Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 99

Squanto like you’ve never heard before

Something I didn’t learn in school (and can’t imagine why):

When the Pilgrims first met Squanto (whose real name was Tisquantum), he had already crossed the Atlantic Ocean as many as four times and had spent at least 15 years living abroad in Europe.

Squanto was kidnapped in 1605 and taken to England by George Weymouth, but he returned to North America with explorer John Smith in 1614 or 1615.

He was later seized along with other native people by one of Smith’s men, Thomas Hunt, who took them to the Mediterranean port of Málaga, Spain, to be sold into slavery.

Squanto somehow escaped bondage and fled to England, where he lived for five years, including time in the home of a London merchant before joining the Newfoundland Company.

He returned home in 1619 on his second trip back to North America, first to New Foundland and then south to his home in present-day Massachusetts, only to find that his people, the Patuxet, had been entirely wiped out by disease.

When the Pilgrims first met Squanto in 1621, he was the seventeenth century’s version of an international traveler (albeit an unwilling one), more worldly and knowledgable than almost anyone on the continent, including the Pilgrims.

I was never taught this in school.

It’s taken me 50 years to stumble upon this slice of history.

Why?

It was probably the result of a history that was written to marginalize or obliterate the achievements of non-white historical figures, obscure the institutions of racism and slavery that permeated our culture and propelled the American economy, and propagate a false belief in white exceptionalism.

It’s not unlike what conservative snowflakes like Ron DeSantis and Greg Abbott are attempting to reignite and reinstitute in places like Florida and Texas, where the vast majority of citizens are apparently terrified of Black History Month, transgender people, multicultural studies, shifting pronouns, same-sex marriage, and women.

Makes me wish Squanto was still alive today to offer some wisdom to these cowards.

Clara’s Simpsons sleuthing

Clara has blessedly fallen in love with The Simpsons.

Charlie got a head start, but Clara caught up quickly once she understood the genius behind the show.

One of my favorite things about watching the show with the kids is the number of times we pause so I can offer a history lesson, an explanation of pop culture from long ago, and otherwise confusing dialogue:

Idioms and the like.

You can’t understand a Nixon joke without knowing who Nixon was.

You need to know who Duff McCagen is to understand how The Simpson’s iconic beer brand was named after him.

You can’t laugh at a character crying, “Oh, the humanity!” without knowing the fate of the Hindenburg.

The kids are learning a lot as they laugh a lot.

Last night Clara sent me an email (from her bedroom) describing some recent Simpsons sleuthing.

As you may know, The Simpsons live in Springfield, but the state is never referenced on the show. In fact, it’s deliberately, oftentimes amusingly obscured. Back in 2012, Simpsons creator Matt Groening revealed in an interview that the Springfield of the show was named after Springfield, Oregon, which is close to where Groening grew up.

Makes sense. Homer, Marge, Lisa, and Maggie are the names of Groening’s mother, father, and sisters. The Simpsons live on Evergreen Terrace – also the name of the street the Groenings lived on. And many of the characters in the show are named after streets in Portland.

But does naming a town after a town mean that it is the town?

Groening has also long given fake answers about the Simpsons’ hometown, too, so who knows?

Well, Clara is trying to find out for sure. She wrote:

I made a list of the states I’ve narrowed down to be the location of Springfield while watching the episode where they go to Washington.

MinnesotaArkansasPennsylvaniaIowa

Apparently, the episode features a map of the Simpson’s route. Clara analyzed their movement on the map to determine possible locations of Springfield.

I don’t know if she’s onto something, but the fact that she is analyzing Simpsons episodes like this warms my heart immeasurably. I started watching The Simpsons from the very first episode, and it became appointment viewing for the years I lived with my friend, Begni, in a home we referred to affectionately as The Heavy Metal Playhouse.

A poster of Bart Simpson hung on the wall over the television.

Years later. Elysha and I – at Elysha’s request – watched The Simpsons on our first date,

Now my kids are watching the show with me.

Both of them.

I couldn’t be happier.

Resolution update: January 2023

Every month I report the progress of my yearly goals in order to monitor progress (or the lack thereof) and hold myself accountable.  The following are the result from January 2023.PERSONAL FITNESS

1. Don’t die.

Didn’t even come close to death in January, which can be quite an accomplishment for me.

As always, I plan on living forever or die trying.

2. Lose 20 pounds.

I lost 11 pounds in January, and it was quite a ride.

I became very sick in the last week of December and lost eight pounds in three days, but by the end of the week, I had put those eight pounds right back on, as I expected.

Then 2023 arrived, and I made two decisions that helped me lose the first 50 pounds more than a decade ago:

Exercise harder. Not longer, but harder.Eat a little bit less.

So the intensity of my indoor bike rides grew considerably, and I started eating slightly smaller portions and snacking slightly less.

It worked. As I knew it would.

When my bike broke a week ago, I got worried that my weight loss might plateau or even reverse, so after trying to jump rope (my ceilings are too low), I took action. I doubled my push-ups, sit-ups, and planks. I hiked about five miles with Charlie with a backpack purposely laden with extra weight. I avoided sitting whenever possible. I took two bike rides in the cold.

And it worked. Miraculously.

The bike was repaired yesterday, so I immediately jumped on and embarked on another high-intensity ride.

3. Do at least 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and three one-minute planks five days a week.

Done. Doubled over the past ten days after my bike broke.

4. Cycle for at least five days every week. 

I had not missed a day in January until the bike broke on January 22. Waiting for it to be repaired. I managed two outdoor rides when the weather was warmer, but it’s otherwise been too cold and too rainy to ride outdoors.

5. Improve my golfing handicap by two strokes. 

I played golf in Florida with friends in January, and though I didn’t hit the ball well, my chipping, sand shots, and putting were outstanding.

79 putts in 45 holes.

I didn’t score particularly well, either, but I somehow managed to lower my handicap from 17.6 to 15.9.

I won’t be playing golf again until the weather improves, but lessons continue in earnest.

WRITING CAREER

6. Complete my eighth novel.

The book is about half complete, but I haven’t made any progress yet in 2023.

7. Write my next Storyworthy book.

I haven’t signed the contract for this book yet, so I await the paperwork. But I continue to tinker with the outline.

8. Write/complete at least three new picture books, including one with a female, non-white protagonist.

I have an idea for one new picture book involving numbers.

9. Write a new solo show.

I’ve been working on this quite a bit in January, adding transitions, anecdotes, and jokes to the structure that my director, Kaia, and I have already created.

I’m excited about this project.

10. Perform a new solo show.

My first-choice theater is hoping to find dates for me in their already packed lineup. For them to even be willing to consider me for their stage is thrilling. Fingers crossed it can happen.

11. Write a musical.

My friend Kaia and I are writing a musical that we will also perform, even though I cannot sing. She writes the music and lyrics. She and I write the story.

I need to write some of the story in order for Kaia to begin writing music. I haven’t done that yet.

12. Submit at least five Op-Ed pieces to The New York Times for consideration.

No progress.

13. Write at least four letters to my father.

No progress.

14. Write 100 letters in 2022.

A whopping 33 letters were sent in January. Recipients included students and former students, my own children, colleagues, two servers, the owner of a restaurant, the CEO of Barnes & Noble (which was returned to me unopened), and the makers of Pirate Booty, asking if the “booty” refers to private treasure or a pirate’s butt since the snacks themselves resemble little butts.

I ask my children and my students this question about Pirate Booty all the time, simply to annoy them. I finally wrote to the company in search of an answer.

I await word.

15. Convert 365 Days of Elysha into a book.

No progress. There is probably a company that does this sort of thing.

16. Read at least 12 books. 

In January, I read the book “Fairy Tale” by Stephen King.

I’m in the middle of reading the following books:

“Sapiens” by Yuval Harari
“From Saturday Night to Sunday Night” by Dick Ebersol
“Think Like a Monk” by Jay Shetty
“The Groucho Letters”

One book read so far in 2023.

17. Write to at least six authors about a book I love. 

No progress.

STORYTELLING/SPEAKING CAREER

18. Complete the re-recording of Storyworthy For Business. 

“Storyworthy” for Business is complete and available for purchase.

I want to produce a much-improved version of the course ASAP. Module 1 is now re-recorded.

19. Record the next Storyworthy course.

No progress.

20. Produce a total of six Speak Up storytelling events in 2023

I’ve scheduled four shows in 2023, including some remarkable venues. Details forthcoming.

21. Pitch myself to at least three upcoming TEDx events with the hopes of being accepted by one.

No progress.

I’ll be speaking at a TEDx event at the University of Connecticut in a couple of weeks.

22. Attend at least eight Moth events with the intention of telling a story.

No shows attended in January.

23. Win at least one Moth StorySLAM.

No shows attended in January.

24. Win a Moth GrandSLAM.

Awaiting an invitation to a Moth GrandSLAM in 2023. I have wins in New York, Boston, Washington DC, and Seattle, so I will eventually be invited back.

25. Produce at least 24 episodes of our podcast Speak Up Storytelling.

No progress.

26. Perform stand-up at least six times in 2022.

No progress.

27. Pitch three stories to This American Life.

No progress.

28. Pitch myself to Marc Maron’s WTF podcast at least three times.

No progress.

29. Send a newsletter to readers at least 50 times. 

A total of eight emails were sent in January. Two were my bi-weekly lesson and update, and the other six were related to my current Anatomy of a Story challenge and promotion.

HOME

30. Clear the basement.

Incremental progress was made. With one-third of the basement used for my studio, a more serious reorganization is needed.

31. Clean and clear the garage.

Incremental progress was made. I have several larger items that may require a trip to the dump.

32. Furnish and decorate the studio. 

Nearly done. My production manager, Kaia, has done a remarkable job adding bookshelves, lighting, and artwork to the walls. We need one more bookshelf, and the recent water damage needs to be repaired, but the work is nearly complete.

33. Eliminate clothing not being worn and closet bins.

One bin was eliminated. I also eliminated all of the tee shirts that I no longer wear. Solid progress.

FAMILY/FRIENDS

34. Text or call my brother or sister once per month. 

Done. I exchanged texts with my sister several times.

35. Take at least one photo of my children every day.

Done.

36. Take at least one photo with Elysha and me each week.

Photos were taken in two out of four weeks, which is sadly good for me.

37. Plan a reunion of the Heavy Metal Playhouse.

No progress.

38. I will not comment – positively or negatively – about the physical appearance of any person save my wife and children in order to reduce the focus on physical appearance in our culture overall.

Done. Piece of cake.

39. Surprise Elysha at least six times in 2023.

I left six birthday cards – redesigned from non-birthday cards – for Elysha around the house, in her car, and in her coat pocket on her birthday.

One surprise so far in 2023.

40. Play poker at least six times in 2023.

No progress.

41. Spend at least six days with my best friend of more than 30 years.

No progress.

MUSIC

42. Memorize the lyrics to at least five favorite songs. 

I’m working on Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.”

43. Learn to play the piano by practicing at least three times a week. 

Done.

MISCELLANEOUS PROJECTS

44. Learn the names of every employee who works at my school.

Progress! I learned the names of two paraprofessionals who I don’t work with directly but occasionally see in the lunchroom.

45. Convert our wedding video to a transferable format.

Progress! The laptop is in the hands of a professional, who seems to be fairly confident about extracting the video. Thanks to Casey Rosseau for sending me his contact info.

46. Memorize five new poems.

No progress.

47. Write to at least three colleges about why they should hire me.

No progress.

48. Complete my Eagle Scout project.

No progress.

49. Post my progress regarding these resolutions on this blog and social media on the first day of every month.

Done!

 

I should be better than this.

I was on the floor, doing push-ups, watching the NFL’s AFC championship game on Sunday night when Elysha asked, “How are your football games going ?”

My answer:

“I really don’t care.”

It was true. I was hoping for a good game, which means one wherein the score remains close enough to keep it interesting, but a large part of me was annoyed that my team, the New England Patriots, was not playing in the game, and even worse, that I was not watching the game live in Gillette Stadium.

Earlier in the day, I texted my Patriots season ticket pals and said, “Great weather for a championship game at Gillette. 50 degrees. No precipitation. So annoyed.”

I know. I sound awful.

The problem is this:

I’m spoiled. I know I’m spoiled. I know that I shouldn’t be feeling this way. But it’s hard to avoid these feelings of frustration and lament after experiencing such long-term, nearly unabated joy.

From 2001 to 2018, New England Patriots played in 13 out of the 17 AFC Championship games, including a record 8 in a row.

They won 9 of those championship games. Went on to win 6 Super Bowls.

I personally attended 7 of those championship games in section 333 of Gullette Stadium.

During that incredible stretch of good fortune, my friends and I would constantly remind ourselves to enjoy these moments because they would not last. A winning streak like that may never happen again, so we constantly counted out blessings, celebrated our luck, and told ourselves that one day it would end.

Then it did. For the last four years, the Patriots have failed to reach the championship game. In fact, they missed the playoffs entirely in two of those four years, including this year.

Despite my promises to count my blessings and recognize my great fortune of those 17 years, I still found myself deeply annoyed on Sunday night. I couldn’t believe that, once again, the Patriots weren’t playing for a championship.

What a jerk I am.

For perspective:

The Detroit Lions and Washington Commanders haven’t played in a championship game in 30 years.

The Dolphins, Cowboys, and Browns haven’t reached a championship game in more than two decades.

I have personally attended more championship games than 20 NFL franchises have competed in.

I’ve personally witnessed my team win more championship games (6) than all but 5 NFL teams have ever won.

This isn’t even counting 1985 and 1996 when the Patriots also won the AFC championship game. I wasn’t a season ticket holder back then and didn’t attend those games, but I was old enough to watch both of those games, remember them well, and celebrated those victories with enthusiasm and joy.

I’ve had a remarkable run as a Patriots fan, and I am indeed grateful for all the remarkable, unforgettable moments that the franchise has given me over the course of my lifetime, but I want more.

I won’t be satisfied with anything less than championship football.

I’ll be annoyed whenever the team that I love isn’t playing in the championship game.

I’ll be frustrated when I am not personally watching the championship game be played in Gillette Stadium.

Success breeds contempt, and I know this well. The Patriots are routinely in the top 10 of the most hated NFL teams in America.

Good. I like that.

But success also breeds the desire for more success, which I am now experiencing. When the Patriots aren’t playing for a championship, I am annoyed, upset, and angry, I feel cheated. I feel like something is broken in the universe.

I’m insufferable. I should be better than this.

I am not.

Kind words from a complete stranger

In the spirit of complimenting someone in the moment:

Clara, Charlie, and I were eating dinner at a local restaurant on Friday night. I spent way too much money on grilled cheese and macaroni and cheese (which would’ve cost me about 12 cents had I made those meals at home), but my soup and wings were excellent.

As we were exiting the restaurant, a woman pulled me aside and said, “Please don’t think I was eavesdropping or spying, but I couldn’t help but notice that you never looked at your phone even once since you entered the restaurant. Your kids, too. Never even took their phones out. It was so lovely to see a family enjoy a meal without looking even once at a screen.”

It meant a lot. I hadn’t even noticed that my phone was still in my pocket, but it was.

My kids were just more interesting than the screen.

Then I admitted that my children don’t have phones, so they had no choice in the matter.

“I was the only hero on this night,” I said.

The woman grabbed my forearm, squeezed, and said, “Bless you.”

This also meant a lot.

There’s really nothing better than the kindness of a stranger. When someone who will probably never see you again takes a moment to offer a kind word or an unexpected compliment, it’s an extraordinary experience.

Also a reminder to keep my eyes open for strangers deserving praise.

Apologies can come at any time

A reminder about apologies:

They can come at any time.

If you did something rotten or thoughtless or irresponsible a week or a month or a year or three years ago, you can still apologize.

There is no statute of limitations on saying you’re sorry.

I understand that Fragile Ego Impairment and Crippling Cowardice Syndrome prevent certain people from apologizing at all, but for most of us, a late apology is better than no apology, and it’s sometimes even more appreciated.

Also, please note:

This is unrelated to any apology that someone might owe me. I was specifically thinking about how someone I love was terribly wronged in the past by someone who knew they did wrong and how an apology would still be appreciated.

I’m not passive-aggressively hunting for apologies here. Just politely reminding you that it’s never too late.

Lost and never found

I was thinking about all the things that I had lost over the years, wondering how many of them actually meant something to me.

What do I really lament having lost?

Four items came to mind. Interestingly, none of them have any monetary value.

Roscoe:

Roscoe was a small, orange stuffed dog that I would take with me on camping trips when I was young. I was the youngest Scout in the troop for a while and had few friends, so nights felt very lonely. Having Roscoe in my sleeping bag with me somehow made the darkness a little better.

Being a sleepwalker of immense proportions, I took a long walk one night into the woods, apparently with Roscoe by my side, and lost him along the way. I felt a pang of loss deeply, but I also worried that my friends might find him and know that I kept him in my sleeping bag for those nights when the darkness crept too close.

It’s crazy to think that I still think about a lost stuffed animal from nearly four decades ago, but I do. I hate that I lost that dog.

Letters from Kamie Norris:

When I was in high school, my friends and I would spend a week in Laconia, New Hampshire, playing video games, sitting on the beach, and looking for girls. One night, as I was walking with friends down the main drag, a car drove by, and a hand emerged from the driver’s side window and waved.

I waved back.

Moments later, I met Kamie Norris for the first time. Kamie was about five years older than me, living independently and attending college. I would quickly abandon my friends for the remainder of the vacation and spend most of my time with Kamie.

Kamie and I casually dated for about a year. She lived in New Hampshire, and I lived in Massachusetts, but I would drive the 100 miles north from time to time to spend a weekend.

In between visits, we would write letters. Kamie wrote some of the best letters that I have ever received in my life. They were thoughtful, introspective, occasionally steamy letters that made me think and wonder about the world in new and fascinating ways. After Kamie and I stopped seeing each other, I would still read her letters from time to time, always finding previously unseen nuggets of wisdom.

As a kid without any parental support or guidance, Kamie’s letters represented the wider, deeper look into life that I was so sorely lacking.

When I became homeless, I lost a lot of things, including Kamie’s letters. I find myself occasionally wishing for them, wondering what else those letters contained that I hadn’t yet seen.

Cassettes from Laura:

For a cross-country trip to Pasadena, California to march in the Rose Bowl with my high school marching band, my high school girlfriend, Laura, and I recorded mix tapes for each other. Laura was taking a different flight than me, so those tapes would keep us company.

My tapes were filled with songs that quietly professed my love, but Laura’s yellow and black Memorex cassettes contain her voice, talking to me, reading Shel Silverstein poetry, singing Beatles songs while her player-piano banged away behind her, and laughing. I think I fell in love with Laura while listening to those cassettes somewhere over the midwest.

I lost those tapes during that same homeless stint that caused me to lose Kamie’s letters, and I was heartbroken.

Laura has since passed away – far too early in life – making that loss even more heartbreaking. I wish I still had those tapes so I could pass them on to her daughters, who never had the chance to know the teenage version of the mother she would one day become.

Letter from Elysha: 

After a night of hanging out together as friends, Elysha and I found ourselves sitting in my car in the school’s parking lot where we worked. Before getting out of my car and climbing into her own, she admitted to liking me.

“You know I like you,” she said.

I should’ve been thrilled at these words. I had fallen for her long before, but it had taken considerably longer for her to become enamored with me.

Instead, I said, “I’m flattered.”

She paused, climbed out of my car, stepped into her car, and drove away.

It took me a full minute before realizing what I had done. I called her immediately, again and again, but she didn’t answer, not because she was avoiding me, but because she was famous back then for never answering her phone or even having it turned on.

Texting did not exist back then, so if she didn’t pick up, I could only leave a frantic voicemail, which I did.

I suffered one of the longest nights of my life, thinking about how stupid I had been.

When I arrived at work the next morning, I found a note from Elysha on my desk, asking me to forget what she had said and expressing her desire to remain my friend.

I took the note and charged up the hallway to her classroom, where I found her sitting at her desk. “No!” I said. “No! No! No!” I told her I refused to accept her offer and that I was a stupid, stupid man who liked her, too.

Liked her a lot.

We kissed for the first time the next day.

Sadly, we don’t have that note. I think I tossed it on her desk, and she likely threw it away.

Why save it? Neither one of us knew that we were about to enter the greatest romance in the history of humankind.

But damn, I wish we still had that note. It would be fun to read and show the kids.

Throwing food at art is stupid.

The climate protesters who opt to use famous works of art to publicize their protest – mashed potatoes on Monet, soup on Van Gogh, and gluing their heads and hands to a Vermeer – are very dumb.

Their cause is certainly just. Their sense of urgency is understandable and necessary. Their alarm is needed more today than ever before.

But your protest should not cause your target audience to despise you.

You should not attack beauty in hopes of making the world a better place.

You should not ruin the day for a family who may have one and only chance to see a Monet now covered in mashed potatoes.

Happily, all of these works of art are just fine. Sheltered behind glass, these protests are causing no permanent damage. Perhaps the protesters even knew that their potatoes and soup and clue would not cause any permanent damage, but they still are foolish in their strategy, decision-making, and communication.

The first, best, and most important way to get someone to believe in your cause is to get them to believe in you.

As I’ve said before, people don’t believe in ideas nearly as much as they believe in people who have ideas. If you want to change public sentiment, arouse awareness, strengthen resolve, or create a sense of urgency, do not take actions that cause a majority of your target audience to dislike you, despise you, or even hate you.

Of all the targets for your ire, do not choose beauty.

I understand the rationale behind the protests. As activists shouted at the National Gallery in London,  “What is worth more, art or life? Are you more concerned about the protection of a painting or the protection of our planet?”

Unfortunately, there is a reasonable answer to these questions:

Both.

Protect the planet. Also, protect the beauty that makes our planet so special.

Not all of these climate activists’ decisions have been quite this stupid.

For example, climate activists spray-painted the facade of the famous Harrods department store and an Aston Martin showroom, which are beacons for consumerism and consumption. They smeared chocolate cake on a wax sculpture of King Charles III at Madame Tussauds. They’ve splashed paint on the headquarters of a U.K. fossil fuels lobbying group.

These acts of protest make more sense.

But they also routinely block traffic, causing roads in Europe to be closed for hours at a time. In October, an activist scaled the support cables on the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge outside of London, forcing police to shut down traffic over the Thames River.

I understand the urgency they are trying to create and the attention for their cause that they so righteously seek, but if your protest prevents a parent from arriving to school on time to pick up their child, stops a father from witnessing the birth of his daughter, keeps a grandchild from attending her grandmother’s eightieth birthday party, or makes an entrepreneur late for the biggest pitch of his life, you’re not going to convince them that you are someone deserving of attention.

Activists should seek allies at every turn. They should look to build connections with potential supporters. They should raise awareness and educate the public in ways that are loud, audacious, and eye-catching by targeting the perpetrators of the problem and not their potential partners.

Not everyone agrees with me. Irish musician Bob Geldof, for example, said the activists who threw soup on the Van Gogh painting were “1000% right.”

“They’re not killing anyone,” he told the U.K.’s Radio Times. “Climate change will.”

Sure, but did that soup make a lick of difference?

Did it change the behavior of even a single person?

Did it recruit others to the cause?

Did it spur legislation designed to curb CO2 emissions?

The measure of the success of a protest should not be, “It didn’t kill anyone.”

The measure of success should be, “Did it inspire anyone?”

I don’t think these protests did.

In fact, in many cases, I think it probably did the opposite.

Clara is 14!

My little girl turned 14 years old yesterday.

Fourteen years ago, she was born into this world. Thankfully, I wrote everything down that day and posted it to Greetings Little One, a blog (and now a collection of books) written to my children during the first six years of their lives.

This was the first of several posts about that day.

Write things down, people. Re-reading this was joyful.
_________________________________________________

Our day began yesterday, at 11:53 PM, when your mother awoke me from twenty minutes of glorious sleep to inform me that her water had broken. In fact, it was still breaking as I awoke. I could hear the splashing from the bed. Despite the hours of birthing class and hundreds of pages that Mommy and I read on pregnancy, we both stared at one another and asked, “What do we do?”

It was at this point that both of us fell into an “I told you so” situation.

For me, I doubted that your mother was experiencing contractions since the brutal, possibly hedonist midwife earlier that day had told me that there was “no mistaking contractions.” Since your mom said that she “thought” it might be contractions, I assumed that she was experiencing cramps and that we should probably not go to the hospital yet.

Your mother, in a bit of a panic, insisted that we go and refused my suggestion to call the doctor first and bring Kaleigh to the Casper’s house before heading off.

Less than fifteen minutes later, she was on the phone with the doctor and, for a moment, was wishing that the Caspers weren’t already on their way to our home because she wanted to get the hospital as soon as possible.

Oh well. Mommy and Daddy aren’t always perfect.

After loading up the car and waiting for Jane to arrive to pick up Kaleigh, we were off, leaving the house at 12:30.

Seven minutes later, we arrived at the hospital, and I dropped Mommy off in order to park the car. I said, “Don’t wait for me. Just go up.” She replied, “There’ll be no waiting for you,” and exited the car. I admit that I secretly hoped that by the time I made it up to the sixth floor, you would be well on your way out.

No such luck.

Mommy was filling out paperwork with a nurse when I arrived at the delivery center, and it was at this time that I finally understood the degree of Mommy’s pain. As she was being asked questions, her responses were not very coherent. Of course, her contractions were coming every three to four minutes, which explains the pain.

After being led to our room, we met Cassie, the first of two nurses who we would come to adore throughout the process. Cassie was with us throughout the evening, making us comfortable and helping us to catch a few hours of sleep. After arriving, we learned that Mommy was almost entirely effaced but not dilated at all.

We were shocked.

On the way over, we took wagers on how dilated she would be. She said four centimeters would make her happy, and I was hoping for at least seven.

Zero was a disappointment.

Thankfully, our humanitarian doctor, who doesn’t believe that women should ever suffer through childbirth, offered to administer the epidural immediately, even though birthing class instructors informed us that it would not be done before four centimeters. This was the first of what we discovered to be several false statements made by birthing class instructors, including their assertion that the hospital had no Wi-Fi, which I am using at this moment to write these words.

I left the room for the epidural (though Cassie said I could stay if I wanted, which my birthing instructor said would never happen), and even though Mommy hasn’t said much about it, it seemed to go well. The anesthesiologist was a bit of a jerk, but otherwise, the needle, the meds, and all the horrifying aspects of this procedure went off without a hitch. Mommy was terrified during this process, possibly more than any other time in her life, but she held up like a trooper.

With the epidural on board, the pain vanished, the lights were turned off, and Mommy and I managed to sleep for a couple of fitful hours. The chair that I attempted to sleep in was a device that harkened back to the Spanish Inquisition in terms of its torture on my neck and back, but later I found the wisdom to open it into a bed and sleep soundly for an hour or two. We slept from about 2:00-4:00 when Cassie checked Mommy again and found her fully effaced and four centimeters dilated. Lights went out again until 6:00 when Cassie checked and found Mommy fully dilated.

Hooray. I expected a baby before breakfast and said as much.

Mom began pushing at 6:30, but in the midst of a shift change, in which Cassie left us, and Catherine took over, it was decided to allow you to drop some more on your own before resuming to push.

When Catherine first appeared, we didn’t know who she was, but being the woman she is, your mother immediately requested her name and rank, and we learned that Cassie was leaving us. Cassie was wonderful; an easy-going, friendly, and warm woman with three young kids of her own who was perfect for helping us to rest and relax during the night.

Catherine was warm and friendly as well, but she was also a bit of a drill sergeant, specific and demanding in her orders, and it was just what your Mommy needed when she began pushing again around 8:00. This was the hardest time for your mother. She pushed consistently from 8:00 until 11:30, but because of the placement of your mother’s pubic bone and the angle of your head, you simply would not come out. The vacuum was attempted briefly (a vacuum!), but at last, it was determined that a c-section would need to be done.

A few interesting notes from the pushing:

Several times, Catherine encouraged Mommy to find some anger with which to help push. “Get mad,” she would say. “Find something to be angry about.” Your mother continually asserted that she had nothing in her life with which to be angry. Finally, Catherine acknowledged that she was dealing with the sweetest person on the planet.

Your mother never yelled at me and never uttered a single word of profanity during the entire process.

Throughout the pushing, I was receiving and sending texts to your grandmother, Justine, and Cindy, who were all dying to find out what was going on. I also managed to update my Facebook and Twitter accounts throughout the morning.

When the vacuum was brought into play, the room filled with about eight doctors and nurses. At one point, a nurse asked me to hold Mom’s leg, which I had been doing all morning. Catherine said, “Not him. He doesn’t get off of that stool.”  Though I didn’t feel queasy or weak in the knees, she saw something in me that indicated otherwise.

Later I was sent out of the room to “drink some juice.”

When the decision was made to extract you via c-section, things got fast and furious, and I left your mom for the first time today in order to don a pair of scrubs while she was rolled into the operating room and prepped. It was at this time that I was forced to remove my Superman tee shirt, which had been specifically chosen for the event.

I wanted your first glimpses of me to be reminiscent of the man of steel.

The best-laid plans of mice and men.

When I entered the OR, after having been forgotten in the locker room, the doctors were already working on your mother, and I inadvertently caught a view of her before I was ushered to a stool behind the screen and told not to move.

Yikes! A nurse clamped down on my shoulders and said, “Put your head down and move.”

Sitting beside your mom’s head, I watched as three anesthesiologists were busy at work injecting Mommy with more medicine than I could have ever imagined, I listened and waited with her. It took about fifteen minutes before I heard your first cries, and one of the doctors leaned over the screen and said, “Here it comes. Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Yes,” we said in unison.

“It looks like… a girl,” he said, and immediately thereafter, the docs behind the screen began asserting the same. We began crying while we listened to your cry and caught our first glimpses of you as a nurse was preparing to weigh you. A couple of minutes later, after managing a 9/9 on your Apgar scores, you were handed to me, the first time I have ever held an infant without the protection of a sofa and many cushions.

You were simply beautiful.

Because of the position that Mommy was still in, she wasn’t able to see you well until Catherine finally took you from my nervous arms, flipped you upside down like a football, and held your face to hers.

I’ll never forget this moment.

Your mom was forced to remain on the table, arms outstretched and pinned, for more than an hour while the doctors stitched her up. She began to go a little stir-crazy for a while, unable to move and shivering uncontrollably, and we tried to calm her by massaging her shoulders and rubbing her arms.

Eventually, the surgery ended, and you were finally handed to Mommy. The two of you were rolled into Recovery while I had the pleasure of telling your grandparents, Aunty Emily, and soon-to-be Uncle Michael all about you. There were many tears. Your grandfather laughed, your grandmother cried, and in keeping with her character, Emily was indignant over her inability to see you and her sister immediately.

She’s one demanding babe.

It’s almost 9:00 PM, and we are now sitting in our room, resting and chatting. You are asleep and have been for the past few hours. I must leave soon in order to go home so that I can teach tomorrow and use my time off when you and your mom are at home. My students will be thrilled to see your photos and hear all about you.

For your mother, the three-plus hours of pushing were her greatest challenge of the day.

For me, the greatest challenge will be leaving this room tonight and not taking you with me. I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms for the next week.

We love you so much, little one. Welcome to the world.

A little advice on compliments

Yesterday was National Compliment Day. In that spirit, here are a few suggestions when it comes to compliments:
If you think of something kind to say, tell that person right then.

Otherwise, you risk forgetting.

Or getting hit by a bus.

Or the person deserving of the compliment getting hit by a bus.

Don’t delay. Say it right away. We all need more kindness and positivity in our lives, and it shouldn’t be saved for the person’s funeral.

Better yet, put that compliment in writing. Create a permanent reminder of your act of kindness that the recipient can save and refer to again and again. If the compliment pertains to something they have done well at work, make a copy of the letter and forward it to the person’s boss or supervisor or overlord.

We don’t get recognized nearly enough at work for the things we do. When a colleague sees our excellence and shares it with management, it can mean a great deal to the person involved.

Also, may I suggest that you avoid compliments related to a person’s physical appearance and instead focus on what the person says and does?

The world is far too image-conscious and appearance-obsessed already, and these demands for beauty lean heavily, unfairly, and oftentimes disastrously on women. The focus on beauty causes so many problems and so much pain to people, both young and old.

Social media has only compounded this problem exponentially and brought so much anxiety and sadness to so many people.

Why contribute to the already fraught and disastrous culture of beauty by complimenting someone’s hair or shoes or recent weight loss? These are fleeting, ultimately meaningless words that reinforce the idea that when you and the person who you’ve complimented are together, you are first assessing their physical appearance for worthiness.

To hell with that.

For more than five years, I have restricted my comments on physical appearance – both positive and negative – to my wife, my children, and my mother-in-law. In little time, it became easy and almost automatic to avoid compliments and even comments about physical appearance altogether. I’ve shared this rule before, both online and in real life, and a surprising number of people have adopted this policy as well, including many of my students, who now consider this idea both important and necessary.

More than anyone, young people don’t want to be worrying about what others think about how they look, particularly as they go through the challenges of puberty.

Just yesterday, I commented on a cartoon character in a slide that I was presenting to the class. “Why is her hair so odd?” I said, thinking it odd for the artist to draw everyone in the slide photo-realistically except for this one character.

One of my students angrily responded, “Because she can wear her hair however she wants!”

She was right. It has never occurred to me that I should refrain from commenting on the appearance of cartoon characters, too, or at least restricting my comments to an artist’s decisions and not the character themselves.

But I should. She was right.

My response to my student:

I wrote her a letter thanking her for the reminder and complimenting her on her wisdom.

Then I dropped it in the mail. It should arrive at her home in a day or two.

Not only do I like to create permanent reminders of compliments, but whenever possible, I like to make their arrival special, too, by sending via the postal service or, in the case of Elysha, propping a card on the dashboard, stuffing it into her coat pocket, tucking it under her pillow, or mailing it to her school.

Yesterday letters arrived at the house for my children, sent by me, telling them how proud I am of each of them.

It was serendipitous that the cards arrived on National Compliment Day, but that wasn’t why I sent them.

I send them often.

The world needs more kindness and positivity, and it doesn’t take much to do your part.