You can find me at www.alongcamedaddyhood.blogspot.com.

Now and forever. I think.

When I first met Emma, she was just a puppy. Only a couple of months old, she sat out in front of Petco like all the other second-hand puppies with the ARK waiting for people to fall in love with them. I hadn’t been looking for a dog, but I innately love dogs so I felt obliged to look and maybe impart some affection to some of the ones who would spend most of their lives waiting (as though my head scratches and neck massages would drastically change their outlook on life).

She was sweet and cute and looked just like a black Lab puppy should save for her sock-like white feet. I rubbed her head and she didn’t seem particularly impressed by it. All the other dogs were spasmodically anticipating affection, but Emma seemed indifferent to me. I liked this.

Growing up with dogs, I had always planned on getting one. They were a natural part of my every day environment and being a bachelor, I needed a canine companion. They idea of a stoic yet loyal dog was something I wanted very much and with purebred prices being so high, rescuing a Labbish puppy seemed to be both charitable and economical.

And so began my life with Emma.

From the get go, I realize that the timing of my adoption was less than ideal. I had no fenced in yard for her to run around in and a large part of my day was consumed by classes and work. But impetuous as my decision was, I did love her.

My love was tested though, early and often. It seems that my canine model came with a hair-trigger bladder.

Returning from school? Pee. Returning from work? Pee. Returning from the mailbox? Pee. Speaking in a high-pitched voice? Pee.

As you can tell, most of my last two years of college is remembered through a urine-tinted haze. We tried breaking the habit, but it was hard-wired into her brain. Some dogs shake or play dead. Mine peed in basically every conceivable situation.

Once I moved to a place with a backyard, I thought her issues would improve. The backyard had several trees and was elevated with a clear view of the street running through our neighborhood, so she could keep tabs on the inner workings of our neighborhood.

But things got worse.

You know how cats will kill things and then present them to you? While I guess no one can be absolutely sure as to why they do it, we can agree that it evidences some kind of relationship with you and the cat. Maybe they are threatening you, maybe they are trying to teach you, or maybe they hope their kill impresses you.

Regardless, their presentation of a dead animal acknowledges that you exist as a relational entity to them. I never felt that dynamic with Emma. It was more like I was a conduit of food and water. Nothing more, nothing less.

The peeing never really went away, but it was soon rendered trivial with the behavior that was evolving. Watching Emma was like watching Toy Story’s Sid hone his sociopathy on helpless toys. I realize that puppies are inherently destructive, but this was something different. It was methodical and cold-blooded.

Along the way, I realized that my hopes for a rugged and tall Lab was to be a dream deferred. Emma remained small in height, but she grew significantly thick in the britches. For the life of Ashley and I, we couldn’t figure out why. We were feeding her the same amount of food we always had. Her exercise level didn’t dramatically increase. If anything it increased. Why was she getting so fat?

A casual walk into the depths of the backyard answered the riddle. It seemed that Emma was supplementing her dog food diet with frequent indulgences of high fat woodland critter options like squirrel and rat. I left the backyard feeling guilty that local wildlife was unaware that I was harboring a natural born killer.

But she didn’t limit her destruction to the backyard. On a night when I felt compelled to bring her inside to avoid the cold, she returned the favor by eating the kitchen floor. Not chewing part of or nibbling on. Eating the whole, frappin floor so much so that I had a completely new layer of previously forgotten linoleum throughout the entirety of the room.

In time, after couches, jackets, tables, and other assorted household items were destroyed, Emma and I reached an uneasy alliance. She would live freely outside and in return, I would provide her with food and a place to sleep.

I’m not happy that it got to that point. But her nature as Destructo seemed so inarguable that it was easier to facilitate than to rehabilitate.

I felt as helpless as Michael Myers’ mother.

This standoff worked for a while. Sure, some birds and neighborhood cats were collateral damage, but we had settled into an understood rhythm. Her domain was  the backyard. Ours was everything else. It was our version of Twilight’s werewolf/vampire truce except much less retarded and nobody sparkled in the sunlight.

For a while, everyone obeyed the truce and everyone got along.

But then Rowe happened.

It’s a funny thing to watch your affinity for your pets change once you have a child. It’s not that you love them less; you just gain a different perspective in how you relate with them. The love for your child is so profound and throttling that it starkly defines the terms of every other relationship you have.

Ashley and I both knew that Rowe’s first day home was the beginning of the end for Emma, but I had a hard time coming to grips with the necessary transition. For me, I felt like I owed her something. I personified some kind of relationship between the two of us where she was more like a problem child than a wayward animal.

But regardless of what she was owed, the reality was that she was like an inebriated Kanye West at an awards show. She was unpredictable — and that’s a terrifying possibility when your child’s vulnerability hangs in the balance.

Our other dog, Ajax, went outside today after Emma was gone and expectantly awaited her to come play with him. He waited for a while before coming back inside. I swear the look on his face said, “I know what you did.”

I couldn’t help but think that maybe he did know.

So Rowe is teething…Not just teething though. It’s more like TEETHING.

Something I’ve realized over the last year is that for all their linguistic limitations, babies are particularly adept at expressing their emotions. Perhaps they don’t meet our expectations of speech clarity, but they do put forth an unrelenting effort to convey their needs. It’s as though they realize their inefficient speech and to compensate, they escalate the volume and intensity of their protestations.

This week has been full of said protestations. Loud, angsty, temple-throbbing protestations.

I don’t begrudge him this because I suppose that if I had shards of teeth slowly descending through my gums that I probably would be similarly unpleasant.

Which is where we find our problem.

Essentially, this process provokes frustration and stress. Ingredients like a shrieking child, profoundly poopy diapers, poor appetites, and late night rampages are the fundamental elements of stress.

In and of themselves, these are not overly problematic things. But when intermingled, they work to undo our sanity. Justified as the descent into sanity might be, we still feel guilty.

The guilty feelings are so potent because we know that our ideal reactions would be those of grace, sensitivity, and calm in the frenzied face of his screaming mouth and swatting hands from 2am – 4am nightly. But those ideal reactions are generated from equally ideal behavior from Rowe.

Realistically, I’d like to say that our temperament is unconditional and not dependent on his interactions with us. It should be anyways. Maybe it will be one day.

But for now, under the influence of sleep deprivation, that notion is naive and dangerous, particularly if said by someone without kids.

So how do we reconcile how we feel versus how we should feel?

I don’t know. Endurance I guess?

Someone smarter than me once said that stress and money don’t make you a different person. They just make you more of who you actually are.

While we don’t have money, we do have a surplus of stress and what we’re finding out is that we’ll never be able to pull off the idealized concept of the perfect parents.

But who can? There’s this notion that you have to have everything figured out to be a good parent. You don’t. You just have to be consistent, loving and resilient. Mistakes will be made, but love is always an effective elixir.

Besides, we get like four years before they remember anything right? Right??

Becoming a father ushers in so many hopes and dreams for your child. There’s a natural inclination to pass down the wisdom of experience even with the caveat that your child is to become his own person with or without your advice.

But that doesn’t stop my heart from overflowing with love and hope for Rowe. While there are some futures I secretly root for, I can honestly say that I don’t worry about the passions and hobbies he will develop. There are some areas where I am more proficient than others and that I selfishly hope we can share in. But I am equally open to his pursuit of happiness in ways that are less than relatable to my experiences.

But there is one thing I will not allow. I will not negotiate it, won’t support it, and cannot permit it regardless of what he feels.

I will never support Rowe entering into the reality TV realm.

When I pray, there are many things I pray for: Health, wisdom, discernment, etc. But I also pray that I will never suffer from the indignity of watching Rowe make an idiot of himself on television.

I pray that his presence is never seen on The Real World, COPS, or The Bachelor. Is that too much to ask for? (As an addendum to this list, I would also prefer that Rowe never be interviewed by local news….after a tornado…with a trailer park as the backdrop.)
Let me ask you this: In the 20+ years of The Real World, has there ever been a single male cast member that you would have your son emulate? The short answer: No. (And if you are wondering, I did include this season’s ex-dude and transsexual, Katelynn Cusanelli in my vetting for a reputable Real-Worlder. Not surprisingly, her sex-change really hurt his/her chances at being example-worthy.)

Do you know how many nights I wake up in the throes of a nightmare where Rowe is apprehended by his mullet-haired head on COPS, while wearing a grease-stained wife-beater? I must have missed the chapter on night terrors concerning your child’s future in What to Expect When You Are Expecting.

And as for The Bachelor, let’s be clear: I watch. I’m not joining the fan club or anything, but I watch. But it’s more a bewilderment with the belief that the process of truly loving someone can be distilled into a camera-influenced 2-month(ish) period. But I do watch and will continue to watch with a skepticism that is framed with fascination.

But the fear is that if Rowe ends up on The Bachelor, he A) has an incredibly skewed idea about what love is, B) is an insatiably attention-hound or C) will be unable to use any adjective other than “amazing” to describe a woman.

Clearly, I want the world for Rowe and will be happy only if he is truly happy. I want him to discover and pursue what he loves. Just not on Temptation Island or Bromance.

So I’m supposed to do something in conjunction with this list like tell you to do your own list and send it to 12 people or kittens in Abilene will die…or something like that. Actually, I may be a little hazy on the details.

At any rate, let’s do this, 10 Random things.

1. I discover good music 5 years after everyone else. And no I don’t mean Shakira.

2. I am a super-dramatic vomiter. I find that embracing the bodily function of regurgitation helps get it over with quickly and if that means emitting a high pitched shriek like that of a grade school girl, then color me feminine.

3. I love Zombie movies. Even though they ALL follow the same plot and structure, I am fascinated with the zombie ideal.

4. I hate cornhole. I hate the name, I hate the boards, and I hate the trash talk that invariably comes with it.  Essentially, it’s a homeless man’s version of horseshoes but with a name way, WAY crappier.

5. I have declared a jihad against Nicolas Cage. He is a brutally awful actor. He is obsessed with Elvis. He named his son Kal-El. He was in The Wicker Man. He’s a more cliché and less accomplished Keanu Reeves. His hair is inexplicably bad. He looks like a younger Gollum. And finally he actually made a movie called Bangkok Dangerous. These are the facts.

6. I love teen soap dramas. It started with Dawson, progressed with to the O.C. and now I’m ashamedly involved with Gossip Girl.

7. I read the newspaper to feel smarter, but the news is typically outdated and the articles are agenda-driven and editorialized. I think it is just more of a token thing now like a pocket-watch or VCR.

8. I’m not completely ready to close the book on aliens.

9. In that same vein, I’m a major conspiracy theorist. Oswald did not act alone, did we really land on the moon, Michael Jordan gambled on the NBA, and the LAPD was involved in Biggie Smalls’ death.

10. I’m a garlic bloodhound. If you have had garlic within the past 72 hours, I know about it. You may not realize I know, but trust me, I know. My nose is unparalleled when it comes to picking up garlic breath.

P.S. Garlic breath is somewhere between burnt hair and heat-festered diapers on the Fantastically Awful Smells Scale.

Taking a baby anywhere in the winter feels like a time trial on Double Dare. There are blankets, baby carriers to be hustled, cars to be warmed, and tiny little feet to be sock-covered.

But fundamentally, a trip to the doctor feels a bit like Russian Roulette. It’s great for the purposes of check-ups and immunizations, but the waiting room presents a formidable gauntlet to a vulnerable immune system.

We went this past Thursday because Rowe didn’t seem to be feeling his all-time best. Was the trip necessary? Probably not. But we prefer to err on the side of caution with him so we made the appointment.

The epilogue to this story is that he was fine. Negative for RSV, positive for awesomeness, and confirmed teething. However the main conflict of the story arose from the predicament of the waiting room.

Naive and ignorant as I was before being a father (and still am actually), I did not know that pediatricians segregate their waiting rooms between the sick and the well babies. On the surface, this approach seems suitable. Why expose the healthy babies to the sick ones if it’s not necessary?

But what of the babies who are neither totally well or totally sick?

Is it necessary for them to be banished to the sick side where infection and exposure is a certainty? I understand the plight of determining how sick is too sick, but I couldn’t stand the thought of Rowe soaking up the buffet spread of germs on the sick side of the room , so while Ashley checked us in, I scampered to the safety of the healthy side. Rowe and I set up in a distant corner of the room so as to avoid detection and skeptical glances. When Ashley returned, we contemplated switching sides and honoring the code of the pediatrician’s waiting room.

Our glance to the other side of the room was met with rows of seats that were filled to capacity and saturated with both children and parents alike who were hacking, sneezing, sniffing, and groaning.

Just then, a mother and child burst through the double doors that bisected the waiting room into the sick and healthy halves. With a tone equal parts panicked and stern, she yelled, “GIT YOUR HINEY TO THE RESTROOM, SON!”

The little boy looked like a deer that had somehow ended up in a suburban backyard: Clueless and frantic. Unable to heed his mother’s command, he sprayed a brown surge of vomit from the door’s entrance to the check-in desk. His spewage had essentially acted as a Berlin Wall of sorts. No one on either side would be crossing over his liquid regurgitations until the sawdust had settled.

I try to avoid misappropriating God’s influence in my life to the trivial matters, but at this moment, I felt that God was clearly advising us to stay on the well side. We did, moments later we were summoned to the privacy of our examination room, and Rowe’s clean bill of health vanquished me from any feelings of guilt.

Just another trip to the doctor.

January is always a time when optimism and regret similarly bloom. 2008 was a year with some big moments with Rowe obviously being the most significant. The past year was undeniably his year as we found out that he would be coming right as spring was arriving. Most of what occurred (and will be remembered) was directly related to him and most all of it is drenched in happiness.

But as hard as it is to see 2008 outside the prism of Rowe, there is a roll call of big events that also happened throughout the year.

It seemed to be a year where God spoke very clearly through numerous failures and dead ends. It’s funny how we rarely consult God when we feel like we have a great idea or plan, but when our plans invariably go awry we are eager to seek Him out to salvage whatever is left.

There were personal shortcomings, professional failures, and a healthy dose of discouragement. Old friends drifted and new relationships emerged. Fresh interests and renewed talents emerged.

But even in the face of some of the less than ideal happenings of this year, I have an overwhelming feeling that my compass is pointed in the right direction. If that comes across as a boast, keep in mind that I write those words with a decent amount of debris just behind me. I just turned 26 and this is the first time I feel like I have any kind of definitive clue as to what I should be doing.

One of my devotions recently came from Genesis 50 when Joseph’s brothers come to him. They ask for mercy from Joseph for all the terrible things they did to him through their conspiracies against him. Joseph is quick to grant forgiveness because had the evil designs of all his brothers not happened, he wouldn’t be where he was.

I can relate to being in the middle of the aftermath of regret.  Aimless. Inefficient. Wasteful. Failure. All of these things still sit in my not-so-distant rearview mirror. But instead of these things being held against me, I think God is using those experiences to prepare me for the path He has for me.

But like I said, everything else pales in comparison to the magnitude of Rowe. Anything bad, embarrassing, or regretful that happened in ’08 is sweetened and salvaged by his birth. I guess you could call him, Rowe the Equalizer for helping out the good and the bad of ’08.

So leesten…
In keeping wit my tradishun of new year’s resolushuns, Ajax wanted to shar wit you ezactly what Ajax will be hoping to do dis year.

1.    Lose de weight
Les be honest. Dere is no need to tiptoe around de ishue. Ajax has put on a fuw pounds. Es no big deal really when you tink of all de stress dere has been. And I mean honestly es dad’s falt. He has been getting de chophouse filet mignon chunky style food. But Ajax does need to run de stares a bit more and maybe not beg for treets so much you know?

2.    Ezact revenge on Rodger
Ajax ais all about de okashunal hijinx and whatnot but dis guy is making it personal. He is pooping in my yard too often for it to be a coinsidense like he clams. My sisser Emma sed dat rodger is making a punk out of Ajax and if I don’t do someting den I will lose respect among all de dogs in my nayborhood. She den told me about some tings I could do to Rodger which was probably de sorce of my nitemares.

3.    Get my GED
It es sad dat in dis day and time, alodda peeple still have a prejoodice against peeple witout high skoll deplomas. Ajax applied to be a barista at Starbux and de manager said he coldnt hire me. He woodnt tell me why but I know es becaws I checked de box dat said not a high skool graduate. Some peeple can be so shallow, you know?

4.    Find my biological mudder
I love my mom and dad bery much but it is important for me to find de women responsible for my life. In my dreems, I believe her to be a beyotiful white lab. Emma sez dat God had too much vanella ice cream and pooped me out, but I jus tink dat she is jealus of me. I tell her dat my dad is probubly someone famus like Bob Barker or Regis Fillbin because I am so good looking and smart, but I wood be ok if he was jus a normal husky. Ajax does not find his wurth in pedigree.

5.    Dis is de year Ajax makes it on de Real Wurld
Dis is ridiculous. Ajax is such a compelling case for a roommate on de real world. Esn’t de real world about pushing de envelope and diversity? Alo? Ajax is your man. Don’t dey have a lady who used to be a dood on the new cast? Dats weirder den a dog right?  De old Jax wood be a hit wit de ladies because he has de soul of a latin lover. And after the show was over wit, dey wood invite me to all de Real Wurld / Road Rules Challenges becaws not only do I make good tv but I can also be diabolickal and create drama. I wood play de species card and be like, “Oh is it becaws Ajax is a dog? Dat is so speciesist!”  And dey wood be all like, “No, Ajax it is cool. I love dogs. I have a dog. All my freends have dogs.” And den I wood say, “Do you put leashes on your dog?” And dey would look at me blankly and I wood be like, “Ajax sees your soul for what you really are.” And den I wood walk away all dramatic and look over my sholder at de camera all dramatik like before de commershul break. Ajax was made to be on tv, you know?

In our continuing march through the perilous jungles of parenthood, Ashley and I were recently encountered with the stress of a newborn’s sickness and all the related fear and worry that comes with it.

My own scholarly approach towards sickness is to ignore an illness until it demonstrates some worthiness. By this immensely flawed logic, the heavy hitters (think kidney stones, bronchitis) will prove their seriousness and the sinus infections / colds will run their ineffectual courses through my immune system. There’s a good chance that part of the avoidance is due to the co-pays and mandatory weigh-ins but that could also just be speculation.

But when the sufferer is Rowe, I scrap my policy of avoidance very quickly.
It’s a funny thing how our behaviors bend in the light of different situations. When considering the difference in how I treat my maladies vs. Rowe’s, I couldn’t help but think about how this disparity extends into other parts of my life.

When I think about the deadly serious way we interrogated the pediatrician and the iron-fisted enforcement of his recommended treatment, I wonder why it is that when it comes to the treatment of my faith that I become so cavalier with what is recommended of me.

There’s a safety-net mentality that unfortunately stains the thought process behind my daily faith. This emboldens me to play fast and loose with the direction and desire God has for my life. But in all matters pertaining to Rowe, I carefully consider each action and the ensuing consequence.

Why is it that I don’t pursue the safety of my spiritual health that diligently?

I’m grateful that God continues to cater to us within our relatively insignificant circumstances. He’s always refining. Always repackaging His will for us so that it will speak to our ever-changing circumstances more perfectly than it did yesterday.

For me, it was in the frenzy of fear and worry about Rowe’s health. Where else would my attention be? I suppose He could have chosen to hide His message for me in a segment on the 700 Club. Or it could have been spelled out on a church marquee I pass on my way home from work.

But He met me where He knew I’d be.

I mean I’m happy for Marley and ereting but de dood was a major sellout right? At sum point es like dood you gotta respeckt yourself you know? Ajax wood nevur sell his life storee to be poortrayed by sum B-list actors. Jennifer Anneston? Reely? Wuz Angielina bizzy? Oh das right…bizzy steeling Brad Pitt. Ohhh Burn by Ajax.

But seriously dough, wear es all de canine talent in hollywood? I would be afraad dat de creepy dood from Hollywood Cheewawa would end up playing de old Jax. Rin Tin Tin is not walking through dat door and dat kina depresses me you know?

Neways, like I wuz saying, dis keed is making me crazee. At furst I thought dat it would be like a new bone smell or sumthing you know? After a cuple of weeks he wood be outside wit emma for good. But mom and dad are steel preddy obsessed wit him. Let me give you an ezample.

For chrismuss last yeer, I got a stocken wit biscuts, cookees, and chu strips and my present wuz a new Dudley de Duck. Dis yeer? Dad tossed me a pig ear and sed, “Mary Chrismus, bud.” I wuz all, if dat is all den you are no freend of mine, but i’m preddy sure he wasnt leestening.

I know, rediculus right? Ajax’s furst rule of freenship is dat Ajax is not yur bud untell you show him de gifs. I asked for a new bed, a drumset, and de furst seeson of Ceezur Milan: Dog Whesperer and dey think dat a pig ear chew is gunna fly? Is dere a Ceezur Milan for hoomans becaws i’m preddy close to callin dem.

Dat wood be hilareeus. Ceezur would be yeeling and poking dem in dere bellees so dat dey would feed me mor and take me fur walks mor. Dat shuld so be on TV, you know?

Danks for leestening Elmo. Yur a preddy cool dood. Yur eyes are kina beeg and creepy, but yur a good leestener. We shoud do dis again sumtime.