I've been super stressed lately, not just about work, church and my broken xBox, I been largely consumed by the fear that I won't be a good father.
I mean, I've failed every fish I've had to take care or and kids need a lot more than flakes of food (although maybe fish do too and that was my problem all along).
Then suddenly, in a moment of clarity that brought the deep joy only an ice cream man can bring, I realized that I'll do just fine.
I'm ready to be a dad, have been for years.
I can see deer while I drive.
That may not sound like much to some of you but if you think about it, I'm spotting brown animals in a brown field that are only alive because they're good at hiding from a vehicle doing 65. I think that makes me pretty freakin' awesome.
Growing up, I was in awe of my father and his ability to see deer while he was driving. He could be working his way through bad traffic, on a rainy day, with four kids in the back seat fighting over the rules of punch bug (and for the record there are no punch backs, ever) and he could still see and point out every deer along the way as well as get a count of the points on the antlers.
Or at least, that's how it seemed to us in the back. I was pretty busy back where I was sitting. I had sisters to bother, books to read, barf to hold in. I didn't have time to be looking out every time my dad said he saw something. If I did that, believe me, no one would have gotten punched.
So rather than look up from my work, I would humor my old man and give him a sincere, “Oh yeah, I can see them too.”
Of course, this could only last for so long. Even at the age of seven, I felt the need to compete with my father, so I would start looking for deer myself, hoping to point them out to him, before he had the chance to do so. The problem I couldn't see the deer when my dad was pointing at them. I didn't have a chance on my own.
Not to be discourage, I tried a new tactic: lying. I would say that I saw deer when really all I saw was a long and boring stretch of road separating me from the cable at my grandma's house. I figured the worst that could happen would be my dad would tell me that those weren't deer, but rather rocks. Instead however, he'd nod and say, “Oh yeah, I see them too.”
Once I realized I could say there were deer where there weren't I started “seeing” more and more exotic animals. Elk, bears, zebras and giant sloths became common sights between our house and the grocery store.
This went on for years, me blatantly lying through my teeth and my dad dutifully saying “Oh yeah, I see it too.”
It was a good system. I liked it I still remember the day all this changed.
We were driving to grandma's and as we were cresting a hill halfway between home and the Idaho border. It was just about sunset, as we were just cresting a hill and heading down into a small gulley, when my dad pointed off into the sunset and said “there's a herd of seven deer over by those rocks.”
I don't know what possessed me to look when by these time I had been just faking it for years. But for some reason, I looked where my father had motioned and what I saw rocked my world forever.
Deer.
Holy crap, I thought to myself. There really are deer. Dad hasn't been lying all these years. He really can see animals from the car. He's like some kind shaman or deer-related Jedi.
It was officially on now. I had a teenage ego to maintain. I couldn't be worse than my dad at something. He was old. I dedicated every car ride through the wild expanses between Idaho town to scouring the country side for deer.
Still despite having the advantages of younger eyes, not being distracted by driving and being hyped up on Slurpee syrup, I never saw anything until my dad pointed it out. Everyone once in a while we'd see something at the same time, but those were always stupid things like rail road crossing, so it didn't really count.
Even after I started driving myself, I kept my eyes peeled for deer. It wasn't until years of living on my own and driving for hours to visit family that I got to the point where seeing deer became a common place occurrence.
I hardly ever ride in the same car as my father anymore. I've never really had the chance to show him that I have followed in his strange, slightly OCD footsteps. I don't know, but I like to tell myself that he knows anyway, and that he's proud of me.
I'm looking forward to the time, only a few years away now, when I'll be riding with my son somewhere, and off in the distance I'll notice a deer drinking from a shallow stream.
I'll point, and with wisdom passed down from generations in my voice, I'll say “There's a deer.”
And he'll respond. “Oh yeah, I see it.”
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a full fledged deer related Jedi. Deer related comments can be left below.
I also suck at badmitton.
Rather than go on and on about how awesome I am at stuff, I figured I should come clean and let you guys know that there are a few things that I'm not so good at. Some may say, that I may even suck.
The plan is to get all this crap out of the way in one shot. Next time I'll get back to talking about how I could totally punch a camel in the face if I had the chance.
Thinking of myself as an adult: I'm 27. I've lived on my own for nine years. I've voted in three presidential elections. I've graduated from college, gotten married and am currently sitting less than three months away from being a father. I have met every requirement for being a real adult that this country has ever come up with and done so with style.
And yet, when I look in the mirror, I don't see a paunchy guy with a receding hair line. I see a dude who, with a couple months hard training, could still have a career as a professional wrestler.
There is something in the back of my head that says “Anyone who checks all the stalls for Captain Hook, before he can do his business, is not a grown-up.”
I don't like working adult jobs, I don't like paying adult mortgages, I even buy cereal without a toy inside, therefore, according to how I remember the Pythagorean Theorem, I cannot be an adult.
QE-freakin'-D.
Gardening: I always figured I'd be really good at gardening. It is, after all, nothing more than, playing in the dirt, then waiting followed by eating. All three activities that I excel at. The problem is gardening also requires getting plants to grow, something I apparently suck at.
It's not all my fault. I do everything I'm suppose to. Plants just hate me. I think it all goes back to second grade when I tried to grow a seed in a paper cup. Instead of water I would pour orange juice on mine.
I guess that's some kind of cannibalism to them.
Making the decision of when to go to the bathroom: I honestly cannot count the number of important life events that I've only half paid attention to, because I really had to pee. I still have no idea what my doctor said I should do about this rash I got for this very reason, and it's been four months.
Savoring: I'm really bad a slowing down and enjoying my food. I don't know what it is, but I have some primal need to eat my food before anyone takes it. I wasn't raised by wolves, but I would go over there for dinner sometimes, so I guess I may have picked it up there. I don't know.
Taking medicine: I don't mean I'm like a little kid or a pet or my sister in that I have physical difficulty swallowing pills. Ever since the day I accidentally wolfed down a whole Jolly Rancher, getting an aspirin has been easy peasy. I just never think to take them.
I'll be laying there with a major headache, wishing that I lived in a video game where there where magic substances that I could take and my pains would just go away.
Then my wife will offer me an Ibuprofen and I'll be confused what the gross piece of candy if for.
Finishing columns: You have no idea how many columns I've got half written on my hard drive. I have column ranging in topics from String Theory to my very strong opinion on butt-lint. And yet I never seem to fin–
Geek on.
Steve Shinney apologizes for ending with metahumor. It's the Internet, which means I have a meta quota to fill. Comments can be left below.
The plan is to get all this crap out of the way in one shot. Next time I'll get back to talking about how I could totally punch a camel in the face if I had the chance.
Thinking of myself as an adult: I'm 27. I've lived on my own for nine years. I've voted in three presidential elections. I've graduated from college, gotten married and am currently sitting less than three months away from being a father. I have met every requirement for being a real adult that this country has ever come up with and done so with style.
And yet, when I look in the mirror, I don't see a paunchy guy with a receding hair line. I see a dude who, with a couple months hard training, could still have a career as a professional wrestler.
There is something in the back of my head that says “Anyone who checks all the stalls for Captain Hook, before he can do his business, is not a grown-up.”
I don't like working adult jobs, I don't like paying adult mortgages, I even buy cereal without a toy inside, therefore, according to how I remember the Pythagorean Theorem, I cannot be an adult.
QE-freakin'-D.
Gardening: I always figured I'd be really good at gardening. It is, after all, nothing more than, playing in the dirt, then waiting followed by eating. All three activities that I excel at. The problem is gardening also requires getting plants to grow, something I apparently suck at.
It's not all my fault. I do everything I'm suppose to. Plants just hate me. I think it all goes back to second grade when I tried to grow a seed in a paper cup. Instead of water I would pour orange juice on mine.
I guess that's some kind of cannibalism to them.
Making the decision of when to go to the bathroom: I honestly cannot count the number of important life events that I've only half paid attention to, because I really had to pee. I still have no idea what my doctor said I should do about this rash I got for this very reason, and it's been four months.
Savoring: I'm really bad a slowing down and enjoying my food. I don't know what it is, but I have some primal need to eat my food before anyone takes it. I wasn't raised by wolves, but I would go over there for dinner sometimes, so I guess I may have picked it up there. I don't know.
Taking medicine: I don't mean I'm like a little kid or a pet or my sister in that I have physical difficulty swallowing pills. Ever since the day I accidentally wolfed down a whole Jolly Rancher, getting an aspirin has been easy peasy. I just never think to take them.
I'll be laying there with a major headache, wishing that I lived in a video game where there where magic substances that I could take and my pains would just go away.
Then my wife will offer me an Ibuprofen and I'll be confused what the gross piece of candy if for.
Finishing columns: You have no idea how many columns I've got half written on my hard drive. I have column ranging in topics from String Theory to my very strong opinion on butt-lint. And yet I never seem to fin–
Geek on.
Steve Shinney apologizes for ending with metahumor. It's the Internet, which means I have a meta quota to fill. Comments can be left below.
Real Men Don't Rant, They Blog
We got the ultrasound done a few weeks ago. I was never so excited to stare at a fuzzy screen and try to pick out body parts since I was a kid and we'd try to watch late-night premium television.
Ever since we found out we found out we were having a boy everyone has assumed that I'm more excited than I would have been if we had a girl. “Yeah, I'm thrilled that my first born is someone I can torment with sports equipment until he's 8 after which we'll begin competing at various things until he turns 27 at which point he'll have beaten me at everything. That's way better than a girl who will love me unconditionally forever in exchange for playing barbies with her.”
I know parents-to-be always say they don't care about the gender of their soon-to-exist spawn. I always figured it was another wad of parental crap like “Changing diapers is a rewarding experience.” When it came to be my turn to wonder if I would be able to take my kid to a public restroom or not in five years, I really didn't care.
Mostly because I'm pretty sure any kid with a mobile made out of special edition Lord of the Rings action figures is going to turn out pretty cool.
Now that I know there will be at least one more generation correcting teachers on how to say “Shinney” I will admit that I am pretty excited to have a son. It means that I'll have the chance to teach him what it means to be a “real man.”
There is a lot of confusion in the world today about what it means to be a real man. Some say only those with power and wealth are real men. Others think only the physically strong qualify for the title.
The problem is most of these people don't know anything about being a real man, and so, for the the convenience of my son-to-be, I'm now going to lay down some of what I'm sure could turn into a Master's Thesis on what in means to be a real man.
Real men kill bugs. With their hands. Real men like the popping sound just a little.
If you want to be a real man, you have to be able to rock a really sweet beard.
A real man never admits the weather is too cold, the food is too spicy or that he is the reason the whole basement smells like burnt carpet and cheese.
If you're a real man, you don't wait around for someone else to solve your problems. If. however, during the process of trying to do something on your own some one more experienced offers help, a real man will graciously accept.
Being a real man requires driving all the way home, no matter how tired you yourself are, if your wife needs to sleep.
Real men root for the good guys, even when the bad guys are actually quite a bit cooler.
Sometimes being a real man means spending your day off digging through rocky soil to bury a random stranger's dog.
A real man, never drinks diet. If a real man gets too fat, he gives up soda.
A real man doesn't let anyone else define what “too fat” is.
Being a real man means running out into pouring rain/snow/hail to help your neighbors bail out their storm windows. They also pull over in a snow storm to push out slid off cars and help people they hardly know move.
Real men protect their little sisters. If they ever make friends with a girl who doesn't have an older brother, real men fill in.
Real men don't litter.
A real man is allowed to cry at a wedding or when Old Yeller gets shot, he's just not allowed to let anyone see.
If real men are going to write something on a bathroom wall, they make it clever and keep it clean. They don't just draw a wang.
Real men can drive stick shift.
Real men wear hats, shorts and Hawaiian shirts because real men decide when their going to grow up.
And they also decide what that means.
This is probably the most important part; real men geek on.
Steve Shinney is a real man, or at least, he's trying really hard to be, for his son. You may add to the definition that proves him as such in the comments below.
Ever since we found out we found out we were having a boy everyone has assumed that I'm more excited than I would have been if we had a girl. “Yeah, I'm thrilled that my first born is someone I can torment with sports equipment until he's 8 after which we'll begin competing at various things until he turns 27 at which point he'll have beaten me at everything. That's way better than a girl who will love me unconditionally forever in exchange for playing barbies with her.”
I know parents-to-be always say they don't care about the gender of their soon-to-exist spawn. I always figured it was another wad of parental crap like “Changing diapers is a rewarding experience.” When it came to be my turn to wonder if I would be able to take my kid to a public restroom or not in five years, I really didn't care.
Mostly because I'm pretty sure any kid with a mobile made out of special edition Lord of the Rings action figures is going to turn out pretty cool.
Now that I know there will be at least one more generation correcting teachers on how to say “Shinney” I will admit that I am pretty excited to have a son. It means that I'll have the chance to teach him what it means to be a “real man.”
There is a lot of confusion in the world today about what it means to be a real man. Some say only those with power and wealth are real men. Others think only the physically strong qualify for the title.
The problem is most of these people don't know anything about being a real man, and so, for the the convenience of my son-to-be, I'm now going to lay down some of what I'm sure could turn into a Master's Thesis on what in means to be a real man.
Real men kill bugs. With their hands. Real men like the popping sound just a little.
If you want to be a real man, you have to be able to rock a really sweet beard.
A real man never admits the weather is too cold, the food is too spicy or that he is the reason the whole basement smells like burnt carpet and cheese.
If you're a real man, you don't wait around for someone else to solve your problems. If. however, during the process of trying to do something on your own some one more experienced offers help, a real man will graciously accept.
Being a real man requires driving all the way home, no matter how tired you yourself are, if your wife needs to sleep.
Real men root for the good guys, even when the bad guys are actually quite a bit cooler.
Sometimes being a real man means spending your day off digging through rocky soil to bury a random stranger's dog.
A real man, never drinks diet. If a real man gets too fat, he gives up soda.
A real man doesn't let anyone else define what “too fat” is.
Being a real man means running out into pouring rain/snow/hail to help your neighbors bail out their storm windows. They also pull over in a snow storm to push out slid off cars and help people they hardly know move.
Real men protect their little sisters. If they ever make friends with a girl who doesn't have an older brother, real men fill in.
Real men don't litter.
A real man is allowed to cry at a wedding or when Old Yeller gets shot, he's just not allowed to let anyone see.
If real men are going to write something on a bathroom wall, they make it clever and keep it clean. They don't just draw a wang.
Real men can drive stick shift.
Real men wear hats, shorts and Hawaiian shirts because real men decide when their going to grow up.
And they also decide what that means.
This is probably the most important part; real men geek on.
Steve Shinney is a real man, or at least, he's trying really hard to be, for his son. You may add to the definition that proves him as such in the comments below.
Cast your chairs into the abyss, never to return
Gather round laddies and harken to my tale.
A tale of wonder, majesty and upholstery.
A story that happened to me, and if you're not careful, could happen to you.
If ever in your journeys, you should happen upon a young man answering to the name of Drew Smith, do not shrug him off. And if this Mr. Smith sounds a warning about a certain item, be sure to give him heed young one, especially if the item is a sleeper sofa.
For this man, despite his common name, is sage of great wisdom in the field of living room furniture that transforms via various dark rights, into uncomfortable places for sleeping. When Drew Smith tells you that a sleeper sofa is best left where it is, believe him, for the very forces of Hell shall conspire against you and all who would move it.
I once received such a warning. I told him that I be joining a common acquiescence of ours in the glorious battle that is moving. “Fear the couch,” he said. These three words, and nothing more.
And yet in this trio of syllables lurked untold truths and a warning that, had I followed, would have saved me untold aches in my heart and my back. But I paid them no mind.
I my hubris, I felt no need to “Fear the couch.” I am Steve Shinney and by the stars I fear no man nor beast nor piece of furniture. If I could survive the Great Nemean Dresser and the time I dropped a washing machine on my roommate, surely this mere couch with a bed folded inside was no match for my wits and brawn.
Once I tried to lift my side though, I knew that since the Dawn of Man no greater folly has ever occurred.
I tell you as sure as I live a breathe this sofa was not the sitting place of any mortal being.
It was the devil's loveseat.
No material known to man weighs as much as that contraption did. Surely it was forged in the very fires of the under world from the bones of some grotesque demon-spawned whale.
Beneath its behemoth girth, my muscles quivered and my hernia strained. I was able to keep it together (literally), but only be summoning all the grit and determination I could lay claim to.
Sometime, in the ages past, it was foreseen by a nameless oracle that everyone that I should ever help move would live on the the top floor. And so it was this night. Three floors of tight double staircases and tighter corners stood between us and the couch's final resting place.
And yet, it was proven yet again that no height is to great and no furniture is too heavy to crush the indomitable human spirit. We lost many good men in that final assault, but in the end, the day was ours and the move was complete.
Geek on. In glory and honor, geek on.
Steve Shinney is good at two things,moving heavy objects and using dramatic words. He takes both very seriously. Go ahead and leave a comment below.
A tale of wonder, majesty and upholstery.
A story that happened to me, and if you're not careful, could happen to you.
If ever in your journeys, you should happen upon a young man answering to the name of Drew Smith, do not shrug him off. And if this Mr. Smith sounds a warning about a certain item, be sure to give him heed young one, especially if the item is a sleeper sofa.
For this man, despite his common name, is sage of great wisdom in the field of living room furniture that transforms via various dark rights, into uncomfortable places for sleeping. When Drew Smith tells you that a sleeper sofa is best left where it is, believe him, for the very forces of Hell shall conspire against you and all who would move it.
I once received such a warning. I told him that I be joining a common acquiescence of ours in the glorious battle that is moving. “Fear the couch,” he said. These three words, and nothing more.
And yet in this trio of syllables lurked untold truths and a warning that, had I followed, would have saved me untold aches in my heart and my back. But I paid them no mind.
I my hubris, I felt no need to “Fear the couch.” I am Steve Shinney and by the stars I fear no man nor beast nor piece of furniture. If I could survive the Great Nemean Dresser and the time I dropped a washing machine on my roommate, surely this mere couch with a bed folded inside was no match for my wits and brawn.
Once I tried to lift my side though, I knew that since the Dawn of Man no greater folly has ever occurred.
I tell you as sure as I live a breathe this sofa was not the sitting place of any mortal being.
It was the devil's loveseat.
No material known to man weighs as much as that contraption did. Surely it was forged in the very fires of the under world from the bones of some grotesque demon-spawned whale.
Beneath its behemoth girth, my muscles quivered and my hernia strained. I was able to keep it together (literally), but only be summoning all the grit and determination I could lay claim to.
Sometime, in the ages past, it was foreseen by a nameless oracle that everyone that I should ever help move would live on the the top floor. And so it was this night. Three floors of tight double staircases and tighter corners stood between us and the couch's final resting place.
And yet, it was proven yet again that no height is to great and no furniture is too heavy to crush the indomitable human spirit. We lost many good men in that final assault, but in the end, the day was ours and the move was complete.
Geek on. In glory and honor, geek on.
Steve Shinney is good at two things,moving heavy objects and using dramatic words. He takes both very seriously. Go ahead and leave a comment below.
Cryptic Facebook Status Explained
So I was trying to light the barbeque the other day, but without a lighter or matches. No problem, I thought to myself. I'm an Eagle Scout I should have no problem summoning fire using the skills I learned from the scouting program.
20 minutes later I realized that cooking chili in the can and getting into a fight playing basketball wouldn't help me here.
Thinking further back in my childhood, I remembered a time that I did an “experiment” in my parents kitchen by sticky construction paper into the toaster.
I don't know what seven-year-old me was trying to learn, but I remember what I got. Yelled at. And fire.
So I knew that my toaster made, besides delicious toast, fire. But I needed a way to get the fire to the grill.
I did manage to find some birthday candles. I don't know why we had birthday candle, I don't think I've ever gotten a birthday cake since I've been married. But this was not the time for bitterness, now was the time for clever solutions.
I figured a birthday candle would be the perfect way to transfer fire from something hot, like the toaster, to the grill. So I
About half way into this, a thought entered my head. Maybe this isn't such a great idea, I mean this is totally how an episode of Rescue 911 would start.
But then I remembered they don't make that show anymore, so I kept going.
In the end I failed to start a fire of any kind. I don't know if modern technology is made to made the potential everyday occurrence of jamming a birthday candle in the toaster less dangerous, or if I'm just really bad at everything I do but the end result was the same, my wife won't let me cook when I'm home alone anymore.
20 minutes later I realized that cooking chili in the can and getting into a fight playing basketball wouldn't help me here.
Thinking further back in my childhood, I remembered a time that I did an “experiment” in my parents kitchen by sticky construction paper into the toaster.
I don't know what seven-year-old me was trying to learn, but I remember what I got. Yelled at. And fire.
So I knew that my toaster made, besides delicious toast, fire. But I needed a way to get the fire to the grill.
I did manage to find some birthday candles. I don't know why we had birthday candle, I don't think I've ever gotten a birthday cake since I've been married. But this was not the time for bitterness, now was the time for clever solutions.
I figured a birthday candle would be the perfect way to transfer fire from something hot, like the toaster, to the grill. So I
About half way into this, a thought entered my head. Maybe this isn't such a great idea, I mean this is totally how an episode of Rescue 911 would start.
But then I remembered they don't make that show anymore, so I kept going.
In the end I failed to start a fire of any kind. I don't know if modern technology is made to made the potential everyday occurrence of jamming a birthday candle in the toaster less dangerous, or if I'm just really bad at everything I do but the end result was the same, my wife won't let me cook when I'm home alone anymore.
I'm not racist, I'm a sports fan.
Being sports fan means that you can honestly and truly hate someone that you have never met before just because of what they believe and how they look.
It's as close to being a racist as you can get these days and still be considered a good person.
You see, I was born a Yankees fan. My father was a Yankees fan. My siblings are all Yankees fans. My mother observes Yankees fan holidays. I had more choice in my hair color than I did my preference in baseball teams.
Being a Yankees fan is not as easy as some people make it out to be. People generally assume that you're just a band wagoner. You have to root for a team on the other side of the country that you have no real connection to. And there are Red Sox fans.
For those of you who don't follow sports, I may need to explain a few things here. You'll have to understand that the Yankees and Red Sox rivalry is about more than a mere game. It is the physical manifestation of literally centuries of competition between two of America's first cities. It has been around since baseball started being played on a field without cows. It's part of the game that is part of the soul of this great nation.
And seriously, they started it.
It all began when the devil himself went to Boston to start a baseball team.
I know my average reader doesn't care too much about sports, so I won't go into details of the long and sordid history between these two titans of the diamond. I'll just say that the Yankees have never used babies as bases, and leave it at that.
I mention this because I recently had what will probably be a once in a life time opportunity to travel deep into the heart of enemy territory, the very belly of the beast, and attend a Yankees/Red Sox game in Fenway Park in Boston.
Not wanted to draw attention to the fact that all 30,000 plus people there wanted to spit on me and dump nachos down my pants, I decided not to wear or do anything that would give any hints as to my true allegiance. With this in mind, I dressed like a jedi, because we all know that jedis are at one with the force as well as the entire American League Eastern Division.
I got to the game early to just soak in the ambiance that is Fenway Park on game day, which was a good decision and very enjoyable except for the fact that the were constantly pumping baseball stadium pipe organ music over the load speakers. The pipe organ is an excellent instrument uniquely qualified to play songs like “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” “Tequilla” or the timeless battle hymn about the dancing baby elephants.
It's not nearly so good at playing “Where the Streets Have No Names.”
I tried to blend in the best I could without feeling dirty. I would clap when the Red Sox made big plays, but I when it can time to yell and scream I stick to non-discriminatory remarks like “Yay baseball,” or “hooray for sports” or most often “I didn't go to work today!”
I don't think anyone noticed.
I was planning on doing something equally sneak whenever the Yankees did good, but that turned out to be a non-issue. The good guys don't always win, even when you travel the breadth of the nation to watch them play.
Still, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric. The entire place rocked with each long ball hit. Even though my team was losing that everyone around me was a Red Sox fan and a jerk, I still had a great time and would recommend going to anyone who likes baseball in any degree or fashion.
Unless of course you're a Braves fan.
Then screw you.
Steve Shinney actually played a lot of baseball when he was a kid. He was really good at “taking one for the team” which may be why he still can't pronounce extracurricular. Comments go below.
It's as close to being a racist as you can get these days and still be considered a good person.
You see, I was born a Yankees fan. My father was a Yankees fan. My siblings are all Yankees fans. My mother observes Yankees fan holidays. I had more choice in my hair color than I did my preference in baseball teams.
Being a Yankees fan is not as easy as some people make it out to be. People generally assume that you're just a band wagoner. You have to root for a team on the other side of the country that you have no real connection to. And there are Red Sox fans.
For those of you who don't follow sports, I may need to explain a few things here. You'll have to understand that the Yankees and Red Sox rivalry is about more than a mere game. It is the physical manifestation of literally centuries of competition between two of America's first cities. It has been around since baseball started being played on a field without cows. It's part of the game that is part of the soul of this great nation.
And seriously, they started it.
It all began when the devil himself went to Boston to start a baseball team.
I know my average reader doesn't care too much about sports, so I won't go into details of the long and sordid history between these two titans of the diamond. I'll just say that the Yankees have never used babies as bases, and leave it at that.
I mention this because I recently had what will probably be a once in a life time opportunity to travel deep into the heart of enemy territory, the very belly of the beast, and attend a Yankees/Red Sox game in Fenway Park in Boston.
Not wanted to draw attention to the fact that all 30,000 plus people there wanted to spit on me and dump nachos down my pants, I decided not to wear or do anything that would give any hints as to my true allegiance. With this in mind, I dressed like a jedi, because we all know that jedis are at one with the force as well as the entire American League Eastern Division.
I got to the game early to just soak in the ambiance that is Fenway Park on game day, which was a good decision and very enjoyable except for the fact that the were constantly pumping baseball stadium pipe organ music over the load speakers. The pipe organ is an excellent instrument uniquely qualified to play songs like “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” “Tequilla” or the timeless battle hymn about the dancing baby elephants.
It's not nearly so good at playing “Where the Streets Have No Names.”
I tried to blend in the best I could without feeling dirty. I would clap when the Red Sox made big plays, but I when it can time to yell and scream I stick to non-discriminatory remarks like “Yay baseball,” or “hooray for sports” or most often “I didn't go to work today!”
I don't think anyone noticed.
I was planning on doing something equally sneak whenever the Yankees did good, but that turned out to be a non-issue. The good guys don't always win, even when you travel the breadth of the nation to watch them play.
Still, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric. The entire place rocked with each long ball hit. Even though my team was losing that everyone around me was a Red Sox fan and a jerk, I still had a great time and would recommend going to anyone who likes baseball in any degree or fashion.
Unless of course you're a Braves fan.
Then screw you.
Steve Shinney actually played a lot of baseball when he was a kid. He was really good at “taking one for the team” which may be why he still can't pronounce extracurricular. Comments go below.
What is a father to be to do?
So life as a father of a fetus is a lot more stressful and time consuming than I expected it to be. Just like marriage and black people, I've gotten all of my information about pregnancy and the associated male experience from sit-coms. I've always assume all I'd have to do is get up in the middle of the night to run to the store for the ingredients for a barbeque flavored potato chips milkshake and to totally freak out in hilarious fashion when the big moment finally comes.
And so I practiced. I got pretty good I think. I had forgetting my wife in the car at the hospital down to a science.
But then I realized I didn't have to do any of that.
Actually so far, I haven't really had to do much. And I think that's the hardest part of the whole thing.
The one thing I've had to do is serve as a back rest for my wife while she lays on her side because her stomach crushes her intestines and makes her fart if she lays on her back. So she's taken to sleeping on her side. But our mattress sucks and kind of folds in on itself, which causes my wife to flop back on to her back during the night like a over-turned turtle on the side of the road: tragically helpless, in a slightly comical way.
This is where I come in. If I sleep crammed right up against my wife, I can keep her propped up in the correct position. This is awesome for me because I get to contribute to making a better gestation environment for my child and sleep at the same time.
Beyond that and trying really hard to learn the Chinese words for contraction and placenta so I can translate for her parents when the big day comes.
Unfortunately, I don't have much else I can do. I just sit there, muttering reassuring words while my wife does whatever it is women do that lets a baby grow inside of them.
Which apparently is a very complicated, time-consuming and painful process. It breaks my heart to see my wife as uncomfortable as she is. It hurts even more when I realize that we're not even to the “fun” part yet.
This does mean we're also too far away for me to be doing anything. No nursery to put together, stairs to baby proof or anything yet. So I just spend a lot of time wandering my house, looking for something broken to fix or something bug-like to kill. Anything productive but manly.
Mostly though, I just tell my wife that she's awesome and that I love her. It's not much, but it's all I have.
I suppose this is all part of the experience. I think having to sit back and watch my wife suffer through a hardship that I am completely powerless to help her with is a challenge that I'd suppose to face. Something to help me become a better father.
My kids will have problems that I will be unable to fix or endure for them. When my son breaks his a arm, all my understand of circuitry and electronics will be worthless. My daughter's broken heart can not be put back together with duct tape. If I'm to be a father – more than a father, a dad – I need to learn that some times all you can do for the person you love is listen and then say you're there for them.
That, and truly mean it.
I think this is why men can't get pregnant, we have more important lessons to learn before we can have kids.
This is why I can't imagine being one of those lesbian couples who want to have baby so one of the women carries the child while the other just offers support. I cannot imagine what my wife would do to me if she was in this state and I wasn't just because I'd called “heads.”
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is learning all kinds of neat things, like the fact that five-alarm chili is not good for babies. Comments and more info can be given below.
And so I practiced. I got pretty good I think. I had forgetting my wife in the car at the hospital down to a science.
But then I realized I didn't have to do any of that.
Actually so far, I haven't really had to do much. And I think that's the hardest part of the whole thing.
The one thing I've had to do is serve as a back rest for my wife while she lays on her side because her stomach crushes her intestines and makes her fart if she lays on her back. So she's taken to sleeping on her side. But our mattress sucks and kind of folds in on itself, which causes my wife to flop back on to her back during the night like a over-turned turtle on the side of the road: tragically helpless, in a slightly comical way.
This is where I come in. If I sleep crammed right up against my wife, I can keep her propped up in the correct position. This is awesome for me because I get to contribute to making a better gestation environment for my child and sleep at the same time.
Beyond that and trying really hard to learn the Chinese words for contraction and placenta so I can translate for her parents when the big day comes.
Unfortunately, I don't have much else I can do. I just sit there, muttering reassuring words while my wife does whatever it is women do that lets a baby grow inside of them.
Which apparently is a very complicated, time-consuming and painful process. It breaks my heart to see my wife as uncomfortable as she is. It hurts even more when I realize that we're not even to the “fun” part yet.
This does mean we're also too far away for me to be doing anything. No nursery to put together, stairs to baby proof or anything yet. So I just spend a lot of time wandering my house, looking for something broken to fix or something bug-like to kill. Anything productive but manly.
Mostly though, I just tell my wife that she's awesome and that I love her. It's not much, but it's all I have.
I suppose this is all part of the experience. I think having to sit back and watch my wife suffer through a hardship that I am completely powerless to help her with is a challenge that I'd suppose to face. Something to help me become a better father.
My kids will have problems that I will be unable to fix or endure for them. When my son breaks his a arm, all my understand of circuitry and electronics will be worthless. My daughter's broken heart can not be put back together with duct tape. If I'm to be a father – more than a father, a dad – I need to learn that some times all you can do for the person you love is listen and then say you're there for them.
That, and truly mean it.
I think this is why men can't get pregnant, we have more important lessons to learn before we can have kids.
This is why I can't imagine being one of those lesbian couples who want to have baby so one of the women carries the child while the other just offers support. I cannot imagine what my wife would do to me if she was in this state and I wasn't just because I'd called “heads.”
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is learning all kinds of neat things, like the fact that five-alarm chili is not good for babies. Comments and more info can be given below.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
