Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 533

Charlie’s First Day

When my daughter was born three years ago, I wrote a post detailing the day as part of the blog I write to my children every day.

I did the same when my son was born three weeks ago, and it has just passed my wife’s rigorous vetting process.

For those who expressed interest (as well as those that did not), I give you Charlie’s First Day:

________________________________________________

The cesarean section was planned for Friday, June 1, but our son decided to come two days early on May 30. Elysha began labor on Tuesday night, but she only realized this the next day.

The same thing happened with the birth of our daughter. It would seem that in terms of discomfort and pain, labor and indigestion are nearly indistinguishable to my wife.

The next morning, Elysha recognized that she was having contractions, but they were irregularly spaced and still not painful. She probably should have realized that something was wrong when she awoke at 3:15 AM and could not go back to sleep. She eventually went to the kitchen at 4:45 to eat breakfast, an hour of the morning that I don’t she’s ever seen before that day.

After Clara and I left for school, Elysha called the vet to make an appointment for Kaleigh, who was suffering from terrible allergies. Licking, scratching, and making us crazy. When the receptionist said that the earliest appointment was three days away, Elysha began crying. The receptionist then offered a Saturday appointment, which in her state of hormone insanity, she declined (creating problems for me later on). After hanging up the phone, she began crying hysterically until finally falling asleep in bed.

Looking back on that phone call, Elysha says this was the moment when she should have known that she was in labor.

When she awoke, she called the doctor’s office and spoke to a nurse who told her to drink two glasses of water and wait for a return call. When the nurse called back five minutes later, she asked if Elysha had drunk the water.

“I drank one,” she said.

“Don’t drink the other,” the nurse said. “Come in,”

When Elysha arrived at the doctor’s office that morning, she was already three centimeters dilated and 75 percent effaced. She may have difficulty delivering children naturally, but her ability to go through labor relatively pain-free is remarkable.

Charlie’s timing could not have been better, for a number of reasons.

First, I was at work when I received the call that the time had come. I had just finished my lunch and was minutes away from picking up my students from the cafeteria for an afternoon of teaching. This was to be followed by a district-wide curriculum meeting at Town Hall. I have always despised meetings, especially at the Town Hall where parking is near-impossible to find, so Charlie’s first act in this world was to extricate his father from something he would not have enjoyed.

Brilliant.

His early arrival also pleased my wife. She was not happy with the prospect of another c-section for many reasons, mostly pertaining to the recovery, but she also never liked the idea of planning the birth date for our child. She’s always felt that a baby should be born when her body and the baby decide that the time is right. By coming two days early, Charlie did not allow doctors to choose his birthday. Like most children, he chose it for himself.

The early arrival also eliminated what would have surely been an anxiety-riddled Thursday night prior to the scheduled c-section, as well as the forced starvation that would have been required. Instead, Elysha enjoyed a relaxing Tuesday evening and even had some breakfast on Wednesday morning, not knowing that eight hours later, she would be in surgery, delivering her son.

Once the doctor realized that Elysha was in active labor, she sent her over to the hospital. I met her there, where she was waiting with Charlie’s soon-to-be godmother, Kim. Nurses and doctors came and went, checking vital signs, presenting us with consent forms, reminding us that surgery can sometimes end in death, and preparing Elysha for the procedure. It took almost two hours before we were ready for the delivery, but with the hustle and bustle involved with the preparations, the time flew by.

At one point we were asked if we wouldn’t mind allowing a Trinity College student to be present at the birth. He was doing a study on nurse interactions with patients and wanted to observe the ways in which the nurses assisted Elysha through the process. She consented, and so we were joined by Jake, who was only asked to leave (by Elysha) during the injection of Elysha’s spinal and when she nursed Charlie for the first time.

Eventually we were brought to the operating room. Elysha went in ahead of me while I waited in an adjacent room. Fathers are never invited into the operating room until the mother is lying on the operating table, strapped down and drugged up. I’m not sure why this is the case, since this seems to be one of the most frightening moments of the process for mothers, but I spent my time, about twenty minutes in all, reading email, checking Twitter, texting friends about the possibility of golf on Sunday, and taking notes on a memoir proposal that I hope to complete this summer.

During the birth of Clara, I actually wrote sections of my second book. Prior to the transition to a c-section, Elysha pushed for four hours, so in between contractions, I would roll across the room and work on the novel. I had less time to write during Charlie’s birth, but I managed to complete the outline of my memoir and add two additional scenes to it.

When I was finally invited inside the operating room, I was greeted by “Something” by The Beatles, playing on the Pandora station that Elysha had chosen for the delivery. This was the song that Elysha walked down the aisle to six years ago at our wedding, so it seemed like a good omen.

Like Elysha’s previous cesarean section, the actual delivery only took about ten minutes. Putting her back together took considerably longer.

Unlike the previous c-section, Elysha was not cold and the suction line that had been positioned in my field of vision had been moved to a position out of my direct line of sight. I eventually saw the line with all its gore, but at least I was able to avoid staring at it while I sat there.

Charlie was born at 3:09 PM as the song “Turn Turn Turn” was playing in the background. Serendipity at its finest. I’m not sure if we could’ve chosen a more perfect song.

“It’s a boy!” the doctor proclaimed and I began crying. A nurse explained that they had no tissues but offered me gauze to wipe my eyes. The doctor lifted him over the sheet as the nurse warned him not to “drip on us.” We took our first look at our son.

Someone in the room asked what his name was and my wife shouted, “Charlie!” Her words sounded so happy and so right.

Then the nurses’ work began. As they worked to measure and weigh and clean Charlie up, a nurse told us what was happening, step by step.

He weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce. He was 18 inches long.

He scored a 9 on the Apgar.

A nurse named Heather began taking photographs. We were told that she was especially good at delivery room photos, and this turned out to be true. Even my highly discerning father-in-law thought these photos were perfection.

Charlie was grunting when he was born, a sign that his lungs were not yet clear of fluid, which is common for c-section babies. I was encouraged to hold him upright and pound on his back to make him cry, and when I was not deemed forceful enough, the self-proclaimed “mean” nurse took him away to attempt her own form of cruelty.

Eventually Charlie was taken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in order to clear his lungs, and after about thirty minutes, he was returned to us in the recovery room, where Elysha was able to hold him for the first time.

Welcome to the world, Charles Wallace Dicks!

Final cover at last! And Publisher’s Weekly, too!

There are have been many versions and iterations and drafts of the cover for my next book (and you’ve probably seen a few), but the final cover for MEMOIRS OF AN IMAGINARY FRIEND is at last official.

It’s been quite a road to get here, but I couldn’t be more pleased.

To top it off, Publisher’s Weekly reviewed the book today, calling it “A chipper narrative and lively climax make Dicks’s newest a fun read and engaging exploration of the vibrant world of a child’s imagination.”

Publisher’s Weekly also attached an old version of the cover to the review, but that’s okay. Even I was confused about the cover until last week.

Strong evidence that I probably suck.

I’m listening to filmmaker Mark Duplass discuss his life and career on Marc Maron’s podcast. I like Duplass a lot. I suspect that in terms of our sense of narrative and humor, we have a great deal in common. I’d like to think that my books and his films share a similar tone, and that if we ever sat down together, we’d find great commonality in our belief in how a story should be told.

Then Duplass described how his father supported him for most of his early-mid twenties by giving him $1,000 a month in order to “avoid having to wait tables” and focus on the art. His father also provided the seed money for at least one of his first films.

Just like that, I didn’t like Duplass nearly as much.

Why is this?

Am I envious of Duplass for having the kind of emotional and financial support from his family that I never had?

I don’t think so, but maybe I’m just fooling myself.

Am I jealous of him for the father I never had?

Am I more inclined to respect the self-made man, and if so, is this only because I had to find my own way in life?

Am I merely judging people by comparing them to myself?

Are creativity and art more worthy of admiration when the artist must struggle mightily to make it?

I’m not sure.

The only thing I am certain of is that my opinion of Mark Duplass plummeted upon learning of his father’s investment in his career.

I also strongly suspect that this doesn’t say very much about me as a person.

Father-son staring contest

Forgive the gratuitous images of me and my son. He’s just so damn cute.

When you’re an idiot, a book’s cover makes all the difference

I’m an idiot.

For years my wife has told me to read Sharon Creech’s Newbury Award winning novel WALK TWO MOONS. I adore many of Sharon Creech’s other books (I can’t read LOVE THAT DOG without getting teary-eyed) and my wife has never steered me wrong in terms of literature, but I have never been able to get past the less-than-enticing title of the book and the even more unappealing cover.

Like I said, I’m an idiot.  

My students became aware of my idiocy in regards to this book this year, so on the last day of school, one of them brought in a copy of the book with its new cover:

Just like that, I can’t wait to read the book.

I really am an idiot.

Little People at a Drive-In Theater

It’s been a while since my daughter has created a unique tableau with her little people. Last week she chose the outdoor patio of a local restaurant for her latest creation:

Little People at a Drive-In Movie

    

Oddly enough, Clara has attended dozens of drive-in movies in her lifetime.

She just hasn’t watched any of them.

During her first two years of life, my wife and I would make frequent trips to the two drive-in movie theaters in our area and put Clara to sleep in the backseat well before the movies ever started. We saw more movies during Clara’s first two years of life than we ever saw when we were childless, putting an end to that ridiculous and too-often-stated notion that it will be years after having a baby before a couple can return to the movie theater.

Although Clara never watched a drive-in movie, the experience apparently left an impression on her.

It’s also curious to note that one of her little people, the man in the orange hat, was excluded from attending the movies. Note his forced segregation on the corner of the table.

When asked about this, Clara declined comment.

 

The odd, invented, sometimes violent, oftentimes adult oriented games of my childhood.

For those interested, there is a new post written by my sister on our brother-sister blog 107 Federal Street. This week my sister writes about some of the odd, occasionally violent, sometimes adult-oriented games that we played as children.

I will respond to her post with one of my own next week.

The benefits of delayed adolescence are exceptionally obvious and profoundly shortsighted.

A piece in the New York Times by Karen Fingerman and Frank Furstenberg argues that phenomenon of delayed adolescence, in which Americans in their late 20s and even early 30s remain dependent on their families for years, might be beneficial after all.

Our research shows that the closer bonds between young adults and their parents should be celebrated, and do not necessarily compromise the independence of the next generation.

Grown children benefit greatly from parental help. Young adults who received financial, practical and emotional support from their parents reported clearer life goals and more satisfaction than young adults who received less parental support. This support ranged from room and board to making a car available, to parents’ listening to their son or daughter talk about the day.

This whole thing annoys me.

First, this phenomenon is nothing new. There have always been young people unable to find quality jobs who could have benefited by remaining at home. The only difference is that these wayward souls were once the people who did not attend college.

Today it’s the college graduates, many with advanced degrees, who find themselves in a similar position. But this is not a phenomenon. It is merely the extension of an unfortunate reality onto a larger segment of the population.

In today’s economic climate, a college education no longer affords instant access to good job and a substantial salary. But unlike the high school graduate (and high school dropout), many of these college graduates are  unwilling to accept the substandard jobs or suffer the substandard living conditions that people like me are forced to endure following high school in order to become independent.

As a result, they remain at home with their parents rather than work the 40, 60 and sometimes 80 hour work weeks at lower paying jobs in order to survive. They accept unpaid internships, work part-time in their chosen field, and reject jobs offers that do not meet their stringent requirements, and refuse to work second jobs while waiting to break into their preferred career.

When I was eighteen years old, I was living on my own, unsupported by family or friends, struggling mightily to make a living.

After graduating high school, I moved into a two bedroom apartment with two friends. I shared a bedroom with one of them, squeezing my bed into a closet for privacy. Life was not easy. There was a winter when we could not afford to turn on the heat. There were weeks when elbow macaroni and bread were my only source of sustenance. This eventually led to a short stint of homelessness before I spent two years sharing a converted pantry in the home of a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses with a man who spoke in tongues and a goat.

Eventually I put myself through college by working more than fulltime and attending classes fulltime.

This is not unusual. I know many people who followed similar paths. They are some of the most impressive, accomplished people I know.

During those years following high school, I worked as a McDonald’s manager, a short order cook, a door-to-door salesman, a waiter, a delivery boy, a cashier, a marketing manager, a bank teller, a farm hand and a telemarketer. Oftentimes I worked two or three of these jobs at one time in order to pay for rent, tuition, my car and other expenses.

Even in today’s economy, jobs like these are available. You simply need to be willing to do the work.

It was not always fun, and I was not always pointed in the direction of my passions (teaching and writing), but I would not be the person I am today without my post-high school struggles. I shudder to think how ill-equipped, weak in spirit and lacking of perspective I might be had my parents taken care of me until I landed my first teaching job at the age of 28 or published my first book at the age of 35.

I know people who have experienced delayed adolescence. Many are accomplished, outstanding individuals who impress me on a daily basis. But when times get tough or tragedy strikes, it is the delayed adolescent who is most likely to crumble. 

In times of trouble, give me a self-made man or woman any day.

The researchers report that young adults who receive financial, practical and emotional support from their parents report more satisfaction than young adults who received less parental support.

Did we need research to figure this out?

Is anyone surprised to learn that young adults who do not work, live rent free and eat from their parents refrigerator are more satisfied than the young adults working 60 hours a week, eating elbow macaroni and living in a closet?

What these researchers should do is look into the levels of satisfaction of these young adults twenty years later.

Who is happier? More successful? Better able to handle adversity? The people who were required to find a way to survive at a young age or those who continued to sleep in their childhood beds until they were thirty?

I suspect that the answer to this question is as obvious as what the researchers have discovered already.

Thick crust cheesy pizza alive and well

I found this short video of Dominos delivery routes fascinating but also sadly refreshing.

For reasons that I do not understand, I find myself in a land of thin crust pizza lovers. The thinner the crust, the better. Just locating a thick crusted, cheesy pizza has become a challenge.

In my neck of the woods, Dominos has become one of the the last bastions of my beloved thick crusted cheesy pizza.

It’s nice to see I’m not alone in my appreciation for it. 

Bed cartography

Everything on this map except for the pillow applies to my bed.

My pillows are flat and old. It’s their defense mechanism. Protects them from spousal annexation.