my Mustang for a minivan


- Andrew Peterson




Actually, it was a Saab, a vintage, 1991 black 900 S with leather seats and a sun roof.

It was one of those curvaceous European style Saabs that they stopped making a few years later in favor of a boxier design that repulses me.

It was my dream car, and it had called out to me from the dealership where it was prominently displayed, and where I gave it longing glances every day on my way to my odious college summer job as a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman. (Shampoo your rug Mam?)

After passing it for only a few days, I stopped in and that same afternoon traded in my trusty, rusty Blazer for it and took on payments that forced me to drop out of college later that year. (As the sage Bart Simpson says Ah the joys of mortgaging your future)

I named it Jackson.

Jackson and I joined the Air Force together, met my wife Julie together (when he faithfully carted us around on dates and crazy road trips in the dead of night) and were generally inseparable for six glorious years.

I grew to love Jacksons intricacies, the way that certain doors would only open certain ways in bad weather, the way the engine sounded like a Mac truck, the way it let you know exactly the quality of the road you were driving on by the way it felt every bump and the way the seats would cling to you on a humid day. Jackson survived the state of Massachusetts where I lived for only a year and a half and had three accidents (none of them my fault Im proud to say) and where he was rebuilt by a kindly mechanic after being declared totaled by an insurance adjuster.

Because I am by nature a sentimental person, and because Jackson saw me through some rocky transitions in my life, it became hard to admit it when he started to show signs of age. I pumped life into Jackson year after year and dollar after dollar. He started to resist starting in cold weather (which we have in abundance in New Hampshire) and the check engine light was perpetually on. Strange (well, stranger) sounds started emanating from beneath the hood and odd shuttering sensations rumbled through when he labored to change gears.

About this same time a life changing event loomed just on the horizon, one that announced itself one morning in the sweet voice of my wife Julie. I am, nor will probably never be a morning person. Actually, that is probably an understatement.

I come from a long line of sleepers, and though my body may be awake at say, seven in the morning, my brain wakes up roughly three hours after later. (This made boot camp exceptionally difficult.) My college roommates would call me swamp thing for the way I would rise from my bed (which they called the crypt) with arms outstretched in that Scooby Doo monster fashion and mutter and curse incoherently for hours before I could carry on a real conversation or task. (Thanks fellas for all the pranks played on me in those morning hours, they have made me the wary, grouchy, cautious person I am today.)

So, lying blissfully in bed in the haze of a sunny June morning, I heard my beautiful wifes voice cutting through the dense fog of my brain, like a distant radio transmission, saying these words:Alex, Im pregnant.

I have, since I can remember, had a joke I was planning to use on this very occasion, and that was do we know who the mother is. But in the cloud of the morning, and in the shock of the moment the joke stayed in its holster as I struggled to sit up and open one eye.

There she was, the owner of that sweet, smoky voice that I love, leaning over me as she knelt beside the bed. She had an expression on her face that I had never seen before, a mix of teariness, shock and expectation. And she was waiting for me to say something.I dont remember what I said (Im told this is a common symptom of shock) but looking back on that morning I seem to remember saying we should get a book.

And get a book we did. In fact, between our own purchases and hand me down volumes we amassed quite a baby library in a short time. It was just one of the preparations we needed to make. But I had my own list of things I needed to attend to. Jackson (who that very spring had lightened our wallets to the tune of about fifteen hundred dollars) and I took our last ride together later that summer.

Late one August night, on the way back from band practice Jackson shuddered his last shudder and forced me to pull over on deserted highway.

I had a romantic notion of sitting on the roof, playing a haunting eulogy on my guitar while other cars occasionally passed and dimmed their headlights, paying their respects. But as always seems to happen when real life intrudes on fantasy, I played bass guitar in the band, and as the bass makes no sound at all when its not plugged in, I was forced into action and flagged down a passing car as I had no cell phone at the time. (Another change brought about by the coming of children.)

And so Jackson was towed for the last time under my care, the bill for repair now a luxury for a person who worked one hundred yards from where he lived and who had a daughter on the way.
I sold him to a kindly British Saab mechanic named Bill who had a voice like Johnny Cash and a face like Keith Richards. He was going to rebuild Jackson yet again and give him as a graduation present to his daughter. This, I told myself, was a noble parting. He was going to a good place with people who knew how to care for him and would treat him in the dignified manner he deserved.

I still occasionally see Jackson around town, when his new owner is home from college. The I love my wife bumper sticker has been peeled off and replaced with some band logo I am not familiar with, but the old sound is still there. In fact its probably more accurate to say I occasionally hear Jackson around town.

Having said all that, with two children now its nice to have a car that starts when I want it to. (And who doesnt set dogs to barking when I drive by.) Yep, its all about growing up, being responsible and making good decisions. I have two beautiful girls now who need Dad to be less romantic and more centered. It doesnt mean that all fun times have ended, quite the contrary. I dont think I have laughed as consistently as I have since becoming a parent. I have two budding comedians on my hands now and a house full of giggles.

But perhaps someday, say eighteen years or so from now, near graduation time, Ill see a classified ad in the paper for an old Saab, and maybe Jackson will be waiting for me to buy him back to give to my own daughter.

Hang on buddy, Ill be back for you.


Next Sunday...Chapter one: A Word From the U.B.A.T.Y. (The Union of Babies, Toddlers and Youth)Posted byTincan Caldwellat8:35 AMNo comments: Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to PinterestLabels:Saabs,Stay at home dad HomeSubscribe to:Posts (Atom)FollowersBlog Archive 2010(3) November(1)Chapter 2: Before Having a Baby You Should Take a ... October(1) September(1)About MeTincan CaldwellTincan Caldwell is a family man, itinerant preacher, freelance writer, amature songwriter and lover of three women (My wife Julie and daughters India and Ireland) and to a lesser degree The Red Sox, U2, John Steinbeck and hotdogs.View my complete profile

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