Trying to change someone else's tune

My father has been in a bit of a funk lately. Life in general has been overwhelming for him and the weather combined with the holidays always tends to add to that funk. It's particularly frustrating because Christmas has always been something my family rallies for in spite of any other set backs. A week or so before my due date, I told Rich, "this is exciting! It's like Christmas only we don't know when it's going to come!" He said that he thought labor would be a little more painful than Christmas but I told him he obviously doesn't see the lengths my family has gone to for the holidays in the past. Labor might seem like a walk in the park by comparison.

As we kids became adults, it became harder for my parents to rally to the Christmas spirit. They would always fret over the gift to give all of us, but never really mastered the art of receiving gifts from us. As kids we never gave gifts to our parents. My family is not the sentimental type, ignoring anniversaries and birthdays on all counts unless some outside party made a big deal of it. So my parents managed to avoid all those "soap on a rope" type gifts from their children. It never seemed odd to me.

Once I became an adult, though, I wanted to get them something. Long ago, Jeremy and I were in Wal-Mart in Christiansburg a few weeks before Christmas and I noticed a SONY boom box. My father has always been a music lover. He bought turntables and amplifiers in Hong Kong during his tour in Vietnam while at the same time refusing to spend the extra 10 cents to ride above deck on the boat ride across the city. He had his priorities. Had he been born in another era, he could have been that guy in High Fidelity. So after much hemming and hawing, we bought the boom box with money we only kind of had at the time. It was $99. I've spent that much on sushi dinners nowadays but at the time it was a hell of a lot of money.

Daddy had been buying CDs of his favorite music at various hock shops around town without actually owning a CD player of any kind. He had already amassed quite a collection of untapped classics by that December when he opened his gift. My father doesn't make a big show of things. I think he said something like "ah wow" but in an understated tone - no exclamation point at the end of the sentence. My mother later told me that his first concern upon opening it was that it was too expensive of a gift for me to buy him and they should offer to pay for part of it.

Once he opened it, though, and started assessing its features he became completely enamored. For a little boom box, it puts out a pretty good volume. It has equalizer settings on the front versus those standard Rock/Blues/Classical settings others offer. It was compact so it could fit on a shelf in their crowded house. And it opened up a whole new world of music for him again.

That Christmas I had the special treat of getting my father a gift that literally changed his life. Daddy now probably has a music collection that far surpasses the albums of his youth and may even rival my own collection as far as volume if not artists themselves. All of them were purchased at hock shops or discount stores. I'm not sure he's paid over $5 for a CD. Each CD has a post-it note on it with is favorite track numbers listed to make it easier for him to program. I can't tell you how many times I have walked in their house to hear Phantom of the Opera at volume 11 blasting from the top of those filing cabinets in the family room. I would have never even guessed my father liked Phantom of the Opera.

The gift we couldn't afford back then was worth every penny.

Unfortunately, that was 1998 or so and I don't think we've found another great gift like that since. My father is having a hard time. We don't tend to use the word depression in our family, but if it walks like a duck and mopes like a duck and wrings its little wings like a duck, it might just be depressed. I wish there were some sort of gift I could find for him this year - another item that Rich and I wouldn't quite be able to afford but would buy all the same that might bring him out of this darkness. I wish it could be another TV moment where he'd open the box and there would be that glow coming from it like in jewelry commercials.

But it's less than three weeks from Christmas and nothing's coming to mind. I'm not sure the magic answer would come from a store anyways. Maybe a winning lottery ticket and a Xanax would fit in a jewelry box and I'd just add in a tea light to get that glowing effect when he opened it.

For want of a picture, a thousand words

I can't feel any of the fingers on my left hand because the baby fell asleep in my arms and his little infant melon is pressing my wrist into the edge of the desk. I'm typing all of this with my right hand and really miss the iPhone features of capitalization and fixing typos. Mostly I miss two spaces magically becoming a period and one space.

But the boy has been a bit fussy today (most likely more growing as he is shedding skin like a snake) so I'm grateful for the relative peace of his quiet breaths in my arms. (Earlier he was snoring so much Rich thought I was pumping breast milk.)

Rich is feeling a bit under the weather (maybe he's having a growth spurt too) and it's cold, gray and rainy today. I'd like to have a Christmas tree but that will be for another day. Rich's father always used to say the tree needing to "rest" on the back porch for a day or two after being purchased before bringing it in and decorating it. It wasn't until Rich was much older that he realized it was actually his father who needed to rest before that production. So tomorrow we will acquire a tree and as tradition states we will let it rest on our porch for a day or two and then give it a home indoors.

I'm not so sad about the temporarily paralysis of my left hand since that's where the World's Worst Hangnail (TM) has taken up residency. It has swollen to the point of lifting up my fingernail even after at least a week of medical care. We have brought out the big guns of "drawing salve", though - a disgusting black tar that smells like wet fart but should help pull out the infection.

I would show you a picture of our adorable son in the glow of the monitor but for once I don't have an iPhone or portable camera in arm's reach and the dSLR weighs approximately 40 pounds and wound snap my arm in two. So just trust me that he's beautiful and worth the numbness in my left arm and the carpel tunnel in my right arm from typing and the soreness of my enlarging chest as he delays feeding just a little longer. And also be glad I can't include a photo of this hangnail.

Squeezing out a few words

The last week has brought on a veritable fountain of baby spit up. Ian is still getting plenty to eat, so we really have more of a laundry problem than any sort of pediatric problem. We're working out some techniques to make things a little more manageable but it just makes everything a little bit more complicated. All of this started as soon as I started pumping and my milk supply increased. I already have plenty of milk to go around (my milkshake brings all the babies to the playpen, it seems), but now it's like a fire hose of sustenance and poor little Ian has a hard time keeping up.

It's timely that all this came about at the end of NaBloPoMo. Many folks lamented the need to write something when they really didn't feel like it. I've found it to be similar to how breastfeeding is going. I have to feed Ian every three hours and even if I have pumped milk on hand for Rich to feed him, I still have to pump at that same time lest my chest explode.

The more I pump or nurse, the more milk I produce. So even if I don't really feel like pumping or if it's really inconvenient to feed him at that time, it doesn't matter. He needs milk and I'm his only source. I don't have the option to take a day off.

Stephen King talks about the art of writing, saying that you have to read a lot in order to write well and that you need to write every day. Just like working out and so many other habits, the key is to make a habit of it. I'm trying to treat my writing like my breastfeeding (or vice versa). The more I do it, the easier it will be and the more I'll produce.

Let's just hope it's going to improve the quality as well as the quantity.