I've Childproofed the House, but They're STILL Getting In

As I sit staring, dazed, at the blinking cursor before me, it is a battle to even remain upright. Sore, stiff joints, eyes glazed, so worn-out from the sleep deprivation that I simply cannot sleep by natural means, the only sound I hear is the computer’s cooling fan. My ears strain through the deafening silence. It’s coming, I just know. . . Any second, now. . .

The logical observer would examine the symptoms; pain about all the extremities, sleeplessness, paranoia, the claim that I can actually feel my hair growing, and realize that one of two possible scenarios has played out recently. They would say something like, “Since copious amounts of alcohol weren’t involved, we can rule out the subject’s renewed attempt at an advanced Physics degree, so there can be only one unequivocal rational: Congratulations!”

Yes, for the fourth time, now, we have experienced the wonders of childbirth, from the days of ridiculously horrid hospital food to the bountiful supply of pain medication. Our lovely little daughter was born via cesarean section, a gruesomely interesting procedure whereby the doctor removes the baby by placing the entire contents of the abdomen on the woman’s chest. Of course, the mother is awake during the surgery, though under the effect of a spinal block, allowing her to feel nothing but the pressure of the doctor’s hands as he/she operates. That is, at least, what I was told. Judging from my wife’s constantly changing expressions, however, it was probably a good thing her arms were tied down.

Gory details aside, though, the procedure went very well, and soon we were being kept awake in the wee hours of the night by the hospital’s nursing staff who had the impeccable sense to come in to check on my wife every time the baby fell asleep. Three days of this, combined with meals of starch and bulk carbohydrates, and a ‘father’s foldaway bed’ that was as comfortable as the average bunk of plywood had me longing for the scarce few minutes I would be able to spend in my own bed upon returning home.

It is, at this point, time I set the record straight on a few things. While I find waking up every few hours through the night a tad annoying, I do not, for a minute, think I am ‘too old for this’. As my one-child or no-child friends will, no doubt, find it in their hearts to tell me, we do know what causes children and, yes, I am aware that contraceptive agents have been around for a few centuries. People think it’s wonderful that you have children, but tell them you have more than two and they look at you like you’re the latest circus freak. It’s a puzzlement to them how or why anyone can care for such a family, when they, themselves probably came from a group of three or more sibs. Let me tell you all a tiny little secret. . . Once you’ve had two, any other additions don’t seem like that much trouble at all.

Babies are a smart lot, though. They know from the outset just who is in charge of your particular situation. They scream, you come and feed them. They cry, you run to change their nappies. It continues on through early childhood. My oldest daughter could con just about anyone into doing her bidding with the ‘puppy dog eyes’ routine. Couple that with the fact that she can just about figure out any mechanical item you place in front of her, and we have the makings of an evil genius, all by the age of six. Sure, they’re sweet and loving when you’re around, but turn your back for a minute and you suddenly have a particle accelerator humming in your basement, ready to turn your neighborhood to glowing powder at the flip of a switch.

To stave off the holocaust that could ensue at any moment, I try to keep them busy. My oldest son and daughter like to putter around with me in the shop for short bits at a time, and as the others catch up there will be more for us to explore and create. Little things I learned many years ago are so interesting again because, in their eyes, it’s all brand new. No, I’m not too old for this; I’m too enthralled to want it to stop.

Welcome home, little Sabrina.

Dazing Missed Drivers

Having had the opportunity to be very young during the seventies I, fortunately, remember very little of them. I missed the long lines at the gas stations, but I do remember the high prices, and I remember the elation on my father’s face the day we were driving home from my grandfather’s and he spotted a station that had dropped to $.99 for regular.

We, as a nation, have been conditioned to believe that whenever we want or need something, it will be there waiting for us to purchase. The definition of ‘inalienable human rights’ has become a bit skewed in our society; a society in which a large number of people expect instant gratification while a much larger number struggle just to feed their families, or even to find shelter on the streets of our cities.

The unfortunate truth is that our demands are on finite, non-renewable resources. We are headed for a point called ‘Peak Oil’, during which our demands will exceed the world’s supply. When will it occur? Experts calculate sometime within the next decade. Some are predicting even before this year is out.

The obvious answer to the question, “what do we do?” is conserve. We used to hear that word all the time in the seventies and early eighties, and it has since gone away. Entire science lessons in early grade school were devoted to teaching a generation of children to turn the lights out when they leave the room and to chastise their parents when they take off too fast from a stoplight. Now, in a time when we must reduce our dependence on foreign resources, we must revisit those ‘egg under the gas pedal’ days.

I can already see people’s noses scrunching up at the idea. It’s so easy to complain about $3.38 per gallon for gasoline, but so difficult to do anything to reduce our consumption of it. People still pass me on the interstate like I’m going backward. I was, admittedly, happier than I should have been when a neighboring state raised their speed limit to 70 M.P.H., but I normally only drive about thirty interstate miles when I’m there, anyway. Essentially, that means I’m only arriving 2.4 minutes faster. Why bother? Remember, the ‘speed limit’ is a friendly suggestion. The state is telling you that you may go that fast if you feel the need to, as long as you don’t go beyond it.

So yes, America, that is me in the outside lane, driving somewhere between 60 and 65 M.P.H., even though the signs on the roadside say 70. You may swear at me profusely, you may wave at me with a reduced amount of fingers as you pass by. . . I promise I’ll use all of mine when I wave back. But, then, you could join me in saving money and conserving our nation’s resources. I may cover five fewer miles in an hour, but I don’t mind leaving a bit earlier and, couldn’t we all use more stress-free mornings?

Save Our Souls. . .

In times such as these, it’s hard to tell which is the greater disaster; the unbridled fury of nature gone mad, or the oblivious nature of humans in large groups. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Federal Emergency Management agency have both expressed concern over the possibility of a catastrophic hurricane striking New Orleans. The former proposed a study of how the city could be protected in such a situation (research ordered by the current administration not to be undertaken), and the latter stated that it was “one of the three most likely disasters to strike the United States”.

And yet, even amid warnings from the federal government, and FEMA, the city and state government acted as though it were a rather large surprise.

For many days the nation watched Katrina bearing on the Florida peninsula, meteorologists all scratching their heads at the fact that she strengthened over land. She moved into the gulf, defiantly ignoring their predictions, meandering dangerously toward the Louisiana coast as she built to horrifying strength. Thousands were left stranded, unable to flee.

More than four days after feeling the storm’s fury, troops have arrived in the city bearing food and medical supplies while, at the same time, a convoy of busses arrived to begin transporting refugees from the devastated city. Mayor Ray Nagin stated in an interview that the people were “holding on by a thread” and asked, “who can we depend on? Only God knows”. In what could be eligible for the ‘Understatement of the Year Award’, President Bush stated of the relief effort, “The results are not enough”.

Lt. General Steven Blum, commander of the National Guard, said that 7,000 guardsmen would be in the city by Saturday. Not exactly a rousing statement of hope, some people claim, since we seem to be able to deploy thousands of troops to any point on the globe in so much less time. People are quick to say the military operation in Iraq is related to the events in New Orleans, as funds for the city’s flood control projects dried up with more dollars being funneled into the war. What many civilians do not realize is that the military is a rather large bureaucratic beast, and that it takes time to mobilize such a large effort with any real amount of useful precision.

Army Lt. General Russel Honore said that “It’s not our fault. The storm came and flooded the city”. We must remember that the loss and/or restructuring of the wetlands surrounding the city that would have lessened the storm surge was the result of policies set forth not just by the Bush administration, but largely by its predecessor.

Enough is enough, however. No matter the intentions, noble or righteous, we are so imbedded in operations overseas that are ‘ensuring our security’ that we cannot even help our own adequately. A major metropolitan area of over 400,000 people sinks into filth and anarchy within our own borders, and rather than help, people are rushing to blame administrative officials. The entire situation is summed up in the words of a survivor, interviewed in the shadow of the Superdome, “It’s like the people have lost their souls”.

Let the world be, America. The neighbors will be fine. We need to lend a hand and take care of the family.