Friday, August 24, 2007

Zzzzzzz

It's 3:30 in the morning and I've been kicked out of bed.


No, it’s not because of snoring, malodorous gas, or some late-night argument.


I'll explain, but first I'd like you to try something.


Imagine yourself mowing the lawn on a bright, crisp fall afternoon. The breeze keeps your lungs full of fresh, vibrant air, which only adds to the newly-discovered pleasure of wearing underwear designed for the opposite sex (just bear with me, please).


As your mind begins to wander, the lawnmower runs over a chicken carcass someone left laying around. The resulting noise startles you so much that you scream, lose your balance, and fall down.


Your clothing gets caught on the lawnmower somehow and you find yourself no longer wearing enough of it. As you pick yourself up off the ground, you notice your neighbor across the street sprawled on the ground in a heap of helpless laughter.


There was no point to that exercise. I just wanted to see if you’d do it. You sick pervert.


But here's one that does have a point: Imagine yourself in a foreign world where you don't understand anything. The only familiar and comforting presence you've ever known has abandoned you in a cage. You cry out until you’re hoarse, but there's no response.


Eventually you realize there is no point to expressing your needs, and you gradually become a mistrustful cauldron of repressed anxiety, like Rush Limbaugh.


Sadly, this is the reality for many American babies, whose misguided parents think they have to “teach” them to sleep independently, or else... God only knows what horrifying consequences could result if babies didn't learn independence. We would end up raising a generation of sissies!


This is just one of the myths my wife and I decided not to buy into once we started reading up on the increasingly popular trend of “co-sleeping.”


Another myth is that parents unknowingly injure or suffocate their babies. Recent studies have pointed out that this only tends to happen when the parents fall asleep drunk or high (it's a good thing Rush Limbaugh doesn’t have kids).


It's amazing how your sleeping patterns can change. Before our child was born, I slept like a meth-addicted howler monkey. Then I had an infant whose sleep I valued more than life itself because it was so elusive. My wife had to dance her to sleep to really fast music, and then remain with her all night.


(Often, it didn’t matter, because the dog would sneeze or something and we’d be in for another two hours of Brian Setzer Orchestra.)


Anyway, I learned to remain curled up on the edge of the bed without causing the slightest disturbance. Meanwhile, our daughter has gradually developed reasonable sleeping habits, although she sometimes insists on arranging herself lengthwise between her parents, thus forcing me out of bed with her feet.


Some people have told me they could never co-sleep because it would be too disruptive to their intimate relations. I say if your sex life was confined to your bed, it probably wasn’t all that exciting in the first place. And, as you’ve learned today, you can always explore alternative avenues to pleasure while mowing the lawn.


Sure, co-sleeping requires some sacrifices. But waking up to giggles and smiles instead of anguished crying has made it all worthwhile.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

My Vacation Diary

Once in a while I take my friends' advice and go away.


So this week I'm a travel writer. Travel writers gush over exotic places using the words “nestled,” “offers,” and “delight” over and over again.


As in, “Nestled in the southeastern corner of Penobscot County, Bangor is a lost tourist's delight, offering plenty of seedy gambling and second-rate lodging.”


Except travel writers are never that honest. As I present my vacation diary from last week, I'll do the best I can to describe my vacation last week without lying too much.


Day 1. If it were up to me, packing would be easy. Certain members of my marriage, however, find it necessary to plan for every conceivable circumstance, including the spontaneous random urge to make banana cream pie.


The Conventional Wisdom is, “Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it, even if you can't operate the manual stick shift because it's blocked by your spare mixing bowl.”


Day 2. We're here. Hampton Beach, New Hampshire, nestled between bland Portsmouth and surprisingly hip Exeter, has much to offer the discriminating traveler, such as armies of senior citizens who delight in turning themselves the color of beef jerky, and various pregnant women smoking and cursing at random men.


But wholesome families like us can still enjoy the acres and acres of soft sand, the warm surf, the gentle ocean breeze, and the carnival atmosphere.


Though there are a thousand people on the beach at any given moment, it's easy to delight in my own personal experience, be it riding the powerful waves at high tide or dozing off to the sounds of happy children and squawking gulls, only to awake and find that my family has covered my with a seven-foot tall mound of sand, probably in revenge for me packing the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the cooler, where they soaked up all the melting ice.


Our campsite is lovely, as well, although we are definitely “roughing it.” Public restrooms are a full twenty yards away, and we have to march all the way around to the other side of the camper to get to a fresh water spigot.


Day 3. Today we couldn't really get going, probably because our two-year-old got up in the middle of the night in order to announce, 34 times at the top of her lungs, that we need to be QUIET because people around us are trying to SLEEP.


So we spent most of the day poking around the campground. We notice that most of the sites are occupied by permanent residences, RV campers nestled between trees and surrounded with screen porches, landscaping, and satellite dishes.


Why pay a bunch of money to spend the summer in what is essentially a trailer park when you could have just stayed home and had basically the same lifestyle?


Day 4. We're back at the beach, enjoying the weekly free concert and mammoth fireworks display, along with overpriced calzones that I managed to get covered with sand. The next time I delight in offering to handle the food responsibilities, my wife is going to in nestle her fist into my teeth.


Day 5. You always hear that it's a bad idea to come back into Maine on a Friday afternoon, but the traffic was not all that thick, except around Kittery, Kennebunk, Portland, Freeport, Topsham, and Augusta. Also, some place called “The Yorks.”


Anyway, we made it home, just in time to nestle into bed and delightfully miss the deadline for this column. It was all worth it.