The blog lives

Contrary to my lonely heart proclamation in November that we'd do better with the blog, we clearly failed. But it's a new year, a time for grand proclamations and terrific intentions. Hey, anything is possible.

The holidays were lovely as always. Hope survived a nasty one-two punch of seasonal maladies shortly before Christmas. First, she caught a virulent stomach flu that made the rounds of Mo's family faster than the Japanese Bullet Train pulling into Osaka. This holiday will be remembered in the family annals as "Oh Yeah, That Time Everyone Was Barfing."

We feared Hope would have to spend Christmas in the hospital. She lost nearly 2 pounds through dehydration, which is the equivalent of about 20 pounds for a 15-pounder, and generally had the temperament of a damp dish towel. She did spend about three hours in the ER on Christmas Eve Eve, but perked up with the nourishing drops of IV fluid and we were discharged.

But her bout with the Ralph Macchios was only half the problem.

The clues, as they are wont to do, emerged gradually. No. 1: Hope screamed for four hours straight two nights in a row. No. 2: She would only sleep in the darkest, coldest part of the house. No. 3: She liked standing in front of the freezer. No. 4: Her eye began to cake.

Naturally, I read the signs, used my advanced powers of deduction and solved the caper: I think she's hungry. Her wails are those of a famished child confronted with a cruel paradox: She wants to eat, but cannot, because she has the John O'Hurleys.

Fortunately, I'm married to someone who may have married a lummox, but isn't one herself. Mo took Hope to the eye doctor. She had a corneal ulcer. Those are bad. They are formed when an abrasion to the cornea becomes infected. Somehow, Hope must've scratched her eye. Untreated, they can cause permanent loss of sight. If nothing else, we feared Hope might have to take a cue from Jack Sparrow and wear an eyepatch for Christmas.

But doubly fortunate, we caught it in time and, after about a week, the nasty milky spot in her iris has disappeared.

We missed most of the local festivities, quarantining Hope, but she rebounded in time to fly with us to Connecticut for Round Two of the Yuletide Hootenanny: Seven days with my family. Hope regained her weight and her spirits. We ate. We played too many not nearly enough games of Monopoly. We hit all sorts of touristy, geeky yet thoroughly entertaining historical sites in Hartford (who knew?) and generally had a merry, merry time.

Too merry to document, in fact, but not too merry to steal a video from my dear ol' Mom documenting Hope's continued efforts to walk. She's still got a ways to go, but she finds it all tremendously entertaining. And so do we.

San Diego fun

They're back safe, sound and happy. Good times in San Diego with Mo's sissies.

Bachelor days

Globe-trotting Hope is at it again, flying to San Diego early this morning with Mom and her Aunt Annie for five days with Aunt Molly -- or as I call her, Dirtbag. Lulu and I are holding down the fort, raking leaves, ripping apart the bathroom, eating frozen pizzas and generally having unsatisfying, one-sided conversations.

It's been about 13 hours and I already miss my ladies. It's terribly lame, but the cycle repeats itself: Count the days until sweet bachelor freedom; feel sad for at the airport, sing a song of emancipation and return home, look around, realize it's awfully quiet and begin to re-shingle the roof. If this keeps up, I may have the foundation of the house up on jacks tomorrow.

I probably sound like a dullard, but Hope has been even more of a joy lately. If something isn't bothering her -- and she lets us know when it is -- she's one happy kid. It's a cliche, but that's all we can ask. And her joy is infectious. It's hard to be in a bad mood around Hope.

Mo always dogs me for writing long and skimping on facts, so here are some:

To our surprise, Hope has done well with her new pink spectacles. She's much more engaged and only whips them off when something is bothering her or feeling neglected.

Hope took to a fancy, schmancy new gait trainer the Intermediate School District let us borrow. It had a long handle so we could help her steer without breaking our backs, like her current loaner. She made repeated circuits and giggled all the way, like her heifer won top prize at the county fair. That's the good news. The bad news is we had it for four days on loan to see if she liked it before ordering it through supplemental insurance. That could take three months. So it's back to the low-tech red walker and more Ben Gay for our backs.

Back to Higgins

We have steadfastly resisted the buzzword of the recession: The loathsome staycation.

We work too hard and our cat annoys us too much to even consider the pitter-putter, dilly-dally, couch-potato siren call of lazing around home for a week, watching "Gilmore Girls" reruns until we can predict their oh-so-clever-banter, occasionally trekking to places we've already been a gazillion times and looking out the window and staring at that taunting bent nail keeping our storm drains in place, begging to be fixed.

So it was off yet again to the poor-man's time-share, our rent-free and oh-so-scenic home away from home, Mo's parents place on Higgins Lake in northern Michigan. The leaves had changed, the tourists had fled and the wooded trails nearby practically inviting Lulu to poop on them.

As usual, we had a grand time: Boating, eating much dip, sitting in the sands, introducing Hope to the wonder that is acorns and strolling through the tranquil woods, the gentle song of the swaying branches punctuated only by our calls of No, Lulu! No, No! Stop!

Chasing our bliss, we made like college freshmen and skipped Hope's first week of school. What the hay: It was registration week anyway. She begins in earnest next week, receiving her therapy schedule today. Unlike party-boy freshmen, Hope has scheduled school before 11 AM, with both sessions starting before 9:30 AM. That's bad for any dreams of marathon keg-stands, but good for dear ol' Dad: This year, I can make them.

Hope is doing great stuff. It's nifty to return around the same time each year to Higgins Lake because we can better visualize her progress.

Last year, she couldn't sit on her own. This year, she not only sits, but spins in circles and has devised her own, quite ladylike, method of getting around by sitting spread-eagle, throwing her arms to the floor and pulling her to heart's content. Over Memorial Day, we were delighted when she took four tentative cruising steps next to a chair. Now, she's skipping from the chair to the bookshelf to the coffee table to the end table and onto the wall, a la Sylvester Stalone in "Cliffhanger." Last year, she could barely fit in the Snugglie. Now, she loves it.

It's fun to look at photos from then and now to remind ourselves how she's become such a little girl while we weren't noticing. Of course, I could have made a video comparing and contrasting. That would make a lot of sense. Instead, I made one about hypnosis. Go figure.

New tricks

Rumor has it that summer is in full flower, although you wouldn't know from actually living through it. Word is the Mercury climbed all the way to 70 degrees Thursday. Pity. We were too busy warming our cockles by the wood stove to pay much attention.

Lousy weather or no, we have persevered, barely having a moment to tend to our crab grass  lawn or rotting pit of algae and muck koi pond, much less the blog. Indeed. Like it not, Hopesy and company have become full-on, 24-7 party people. 

We got back a week ago from a delightful week with my family on the coast of Maine, searching for the perfect seafood platter, swimming, kayaking, playing on rocks and watching from the deck of our rented ocean side home as picture-postcard lobster men pulled their traps to pay the note on their BMWs. We liked the sunsets, sipping wine and vistas of Boothbay Harbor. Hope liked that the house had a mammoth coffee table that she could cruise round and round.

We've become adept moochers, spending the weekend shamelessly cajoling invitations from friends with pools (Have we told you, Deb and Louie, how much we love your company?) and those with boats (Anne, Jeff, you mean the world to us). Between the begging, we're pleased to report that Hopesy is a Class A water baby. We took her swimming twice this weekend. Both times she giggled with glee, rearing back her head to reveal her burgeoning set of choppers.

The choppers -- Li'l Jimmy Carter has even more front teeth coming in atop the ones Mo chronicled last week -- have her a bit crankier than usual. But she's still super company, and is developing a nifty repertoire of tricks. She began cruising days before the Independence Day and now that's all she wants to do, adroitly turning corners and even beginning to hold her own on the Look Ma No Leaning Scooter Thing-a-Ma-Jig scooter that Hope's physical therapists loaned her to get her walking. For weeks, she walked tentatively, needing us to guide her hands and she walked, frequently stiffening her back and refusing to go farther. Now, she's making circuits in the house. Stopping, though, could take more practice.

More good news came last week from Dr. Spitenup, the wily gastroenterologist who speaks in Zen riddles but proclaimed himself so happy with Hope's weight (about 13 lbs.) and progress that we don't have to endure his interrogatories for another six months. That's a record.

So we're happy campers. Now, about that crab grass...

Summer fun

Ahhhhh, summer.

We're only a month in and I'm EXHAUSTED. From chaperoning a girls camp for a week up in northern Michigan to spending some time with Hope and my parents on Higgins Lake, I feel like I've been on the go nonstop since the school year wrapped up. And I have. But there are certainly worse things. I'm really lucky I've gotten to do so much.

My first big foray of the summer was a week at Girls Rule Our World (GROW) camp at Chalfonte House in Elk Rapids, Michigan. Joel briefly wrote about Chalfonte in January but it's an incredibly special retreat house that a family friend started years ago. It holds a special place in my heart and it's where I've gone every March since I was 19 to spend a weekend away with some amazing women to bond, reflect, eat and shop for Women's Weekend. Anyhow, about three years ago, the family friend who started Chalfonte (it's his beautiful Victorian house), Jimeyer, asked if I'd like to be involved in GROW, a retreat for teenage girls. The idea was to give girls who may have medical issues, emotional problems, unstable family situations, or just need a break from home a week to away to experience new things and thus, grow. I agreed and it was such an incredible (and exhausting) experience that first year I've been back twice more as staff. It's a ton of work but by the end of the week you really feel like you've given these girls an experience that will last a lifetime.

This year was no different. We swam like fish, hung out at the beach, went to Sleeping Bear Dunes, camped out in the woods one night, got beautiful portraits done by an incredibly a local artist, made tie-dye shirts, and went tubing. I was the main staff person so it was my job to coordinate all activities, meals, etc. for the girls.

The good news is I was so busy cooking meals and moving from one activity to another that I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on Hope and the fact that I was away from her for SEVEN DAYS. I missed her but I knew she was in good hands with my mother-in-law, Anita, and Joel and that they were having a good time. The other good news is we had a fulfilling, unforgettable week and I really believe a lot of the girls experienced things they'll treasure for the rest of their lives. Some left crying, asking if they would be invited back next year.  

Now, the bad news: After dropping off the last of the girls -- I also drove the girls around all week, along with another staffer, in a van the size of Toledo -- I couldn't wait to get home. I kept envisioning Hope's smile and couldn't wait to feel her little hands on my cheeks.

So much for visions. As soon as Hope saw me, she didn't smile. I don't know if I was too loud or what -- she did have her hearing aids on which we've been kind of lax about this summer for various reasons -- or she wasn't feeling well but she stiffened up when I held her for the first time and even cried a little bit. I thought I handled it pretty well. I calmed her down and gave her back to Joel. I waited until she went to bed and then I cried.

Things are fine now but I honestly wonder if she was mad at me. Does that happen? What do you all think?

Anyhow, sorry for the long, rambling blog post. I hope everyone is having a great summer. We're off to Maine next week to hang out with the Kurths & Konniks in Boothbay Harbor. We can't wait!

In the meantime, Hope continues to dazzle us with her cruising -- she's now turning corners. She's still nowhere near being able to pull herself to a stand but this kid is ready to move. She's also obsessed with her toothbrush and about to cut her fourth tooth. She got a molar out of the blue in late June. I knew kids with CdLS could cut teeth in an unusual pattern and I guess Hope fits the pattern. So now she has her two bottom teeth and a big molar on the left. It's kinda funny.

Happy summer!

Beach beauties

Mo and Hopesy just returned from a week of beach-combing, ice-cream eating, blink-and-you-miss-it-parade watching and copious card-playing Up North. They let me come for a few days over Independence Day, and then said: "Beat it, punk." 

Those two are becoming regular cottagers. Next week, it's off to the coast of Maine for a week. Last I checked, I get to come as well.

Surviving without Mo

Mo went off to do good deeds last week, leaving her only daughter and only known husband to fend for themselves. We looked in the fridge, saw three slices of hard salami, two packages of Arby's Sauce and a six-pack of forlorn, long-neglected, non-alcoholic beer. We wept.

We looked a Lulu, sized up who would win in a starvation match and surrendered. We called Grandma in for reinforcements. She arrived from Maine just in time. Hope was wearing Scrabble tiles for diapers and bottle caps for hearing aids. In two days, I lost 45 pounds, grew a beard and began delightful conversations with a volleyball I called Wilson. 

Things are tough around here without Mo. 

Actually, her semi-annual, volunteer trip as a camp counselor in Elk Rapids -- I'm sure she's champing at the bit to dish details -- was planned months ago, as was my mother's visit.

Her timing was great. The weather was terrific, the Detroit scandals are in full flower and Hope was in mighty fine spirits. She's doing so much so quickly these days, it's hard to keep score.

Suddenly, our cuddly lap pal needs to move. A few weeks ago, she began to cruise, and now there's no stopping her. She has several hobbies, including a nifty game my mother taught her called "Librarian" that involves scampering from one side of a bookshelf to another and knocking off all the titles except one, David Simon's excellent "The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood." 

She stops and flips all the pages, either fascinated by the gritty tale of urban decline or the book's spiffy red cover. We call another game "Go Get the Remote Control." It is similar to "Librarian" but involves a remote control, a leather couch and a noticeable lack of detail about the economics of the heroin trade.

Another new hobby is something called "Look at that Beautiful Creature in the Mirror." I taught her that one. It involves staring at the most beautiful creature in the mirror, waving rather coquettishly and coyly, having difficulty containing your excitement, waving your arms in joy and breaking into hysterical laughter. It took me 10 years to perfect the game. Hope has mastered it in a month. Smart cookie.

While Mo did good deeds, we ventured north for a mini-getaway to Michigan's kitschy Little Bavaria for 24 hours of eating chicken dinners and bratwurst, riding in paddle boats, swimming and looking at ourselves in the mirror and laughing with delight.

Great times. Big Mo is back and we are so happy we broke from the revelry to stop at the world's largest Christmas store to buy her a taco ornament with an inscription showing how much we missed her.  It reads, "Big Mo's Taco."

My mom left town on Saturday, and we were all very sad, but we see her in three weeks for another vacation. That makes us so happy we need to head soon to the bookshelf.

Billy's taking charge

I learned cynicism at a very early age from, of all places, "The Family Circus." 

Even as a 7 year-old, I found it maudlin, repetitive and ripe for ridicule. Every day, the single-panel comic strip had the same plot contrivances: Grape soda is spilled, all the kids say "Not Me" and a smirking ghost named "Not Me" sneaks away; dorky Dad asks Billy to run a simple errand and he walks around the house, jumps on the bed, eats cookies and completes a labyrinthine circuit before, 45 minutes later, takes out the trash; bratty Dolly tattles on Jeffy for a mild transgression like praying with his eyes open; and one of the kids asks an aw-shucks, so cute-it's poignant question.

There's also my favorite: Artist/dork Dad goes on vacation and leaves 8-year-old Billy in charge. He draws crude cartoons that make his father and mom look like Do-Do birds. It was the redeeming feature of the strip for me -- an anarchic, Kids Rule the Roost takedown of The Man -- until I realized the Billy had been 8 for three years, his drawing never improved and the artist, Bill Keane, was pulling a fast one on impressionable minds.

Thirty years later, I'm pulling my own "Family Circus" routine, but this time, it's legit. I am going on a blogging vacation for at least a month, and Mo is taking over. For 18 months, the division of labor on the blog has been thus: I write 'em; she edits 'em, hectoring me until I tone down the over-the-top metaphors and -- horror of horrors -- get my facts straight. Usually, I complain, scream, stomp my feet in protest and relent. After five-plus years, I am beginning to learn a few things about marriage.

Mostly, I'm eager for a break from the computer and want to enjoy the sunshine. But I want to keep the blog going and feel I haven't maintained the quality or quantity I'd like in the past few months.

I am excited to share the wealth. Mo is a great writer, quite funny and spins a good yarn without resorting to obscure pop-culture references. She has a perspective that I, as a knuckle-dragging, hard-salami-eating male, lack. Plus, let's face it, after 18 months anything could use some new blood. After a while, I acknowledge some of my posts so verged toward self-parody that they nearly read like Mad Libs.

_____________ (Outdated saying), Hope is _______ (verb ending in 'ing') her pacifier with the vigor of ________ ('70s TV show star) cruising with  Herbie the Love Bug or _________ (Cold War figure) banging his _______ (article of clothing) on ________ (piece of furniture.)

So no more ado. I'm eager for Big Mo to get started. And remember: The dorkwad dad in "Family Circus" always came back.

Rock city

We're the first to admit it: Cleveland may not top anyone's vacation list. Sure, the onetime Mistake on the Lake has some fabby public places, a nifty waterfront and a gee-whiz Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But as vacation destinations go, it's probably somewhere between York, Penn., and, well, Detroit.

But Cleveland does have one big advantage: It's 3 1/2 hours from Detroit, which makes it an ideal weekend retreat for a little girl who can endure just about 3 1/2 hours in a car seat before going absolutely bonkers.

We spent Saturday and Sunday in the Forest City, as a weekend getaway mystery trip birthday excursion from Big Mo to Yours Truly. We stayed in a nice hotel, walked around, saw the sites, went out to dinner, took in the very cool Rock Hall, ate junk food and, all and all, had a lovely time. 

In fact, we would dare say it was liberating. With winter and Hope's slow growth, we're still tepidly emerging from our nourishing yolk. But as she does every time, Hopesy made us proud: The kid is a terrific travel companion. She barely fussed, endured her old man's stories at the Rock Hall about The Clash and, when it all got too damn boring, took a nap.

We returned Sunday night full of vim and newfound courage to spread our wings further and more frequently. We can do this! We were lame to be so careful! The only limitation is our own mind!

Monday, the vomiting began. Then came lethargy, dehydration and an overall peaked appearance. Three calls to the doctor and some waffling over the emergency room later, we're still in the throes. Cross-our-fingers, sign-of-the-cross, knock-on-wood, we think Hopesy is slowly emerging. She's at least begun to keep some food down tonight.

We're kicking ourselves for what we did or didn't do, but maintaining our mantra: She could have gotten sick anywhere. Don't blame Cleveland. It's got enough problems.

Seriously, we're worried like anyone and hopeful the experience doesn't curtail our travels. Hope digs the out-and-about. It's good for her, and it's good for us.

Photo fatigue

Alright already. We get it. We are bad bloggers. After 10 months of draining our hard drive with gigabyte after gigabyte of snapshots and videos, we're photo fatigued.

I'm not sure when it struck, but it couldn't have come at a worse time: High summer, the peak of the social season. Last weekend, we should have snapping away at the social event o' the year -- Hope's star turn as the flower girl at her Aunt Annie's wedding in a northern Michigan winery. Somehow, we blew it again.

So take our word for it: Hope knocked 'em dead again, strolling down the aisle with her Dad, a nifty wreath of miniature roses in her hair.


These photos are from my Mom, who flew in for the big event for babysitting duties.



Much more soon. We promise.

Homecoming

Like all robust failures, the Great Bachelor Experiment of '08 is about to come to its atrophied, pathetic end. The girls return to Michigan on Tuesday, thus concluding 10 days of dynamic loser-dom the likes of which are impossible to achieve without a home weather station, membership to the Mickey Rooney Fan Club and a soldering iron.

The highlights: Riding the bicycle with Lulu; watching Beverly Hillbillies re-runs; poorly executing home-improvement projects; botching Hamburger Helper twice and discovering "Hurl," a game show that combines competitive eating, amusement park rides and puking.

I'm excited to have them back. Thanks to my folks for taking such good care of Mo and Hope and showing them Maine, but 10 days is too long to be away from the ones you love so much.

Here's a video from one of my Heart of Dorkness moments.

Obligatory vacation video

I'm perpetually amazed at my cruddiness as a bachelor. Some days, when work beckons until 9 and Mo hands off Hope the moment I return home, I fantasize about weekends like this: Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no alarms to monitor, bottles to mix and nary a chore in sight.

Thirty-six hours removed from Mo and Hope, I have regressed to that Scary Dude. You know the one. The guy who hasn't shaved in a week and smells of body odor and TAG spray to cover it up. The weird one who goes to the grocery store in his lawnmower shoes with no socks and buys three frozen pizzas, a case of beer, two bags of chips and smiles proudly after tossing a pound of ground chuck in the cart because it now contains actual "food."

I tried to keep busy in a half-hearted, layabout way. I mowed the lawn, but convinced myself it was getting too hot to weed-whack. I resumed some long-neglected wall painting. I screwed both up: One is the wrong color; the other is splotchy from a lack of sanding.

Another two days like this and I'll be amazed if I'm not lying in my underwear on a sheet spread out in front of the television, stray cans of SPAM and Easy-Cheese at my side and pet vomit in my ear.

I can't help it. I miss my ladies. I'm a wreck without 'em. In retrospect, I'm glad I figured out "left shoe on left foot, right shoe on ..." for 12 years between leaving home and meeting Mo.

Maine was a blast. Most of our worries about traveling with Hope proved for naught. She's a Grade A traveler who seems to enjoy the distractions and hubbub far better than lounging at home. She was fine on our frantic trip out, which involved waking up at 4 a.m., transferring airlines and terminals in New York and driving two hours to my parents' house.

She's been to the Maine coast at least four times now and seemed to enjoy those uniquely Atlantic sensations: touching sea urchins, grasping rocks, staring at the tides and all their possibility, smelling the sea air and dodging black flies.

I grew up in Bangor, 40 minutes from the coast. My parents still live there. Some of my favorite memories from childhood seem like cliches straight from Robert McCloskey or E.B. White: exploring tide pools, jumping on rocks, skipping stones, wandering just a bit farther out during low tide, muddying my knees looking for shells and generally wasting time by the water.

It was important to me to pass on those experiences to my children. I've talked to Hope a lot about what we would do when we got there and how much fun we'd have. I made the same promises to Will and never got to keep them, so it was profound to take Hope to Mount Desert Island and dip her toes in the chilly waters.

She cried. I knew she would. But I had to do it. It was a moment too long in the making, one of those instances in which you fore sake your baby's needs for your own. Ever the sport, she rebounded well and delighted in touching granite in no time.

She'll never remember. I will.

Now, if I can just find another 15 household projects or frozen pizzas to fill the void for the next 10 days.

Photo shoot

Years ago, deep in my bachelor wilderness, I had grand daydreams of fatherhood and what I'd be like as a pop. Long story short, you never fantasize about your shortcomings.

I would rule as a Dad. My awesomeness and generosity would know few boundaries. Parents would lobby me for advice. Like a grand pooh bah dispensing favors, I would impart morsels without giving away the secrets that would come so naturally.

Nine months in, I acknowledge that I'm a pretty good dad who still has a lot to learn. It seemed so easy for my parents. I thought it would be a snap to follow their lead and call it my own. But one thing I've learned: It isn't always intuitive to a 38-year-old who has spent much of his life refining the art of selfish pleasure. Time moves fast and you realize -- holy jeepers -- there's much you planned to do but haven't.

Like having professional portraits shot of your pride and joy. We have hard drives full of Hope's every bray, hiccup and smile, but none captured by anyone who knows what they are doing. It seems like a natural and rite of passage: Put your baby in her Sunday finest, trot her out to the studio, wave a lollipop in front of her face and pray for the best.

Somehow, it eluded us.

Fortunately, my brother, Steve, has willed himself into becoming a professional-caliber photographer. Always artistic and the son of an ace shutterbug, Steve somehow taught himself skills in about a year that it's taken others decades to master. This time last year, I was vaguely aware that he bought something called a ''camera." Today, I am in awe.



Steve converted my childhood bedroom into a makeshift studio, complete with multiple flashes, muted backgrounds and umbrella-type doodads whose names elude me. Our 12-year-old nephew, Matt, was his eager assistant, distracting Hopesy with toys, making silly faces and cooing "Work it, baby" as though he had spent a lifetime on the runways of Milan. Hope did the rest.



The session was cut short by a nasty bout of gas, but we think the results are remarkable. I'm lucky to come from such a talented family.

I left this morning from 10 great days in Maine, taking Hope to the coast, showing her sea urchins, dried seaweed and the salty mud of the Atlantic. We ate too much; celebrated my father's 70th birthday with food of the world, beer and an elaborate barbershop quartet performance with my niece, Kate, and nephew; yukked it up with my generous sister, Beth, and her hubby, Rob; ate my aunt Denise's guilty-pleasure Midwestern dip; watched too many bad movies; and bathed in the glow of the people I love the most.

Mo and Hope get to continue the fun for another 10 days. I get to go back to work. I miss them all terribly.



PS: Much more to report on Hope's first big vacation. Hours of video to distill and photos to sort. But once again, she exceeded our expectations and proved herself a trouper and party girl of the highest order.