Government Shutdown is about People, stupid

I'd like to write about my kids. The boys had a big weekend at the Mini Makers Faire in Loveland. I'd also like to write about my wife. Despite being 8 months prego she chose to rough it in the mountains so I could live out my chainsaw fantasies. But my brain is frozen in frustration. It's spinning hot about how irresponsible our elected officials (and corresponding constituents) have become.

It seems that the government was shutdown long before it closed its doors. It's riddled with right wing sociopaths who claim it's their constitutional duty to spend three years on the taxpayer's dime deconstructing what a country wants and desperately needs. And now we see hundreds of millions of dollars siphoned into what has been in the works for months. The shutdown isn't a last-minute attempt to save the country from the Bogeyman; it's been the plan, the notion behind the smirks, to hijack a democracy and subvert the will of the people.

Some of my people.

The media seems to get confused (and/or intimidated) and besiege the spectacle over the person. Even if there is a person, they'd better be a spectacle. But, in the end, this government shutdown is about people, stupid. 

I'm people. You're people, too. And it's here, in an attempt to be a savvy rhetorician, I'll invoke my dad, who was cutting down dangerous beetle kill trees before the shutdown pushed him off the national forest. He just laid off four people.

More people: Sarah's work is cutting back.

Turns out I am writing about my wife and kids.

The Denver Broncos win on the road but lose an opportunity at home

Just a quick thing about missing the boat. And, yes, that's kind of a pun. Because in what could be Colorado's worst natural disaster EVER, people are looking to be buoyed by something...literally. The Denver Broncos, whether they deserve it or not, could be that flotation device. They are the biggest and most relevant sports franchise in the Rocky Mountain region. When there's a game the entire state turns orange and blue. People who aren't even football fans merge into the mayhem, often spending four or five hours on a Sunday erasing years of their life with queso and mounds of meat. Even if you're like me, and are weary of years devoted to cheering on what is a massive corporate entity, you still can't pry yourself from the anticipation of a Bronco game.

So with that huge, devoted following and multitudes more engaged in the sport, why not capitalize on the attention to get some help at home? A global audience watched as the press built up the game between brothers Eli and Peyton Manning as the "Manning Bowl," and eventually the pundits gushed to a rapt audience about how good the elder (Peyton) Manning was in leading his team. Meanwhile, almost a 1000 people are still unaccounted for in Colorado. Flood waters have crested in geographic swath larger than some states, thousands of homes have been destroyed, and thousands of people are without shelter. The Broncos aren't responsible for this, but the players should have been prepared by the organization to use their popular pulpit to support the people who have, without fail, supported them.

It's very simple. Give your players some quick talking points. A post-game interview could go from inane to awesome with a quick mention of how the victory was important but it was just a game. And then you tell the players to mention Denver Broncos dot com as a place where you can see how to help. It's a win/win. The players and team are seen as stewards of the community, and their fans are like, "Damn, that felt good." After all, we really did build their house, so the least they could do is help rebuild ours.

Remember the fans? Not so much.

Some might say that's depressing. Others with a marketing acumen could add that it takes away from the focus of building the drama and selling tickets. I totally disagree. There are people and organizations who have seen their popularity explode because of their involvement with the natural disasters. How many of you knew of a site called "Help Colorado Now" before the fires or the floods? How much more local news have you watched this week as compared to any other? It's almost like we're a third-world country with all of this attention and aid being delivered by helicopters. But we're not some remote location in dire straights. We're the Firstest of First-Worlds, and we should use all of our glitzy mass media tools to help those who need it. All it takes is a sincere comment from someone thrust into a popularity by his ability to throw a ball. That's not to belittle any of our sports heros, it's just a reminder of how big they are, and how little it takes for them to make a real difference. 

Can't Say Love

I stop cussing about the dog long enough to touch my wife. She's laid out in full sleep mode, her head buried in her favorite pillow. She looks dead. Her left arm has fallen away from her shroud. It crosses Paco's dividing line and is resting on my pillow.

I've come back from a funny movie and am inspired. I go to movies not so much to watch them, but to sit in a dark place and think. I love it when a movie truly pulls me away and plunks me some place where I can only hear the echoes my laughter...or the giggling children of terror. I think that could be why I yearn to watch scary movies (but can't handle them) is because fear is such an easy emotion to come by. It fills me up and none of the day's business has any room to linger. Tonight's movie, The World's End, was just funny and poignant enough to keep me from running myself weary on the mental treadmill of the same old same old (repeat.)

Something resonated from the film. The main character is a guy who once was somebody (or thought he was,) but has since fallen behind as he dwells in the past. The Glory Days that Bruce Springsteen sings about that I thought I'd never have to crane my neck to see. During the movie I wondered if I was that guy in my group of friends. I could be. I wondered if they thought of me that way. Actually, if I think of myself that way then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.

Sarah has a motion sensor in her sleep. I walk in the room and it clicks on. She asks, "what's up babe?" because clearly she senses my weight. The weight of the sighing chick--you know the girl who's always sighing so you'll ask her what's wrong? Oh god, I just realized that's me. Sweet shit, I just sighed thinking about it.

I tell her that nothing's up. And she knows my head is doing the mouse wheel. I won't be sleeping. She says something about getting to bed. I've been sick. So has she, and Quin has pink eye. Tomorrow is Monday. I can feel how tired I'm going to be.

I can't say love at this point because I don't feel I'm in the right space. I'll say it when everything is better and I'm certain Sarah can not only hear it, but also experience it, too. Did I really just think that?

Too late. I rest my head on her outstretched arm and lay my left hand on the tendon between me and her awesome pregnancy boobs. Thank you, Evolution, for one more incentive to stick around and protect my offspring. I'm thinking about how males really aren't all that difficult to please as I admire the supple connectivity of muscle between her body and her arm. Her arm so very intact to the whole. Or, I guess, part of the whole. She is whole, I realize, and I'm a hundred miles of Nebraska scattered. She is so real.

This is a sunflower in our garden. I speak in metaphors.

She asks me to get some sleep and I tell her I'll wait a little longer so I can get the kids up to pee. I like to think of myself as the "piss whisperer" because for about a year now I get the kids up just before midnight to avoid any accidents. They never even wake up really, and I get to hold them like they're babies again. I have no problem telling them that I love them. It never seems like a bad time for them to hear it. And I make that connection as I leave the bedroom. Sarah smiles, lifting a wave that rises from my pillow and lands on our dog.

I offer some parting words about how great our kids are. I feel a little douchey for so often regaling her about how good the children are, but am pretty sure that's a benefit to being with someone: you get to share all kinds of douchey things in a safe harbor from karma and consequences of hubris.

Relationships offer more benefits, of course. I remind myself to one day say them out loud. But tonight I'm hoping my ineffective communication will be enough.

Test Driving the Tesla Model S with the boys

It's weird how much I like this car. While one day I hope cars aren't a thing and our enlightened children levitate on telepathic dreams, right now the Tesla is our best option. The Model S is the electric sedan with more common sense gadgetry than Mary Poppins purse. Also, you can put the kids in the trunk.

I loved driving the Model S. It's crazy fast and can charge in the same plug you use your blender. The downside is the price. Right now you're looking at about $80,000. There are some incentives (like not having to buy gas and oil,) and in Colorado you get a $7500 cash rebate after you put $13,500 down. That's some solace, but not sure if it's enough to drive my family into bankruptcy. Although, living in a car wouldn't be so bad if it has wifi and a 17" screen.

Quin, Age 6. First grader.

What I'm here to discuss is toughness. It's somewhere in the blurred areas of delusion and reality but this little guy, who last year was the youngest and probably smallest in his school of 532, has stormed through the towering expectations (and bodies) of kindergarten and run with open arms to the next challenge: first grade.

First grade, as Quin may have told you, does not have "discovery time" and they "don't get a snack." These are the grave concerns shared by our son. Also, there is homework. A lot of homework. I didn't have homework until the fifth grade, and I don't think I actually did any of it until high school, but with the low tremor of foreboding in his voice, Quin has warned us of the specter of "lots of writing, reading and even math."

But, Quin, we think you can handle it.

You might recall that Quin was one of the angriest babies on the planet. He came out with some squeaks, and then became a quiet observer (as I've imagined any tiny human with a grumpy face would.) I remember, on day two of the silence, I said to Sarah, "Well, maybe we're just really good parents?" She laughed because neither of us knew what we were doing. A day prior they had to push us out of the hospital. One night you're resting in the warm womb of the maternity unit, the chair you're in created by women who want men to be just as uncomfortable as their wives, but you're surrounded by professional help and the world's greatest medical technology. There's even a closet full of free snacks. And then...an elderly nurse corrals you and your loved ones and briskly guides you into the cold cruel world. It's kind of like what a newborn goes through, but this time it's your whole family, and you're scared and grump-chirping at each other about how even though the baby is too small for the carseat, shoving stuffed animals like packing peanuts isn't going to make him any safer.

The outside world is harsh, and I don't know if you've ever seen a tiny infant in the impersonal steel and fabric of a used car, but it just seems wrong. The baby should be wrapped in soft, exotic cloths and carried home by a fleet of butterflies flanked by My Pretty Ponies and Sargent Pepper trumpets. The cartoon sun would climb the sky with a happy slide whistle and animated birds would join regional royalty in song. That, however, is not what happens when you take a baby home from the hospital. You bicker about exceeding 12 miles an hour while the mother weeps to the baby about being horrible parents. You don't even have a chance to try before you're already feeling someone else should take over. So when we got home and Quin didn't cry for a day, it felt like we'd truly conquered something.

At some point things changed. Maybe it was the morning when I was holding our new, little baby and one of the guys working on our house shot me with a nail gun. And that could be it altogether; the Skil saws the hammering, the smell of cigarettes from home-wrecked, halfway house inhabitants hired by our incompetent contractor all piled on my insecurity and fed right into our son. But about September 4th of 2007, Quin let loose. He let fly an anger and frustration that was not only loud and scary, but that would last until November.

We remember with great fondness being at our neighbors for dinner. They'd just had baby Jake five days after Quin. Jake's dad commented on how loud his son could cry. And then his son cried and it sounded like a distant goose. It was loud enough, however, to make our son cry, and when he did, it rattled their home. And we left that night huddled around our shrieking offspring hoping that no one would call social services. Our neighbors bid us a hearty farewell buoyed by the fact that we were leaving with the loudest crier.

Things would change again. Quin would eventually smile, but not until out of sheer sleep-deprived madness we loaded our baby, our dog and a small fridge for breast milk into our Toyota Corolla and drove nearly six thousand miles. After all, Quin seemed to like the car, so why not make it his life? It worked, or maybe he This is the actual first smile.took pity on us, but on November 7th, 2007, I believe, I caught our pissed off little man smiling for the camera. From that moment on, things changed. Our guy was a new man. No longer would he scream from 6pm until 2am; no longer would we destroy pilates balls by bouncing on them for hours at a time (that's a trick you parents of angry babies should consider.) No longer would I accuse Sarah of eating too much spicy food therefore upsetting our son's tummy. No longer would we whisper shout at each other about the whereabouts of burp rags after midnight. Our son would sleep.

Unfortunately, much of everything after that is a blur.

I do recall some of his benchmarks. In late 2009 he had his first joke: "When I fart it's like 'rawr' but when Daddy farts it's like 'RAWR'!" I was so proud. On his 100th day of kindergarten (which was a big deal with cupcakes and tedious little home projects like gluing 100 marshmallows to a piece of paper,) I asked Quin how he liked being in elementary school. He told me he liked it, and then he shared with me a little secret: He said that on the first day of school, as the magnitude of the situation settled upon him, he told himself, "Quin, this is kindergarten. If you're good you'll be good." I've never loved anything so much in my life. 

At first with parenthood you're simply shocked that there's a baby in your house, and then you've got these guys who are running, jumping and doing dangerous things. They get smarter and smarter and you find that their strengths are the biggest pain in your ass. Quin is a savvy little memory tycoon who I'm pretty sure recalls the uterus. I have to hide a crap toy for up to three years before I can throw it away. And, Quin, you can stop checking the recycle bin for kid art. I'm burning it now. Ha! Just kidding. That'll be in the winter.

I'm also impressed how you know how fast I'm driving relative to the posted speed limit.

For me, right now, to sum up Quin, all it takes is one picture. It's of this kid looking like there is clearly something wrong. His face is swollen like Jake Lamotta and he's got a crazy bump on his arm. It's his first week of first grade and life has pummeled him. Two mosquito bites, usually button-sized on a normal person, turn into angry gourds on this kid. So he's got a Cro-Magnon thing going on, and he's just had this random infection on his arm drained. According to Quin, he didn't cry when the nurse squeezed it, but he wanted to. Also, he reported that the resulting discharge shot into the nurse's hair. Sarah confirmed the story and that his little brother nearly fainted.

This is all going on with this guy--and there's the scary bowel thing--and I snap a photo of the happiest kid in the world. In the morning I'm not exactly a spinning wind chime of joy, but that doesn't matter to him. Neither does the facial swelling or the mysterious infection. He's cool. He's six now and he's in the first grade. The world is fickle but our guy carries his own anti-itch cream. Quin, buddy, you've got this.

We have Shawshanked through the shit tunnel

Literal is cool when it's figurative, or at least mistakenly so, but when you literally have a shitty summer...well that's something you wish was just a lazy cliche. Here, at the Ewy residence, we have slogged through more poo than when Andy Dufresne escaped from prison. We have Shawshanked through the shit tunnel and, as of right now, we're not sure if we're on the other side or not.

You see, the boys both ended up with peri-anal strep. Quin succinctly described it as "a sore throat in your butt." I'm not sure how badly it hurts the boys, I just now they've got something like Rudolph syndrome with bright red, Santa-guiding heinies. It's so bad that they have stopped pooping. The other night I lay awake wondering if Otto were going to explode. And he would eventually. Before that awful experience, however, he and his brother would have to be tortured by their musunderstanding parents.

I was pulling out all the tricks: the comparisons to other kids who were "probably using the toilet and riding two-wheeled bikes as I shout!" And even painting macabre scenarios of physical damage: "You're poop is going to rupture your tiny torso and fill up this house." Unfortunately, the boys love that that could be possible. They also have relished the opportunity to talk about nothing but poo. I admit that, on occasion, I'll break protocol and use a quick fart joke to gain their affection. It's an easier comedy audience than Russell Simmon's Def Comedy Jam.

So once we realized that we were indeed punishing children who were simply scared of the pain that pooping caused them--yes, mother, somewhere Freud is rubbing his hands and cackling--we became a fragile family of angry whisperers. At any moment shit could happen. We just need to handle it like adults. In other words, Sarah probably should take care of it.

Stubbor--resilient bastar--children, day 5: Somehow they're smiling.

Mind you, this has happened all summer. Otto had the peri-anal strep, and then Quin, and then Otto again. All summer. And much of that time they shared baths and wrestled and passed back and forth the sore throats in their butts. How did they get this? Apparenlty we're such bad parents we overlooked their having actual strep (a sore throat in your throat,) and it moved through their body and manifested itself in the Rolling Stones red-lip logo in their bums.

We've gone to the doctor about four times now and, with a combo of increased liquid intake and this magical stuff called Miralax, we have managed to get some movement. Actually, "some" is a bit light for the resolve-testing bowelquakes that have rocked this family. In scenes not unlike a birth, the boys have unleashed fantastic turds. These things are marvels. They are huge and, as Otto once stated, "like a baby animal." They're also like archaelogical records with our shit summer represented in layers. "Oh, look there's when we were carefree and eating pizza," I might say to Sarah, who's emotionally exhausted from helping a small boy wrestle out a cinder block. "And here's where we were down to just plums and prayer," I add as I beat the unflushable beast with a toilet brush.

A lot of details, but that's pretty much what you need to know about our summer. The big news is probably that for the first time ever the boys have been out of school and enjoying days of play with a nanny, a young woman who, after the last couple of months, has had tested her aspirations of working with children. 

One day your dreams are getting rich and famous and living in a castle in the sky. The next you're just hoping your boys will go poop. We're pretty close to that dream realized; now just to make sure we're all on schedule for school.

They say they don't keep score...

So Quin is the surviving sibling on the Englewood Rec Washington Nationals. Otto bailed because it was a little rough. And I quote: "A ball hit me in the nipple." At first I doubted his reasons for leaving the team, but now I can see that he may have been justified. Let's go ahead and roll the tape on a recent play in the Jason Park outfield.

Quin breaking his momma's heart while waiting for someone to hit the ball.

As you'll see below, action in the outfield is rare. It's suitcase-full-of-cash rare. 

Not sure who's all in on this action, but Quin is in the awkward squatty pose. (And I must be careful not to be too critical as I almost stepped on someone's baby to get these shots.)

A fourth kid, a "Joey" I think, joins in. Meanwhile, an Oriole rounds third base.

While it looks like they're going to get a break on the base running, Quin emerges as an early favorite to get the ball.

Even the distressed parent seems to have accepted this slight devation from traditional play.

She's got his shirt! She's got his shirt! Joey is distracted. And it seems they don't have to worry about the base runner.

While the girl goes for his pants, Joey is back for ball. A fourth appears to be simply out on the ground. Third base runner has found a bug.

Rising from the bodies, our boy seems to be victorious...over his own teammates. 

Third base runner might be sleeping.

Good job, son. Now don't gloat...just throw the ball into play...

Ah, what the hell. You earned it.

See all the action in this animated GIF.