Before the Law stands a doorkeeper on guard. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country who begs for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot admit the man at the moment. The man, on reflection, asks if he will be allowed, then, to enter later.
‘It is possible,’ answers the doorkeeper, ‘but not at this moment.’
Since the door leading into the Law stands open as usual and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man bends down to peer through the entrance.
When the doorkeeper sees that, he laughs and says: ‘If you are so strongly tempted, try to get in without my permission. But note that I am powerful. And I am only the lowest doorkeeper. From hall to hall keepers stand at every door, one more powerful than the other. Even the third of these has an aspect that even I cannot bear to look at.’
These are difficulties which the man from the country has not expected to meet; the Law, he thinks, should be accessible to every man and at all times, but when he looks more closely at the doorkeeper in his furred robe, with his huge pointed nose and long, thin, Tartar beard, he decides that he had better wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at the side of the door. There he sits waiting for days and years. He makes many attempts to be allowed in and wearies the doorkeeper with his importunity.
The doorkeeper often engages him in brief conversation, asking him about his home and about other matters, but the questions are put quite impersonally, as great men put questions, and always conclude with the statement that the man cannot be allowed to enter yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, parts with all he has, however valuable, in the hope of bribing the doorkeeper.
The doorkeeper accepts it all, saying, however, as he takes each gift: ‘I take this only to keep you from feeling that you have left something undone.’
During all these long years the man watches the doorkeeper almost incessantly. He forgets about the other doorkeepers, and this one seems to him the only barrier between himself and the Law. In the first years he curses his evil fate aloud; later, as he grows old, he only mutters to himself. He grows childish, and since in his prolonged watch he has learned to know even the fleas in the doorkeeper’s fur collar, he begs the very fleas to help him and to persuade the doorkeeper to change his mind.
Finally his eyes grow dim and he does not know whether the world is really darkening around him or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. But in the darkness he can now perceive a radiance that streams immortally from the door of the Law. Now his life is drawing to a close. Before he dies, all that he has experienced during the whole time of his sojourn condenses in his mind into one question, which he has never yet put to the doorkeeper.
He beckons the doorkeeper, since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend far down to hear him, for the difference in size between them has increased very much to the man’s disadvantage.
‘What do you want to know now?’ asks the doorkeeper, ‘you are insatiable.’
‘Everyone strives to attain the Law,’ answers the man, ‘how does it come about, then, that in all these years no one has come seeking admittance but me?’
The doorkeeper perceives that the man is at the end of his strength and that his hearing is failing, so he bellows in his ear: ‘No one but you could gain admittance through this door, since this door was intended only for you. I am now going to shut it.’
Every day, in showers across the world, people have thoughts. Some of them are better than others. This is a list of those thoughts.
We’ll continue to update this list weekly, as more thoughts are had.
When medication says “do not operate heavy machinery” they’re probably mainly referring to cars, but my mind always goes to forklift.
A guy can decline an invitation by saying his girlfriend won’t let him go and everyone will likely understand. But if a girl declines an invitation by saying her boyfriend won’t let her go, people will likely get concerned.
My parents taught me to be kind and humble, honest and hardworking, and to save an unnecessary fuckton of plastic bags under the sink.
Waterboarding at Guantanamo Bay sounds super rad if you don’t know what either of those things are.
The Onion might go bankrupt because they can’t compete against the reality now.
There should be a millenial edition of Monopoly where you just walk round the board paying rent, never able to buy anything.
UPS will leave a $900 video card on my porch without even knocking but I have to sign for a $10 pizza.
Sleep should be rolled over. Like “Oh, you got 20 hours of sleep today? Cool man, you don’t need sleep for the next three days.”
Fitbits are just like Tamagotchis, except the stupid little creature you have to keep alive is yourself.
As a Dad, I wish developers would make a game where player two helps you just by mashing random buttons.
My way of flirting is looking at the person I’m attracted to and hoping they’re braver than I am.
I just realized that whenever I hear a “… walk into a bar” joke, Ive been picturing the same bar my whole life. I wonder if it exists somewhere or if its just a mesh of different bars I saw on tv as a kid.
It’s weird how “Fact-checking” and “News” are treated like two separate concepts nowadays.
Over the past year I’ve taken so many “before” pictures of my body while telling myself im going to start working out, I basically just have a slideshow of me getting fatter.
Humans are really bad at recharging, it takes about 8 hours charge for 16 hours of use.
Even if I agree with your bumper sticker 100%, I still think less of you for having a bumper sticker.
As a child, whenever I saw a limousine I always expected there was someone rich or famous inside. Now when I see a limousine, I expect it’s a bunch of trashy high school kids.
A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them. “Not very long,” answered the Mexican.
“But then, why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more?” asked the American. The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.
The American asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs … I have a full life.”
The American interrupted, “I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat.
“And after that?” asked the Mexican.
With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise.”
“How long would that take?” asked the Mexican.
“Twenty, perhaps 25 years,” replied the American.
“And after that?” the Mexican asked.
“Afterwards? That’s when it gets really interesting,” answered the American, laughing. “When your business gets really big, you can start selling stocks and make millions!”
“Millions? Really? And after that?”
“After that you’ll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends.”
I have always enjoyed watching/listening to commencement speeches on YouTube. Aside from being motivational and making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like tequila, they also help balance/cancel out the other crap I watch on YouTube like this video of a thrilling marble race. Let’s face it. You know it isn’t good to watch TV all the time, but if you’re watching the History channel, or some period drama like The Crown, you can at least convince yourself that you’re watching something educational. RIGHT?
For the last several years, my favorite commencement videos on YouTube, were these two speeches given by Denzel Washington and Charlie Day. However, I recently stumbled upon this speech, given by David Foster Wallace and it has taken the top spot. Unlike many commencement speeches, David doesn’t use his 20 minutes to discuss how members of this graduating class will go on to change the world. Instead, he focuses on the “large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches,” what life is really like after college. The 9-5 grind. Sitting in traffic. Getting stuck at the grocery store. Going to bed early only to wake up and do it all again the next day.
This speech certainly would have resonated with “pre-daddy” Tom,however, the daily grind is now magnified, and David’s message and perspective is needed now more than ever.
Below I have included audio of the speech via YouTube, as well as the typed transcript, (if you want to be discreet with your time killing at work.) It’s a bit of a read, and about a 23 minute video, but I promise you it’s worth your time and attention.
Without further ado.
This Is Water
By: David Foster Wallace
Given to the 2005 Graduating Class of Kenyon College
“Greetings parents and congratulations to Kenyon’s graduating class of 2005. There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes “What the hell is water?”
This is a standard requirement of US commencement speeches, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story thing turns out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of the genre, but if you’re worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to you younger fish, please don’t be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about. Stated as an English sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you on this dry and lovely morning.
Of course the main requirement of speeches like this is that I’m supposed to talk about your liberal arts education’s meaning, to try to explain why the degree you are about to receive has actual human value instead of just a material payoff. So let’s talk about the single most pervasive cliché in the commencement speech genre, which is that a liberal arts education is not so much about filling you up with knowledge as it is about “teaching you how to think.” If you’re like me as a student, you’ve never liked hearing this, and you tend to feel a bit insulted by the claim that you needed anybody to teach you how to think, since the fact that you even got admitted to a college this good seems like proof that you already know how to think. But I’m going to posit to you that the liberal arts cliché turns out not to be insulting at all, because the really significant education in thinking that we’re supposed to get in a place like this isn’t really about the capacity to think, but rather about the choice of what to think about. If your total freedom of choice regarding what to think about seems too obvious to waste time discussing, I’d ask you to think about fish and water, and to bracket for just a few minutes your scepticism about the value of the totally obvious.
Here’s another didactic little story. There are these two guys sitting together in a bar in the remote Alaskan wilderness. One of the guys is religious, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of God with that special intensity that comes after about the fourth beer. And the atheist says: “Look, it’s not like I don’t have actual reasons for not believing in God. It’s not like I haven’t ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the camp in that terrible blizzard, and I was totally lost and I couldn’t see a thing, and it was 50 below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out ‘Oh, God, if there is a God, I’m lost in this blizzard, and I’m gonna die if you don’t help me.’” And now, in the bar, the religious guy looks at the atheist all puzzled. “Well then you must believe now,” he says, “After all, here you are, alive.” The atheist just rolls his eyes. “No, man, all that was was a couple Eskimos happened to come wandering by and showed me the way back to camp.”
It’s easy to run this story through kind of a standard liberal arts analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those people’s two different belief templates and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Because we prize tolerance and diversity of belief, nowhere in our liberal arts analysis do we want to claim that one guy’s interpretation is true and the other guy’s is false or bad. Which is fine, except we also never end up talking about just where these individual templates and beliefs come from. Meaning, where they come from INSIDE the two guys. As if a person’s most basic orientation toward the world, and the meaning of his experience were somehow just hard-wired, like height or shoe-size; or automatically absorbed from the culture, like language. As if how we construct meaning were not actually a matter of personal, intentional choice. Plus, there’s the whole matter of arrogance. The nonreligious guy is so totally certain in his dismissal of the possibility that the passing Eskimos had anything to do with his prayer for help. True, there are plenty of religious people who seem arrogant and certain of their own interpretations, too. They’re probably even more repulsive than atheists, at least to most of us. But religious dogmatists’ problem is exactly the same as the story’s unbeliever: blind certainty, a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn’t even know he’s locked up.
The point here is that I think this is one part of what teaching me how to think is really supposed to mean. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. I have learned this the hard way, as I predict you graduates will, too.
Here is just one example of the total wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute centre of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centredness because it’s so socially repulsive. But it’s pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute centre of. The world as you experience it is there in front of YOU or behind YOU, to the left or right of YOU, on YOUR TV or YOUR monitor. And so on. Other people’s thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real.
Please don’t worry that I’m getting ready to lecture you about compassion or other-directedness or all the so-called virtues. This is not a matter of virtue. It’s a matter of my choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hard-wired default setting which is to be deeply and literally self-centered and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self. People who can adjust their natural default setting this way are often described as being “well-adjusted”, which I suggest to you is not an accidental term.
Given the triumphant academic setting here, an obvious question is how much of this work of adjusting our default setting involves actual knowledge or intellect. This question gets very tricky. Probably the most dangerous thing about an academic education–least in my own case–is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualise stuff, to get lost in abstract argument inside my head, instead of simply paying attention to what is going on right in front of me, paying attention to what is going on inside me.
As I’m sure you guys know by now, it is extremely difficult to stay alert and attentive, instead of getting hypnotised by the constant monologue inside your own head (may be happening right now). Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliché about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about “the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.”
This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.
And I submit that this is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let’s get concrete. The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what “day in day out” really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I’m talking about.
By way of example, let’s say it’s an average adult day, and you get up in the morning, go to your challenging, white-collar, college-graduate job, and you work hard for eight or ten hours, and at the end of the day you’re tired and somewhat stressed and all you want is to go home and have a good supper and maybe unwind for an hour, and then hit the sack early because, of course, you have to get up the next day and do it all again. But then you remember there’s no food at home. You haven’t had time to shop this week because of your challenging job, and so now after work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. It’s the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it’s the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it’s pretty much the last place you want to be but you can’t just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store’s confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to manoeuvre your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, cutting stuff out because this is a long ceremony) and eventually you get all your supper supplies, except now it turns out there aren’t enough check-out lanes open even though it’s the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating. But you can’t take your frustration out on the frantic lady working the register, who is overworked at a job whose daily tedium and meaninglessness surpasses the imagination of any of us here at a prestigious college.
But anyway, you finally get to the checkout line’s front, and you pay for your food, and you get told to “Have a nice day” in a voice that is the absolute voice of death. Then you have to take your creepy, flimsy, plastic bags of groceries in your cart with the one crazy wheel that pulls maddeningly to the left, all the way out through the crowded, bumpy, littery parking lot, and then you have to drive all the way home through slow, heavy, SUV-intensive, rush-hour traffic, et cetera et cetera.
Everyone here has done this, of course. But it hasn’t yet been part of you graduates’ actual life routine, day after week after month after year.
But it will be. And many more dreary, annoying, seemingly meaningless routines besides. But that is not the point. The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don’t make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I’m gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop. Because my natural default setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me. About MY hungriness and MY fatigue and MY desire to just get home, and it’s going to seem for all the world like everybody else is just in my way. And who are all these people in my way? And look at how repulsive most of them are, and how stupid and cow-like and dead-eyed and nonhuman they seem in the checkout line, or at how annoying and rude it is that people are talking loudly on cell phones in the middle of the line. And look at how deeply and personally unfair this is.
Or, of course, if I’m in a more socially conscious liberal arts form of my default setting, I can spend time in the end-of-the-day traffic being disgusted about all the huge, stupid, lane-blocking SUV’s and Hummers and V-12 pickup trucks, burning their wasteful, selfish, 40-gallon tanks of gas, and I can dwell on the fact that the patriotic or religious bumper-stickers always seem to be on the biggest, most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest [responding here to loud applause] — this is an example of how NOT to think, though — most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest, most inconsiderate and aggressive drivers. And I can think about how our children’s children will despise us for wasting all the future’s fuel, and probably screwing up the climate, and how spoiled and stupid and selfish and disgusting we all are, and how modern consumer society just sucks, and so forth and so on.
You get the idea.
If I choose to think this way in a store and on the freeway, fine. Lots of us do. Except thinking this way tends to be so easy and automatic that it doesn’t have to be a choice. It is my natural default setting. It’s the automatic way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I’m operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the centre of the world, and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world’s priorities.
The thing is that, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. In this traffic, all these vehicles stopped and idling in my way, it’s not impossible that some of these people in SUV’s have been in horrible auto accidents in the past, and now find driving so terrifying that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive. Or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he’s trying to get this kid to the hospital, and he’s in a bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am: it is actually I who am in HIS way.
Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket’s checkout line is just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people probably have harder, more tedious and painful lives than I do.
Again, please don’t think that I’m giving you moral advice, or that I’m saying you are supposed to think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it. Because it’s hard. It takes will and effort, and if you are like me, some days you won’t be able to do it, or you just flat out won’t want to.
But most days, if you’re aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she’s not usually like this. Maybe she’s been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicle department, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it’s also not impossible. It just depends what you want to consider. If you’re automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won’t consider possibilities that aren’t annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.
Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that’s capital-T True is that you get to decide how you’re gonna try to see it.
This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn’t. You get to decide what to worship.
Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship–be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles–is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.
Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.
They’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing.
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving…. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.
I know that this stuff probably doesn’t sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech is supposed to sound. What it is, as far as I can see, is the capital-T Truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical niceties stripped away. You are, of course, free to think of it whatever you wish. But please don’t just dismiss it as just some finger-wagging Dr Laura sermon. None of this stuff is really about morality or religion or dogma or big fancy questions of life after death.
The capital-T Truth is about life BEFORE death.
It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:
“This is water.”
“This is water.”
It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime. And it commences: now.
The first 1-3 weeks as new parents might just be the hardest three weeks of your life. On top of now being 100% responsible for another human, no your dog doesn’t count, you’re getting barely any sleep, you’re no longer allowed to play Xbox in your underwear, and work happy hours are now frowned upon to put it politely, or if you have an imagination, try saying this in your wife’s voice, “you’re fucking crazy if you think you’re going to that.”
As humans, we tend to resist change, but your first baby will inject more change into your life during the first 1-2 weeks of their existence than Obama promised throughout his entire 2008 presidential campaign, and you better adapt, adjust, and accept it because that baby is here to stay.
No matter how many parenting books or crappy daddy blogs you read, nothing can prepare you for these first few weeks as a new parent, except maybe Hell Week as a Navy Seal, I imagine that would prepare you for just about anything. You will be challenged mentally and physically, but the first thing to be tested will be the perceptions you’ve created about parenting over the last 9 months.
It’s a little known fact for most first time parents with a penis, but maternity leave is NOT a 2-3 month vacation for your wife. This is the one that really caught me off guard, let me explain.
Thoughts from Tom’s Man Brain:
Disclaimer: Some thoughts are exaggerated to create a point. I’m not this big of a dick in real life. I think.
I had to work 8+ hours today and sit in an hour of traffic on my way home.
You got to watch Gilmore Girls all day while an infant massaged your nipples.
I had to sit through 5 conference calls, and pretend to be interested.
You got to watch Gilmore Girls all day while an infant massaged your nipples.
I went to Taco Bell for lunch and had to wait 27 min for my food. I was starving.
You got to watch Gilmore Girls all day while an infant massaged your nipples.
I could go on, but I think you get the point. My saving grace was the below article my wife shared with me, with the message, “This is 100% how I feel.”
Cure your stupidity and read the whole thing.
Another Disclaimer:No, I’m not being paid by your wife to bestow this wisdom upon you, but she should pay me.
If you’ve never spent a day with a baby (but are considering it) you might want to use this as a what-to-expect guide. Or, as birth control.
My husband (“Bless his heart”) sometimes calls/texts/emails me from work to ask me to do something, or call someone about something or other. Normal husband and wife stuff, really. But when you’re home on maternity leave with an unpredictable, not-yet-on-a-schedule newborn, something as simple as “make an appointment for the exterminator,” or “call that business connection I hooked up for you” becomes an impossible task.
Case in point: Here I sit, typing this with one hand, and holding a pacifier in this fussy babe’s mouth with the other hand, while I use my right foot to rock the carseat she’s pseudo-napping in. That leaves me one foot left to, I don’t know, tap dance.
So here goes. Here’s a glimpse into what it’s really like to be home with a newborn. I warn you, it’s a long post, but then again, anyone who’s ever done this parenting shtick will understand why. And if one more person says, “You should nap when she naps!” I’m going to go postal on that motherfucker.
8am-noon: This time frame consists of me attempting to take a shower 47 times. But every time, as soon as my big toe hits the tile, baby starts crying. And so I step back out to soothe her, try again, and we do this until I give up, remembering that no one is going to see me today anyway. In fact, there’s probably a better chance of a zombiepocalypse than of me being able to get out of this house looking and feeling presentable. So with one leg shaved, I throw on yoga pants and slap on some deodorant. Ta-da!
Noon: Baby starts to whimper, making that familiar motion. You know, the one that says “I’m going to eat my fist, or the first thing that happens to fly by my face… maybe a mosquito, or a dust mite… but I’ll keep turning my face and opening my mouth until you whip that boob out and get the milk party started.” I halt. I was on my way to the kitchen to make myself lunch, but baby comes first.
12:30pm: Baby’s fed. She (loudly) pooped through the last fifteen minutes of it, so now I’m going to change her. Aw, she has hiccups. Isn’t that cute!
12:33pm: Why. Is. This. Baby. Flailing. Around. On. The. Changing. Table. AAGGGH — she just peed as I was swapping out the dirty diaper for a clean one! Now I have to change her… and the changing pad… She’s lucky she’s cute.
12:35pm: Who designs baby clothes?! Why is it impossible to get these things over her head? Is her head unusually large? Are these clothes too small? I feel like I’m trying to birth her through a onesie. This is insane. But it’s such a cute outfit I’m putting her in… her third of the day. No wonder I have to do laundry 16 times a day. Ok, we finally got it on. Adorbs!
12:36pm: Really, Gemma?? You choose NOW to barf?? ALL OVER YOUR ONESIE?!
12:40pm: Fourth outfit of the day. She’s wearing this hoodie towel and she’s gonna like it. It passes for boho baby fashion. I should take a selfie and post to Instagram. Such a trendsetter! #iheartbabies.
12:45pm: Awesome. Of COURSE I assumed after she spit up the equivalent of a large Jamba Juice all over herself there’d be nothing left to evacuate. But now it’s time for me to change into a hooded towel.
1:00pm: Why am I so hungry? Oh that’s right, I didn’t eat lunch yet. Or breakfast. Damnit, mommy brain. Ok, now is the perfect time for baby to go down for a nap. Let’s just get her wrapped up in this swaddle and turn on the Rockabye Baby Pandora station. (Bonus: early exposure to Pearl Jam is sure to be good for brain development, right?) Ok, she’s asleep! Winning!
1:14pm: Before I eat, I should gather up all the laundry and get that started. There’s so much goddamn laundry. Where does it all come from??
1:30pm: Ok, now I’m going to eat lunch, for real. (Rummages through fridge, finds leftovers to microwave.) Why are there no clean plates or forks? Ugh, I meant to empty the dishwasher from last night. Ok, better do it now while the babe is asleep.
1:40pm:Aaaaand my window of opportunity to eat lunch in peace like a normal adult just flew out the window. She’s awake. My god, does she have some sort of sixth sense? Was she sent here to earth to starve me to death?
1:43pm: Of course she’s hungry again! Well guess what; two can play this game. I’ll figure out a way to perch on this stool and nurse her while I eat these leftovers.
1:45pm: Awesome idea. I just dripped teriyaki sauce in her eye. FML.
2:00pm: I’m such a bad mommy. When’s the last time I did tummy time with her? We should do it now, so I don’t have guilt. Can you imagine if I delay her development because I forgot to put her on her tummy? Tiger moms everywhere are cringing.
2:10pm: That worked well. She HATED tummy time. Now she’s screeching like a banshee. And she spit up all over the play mat. So there’s another thing to wash. Add it to the list.
2:15pm: Text from hubby. “Did you call that guy yet? You should call him.” Good thing you’re texting me and not standing in front of me, dude, or I might dismantle your bones one by one.
2:25pm: Attempt call to exterminator. Hang up on lady twice, because baby is screaming in my face and woman can’t hear what I’m saying about ants in the laundry room. This isn’t worth it, I’ll live with the ants.
2:30pm: It must be almost the end of the day, right? Please tell me hubby will be here soon to relieve me of these duties called parenting. IT’S ONLY 2:30?! THROW ME FROM A TRAIN.
2:31pm: I feel guilty when I get frustrated with all of this. So now I’m going to hold my adorable baby and rock her and tell her I’m sorry for getting annoyed and wanting to do anything else other than hold her and kiss her face all day.
2:35pm: Except I’d really like to send a couple of emails. I have to reply to a couple of things regarding some project opps. And damn if I didn’t promise that one new client that I’d get them a quote by this Friday. What’s wrong with me? I’m an idiot. I’ll be lucky if I even get a shower by Friday.
3:00pm: Baby slept on my chest while I typed with one hand and sent a couple of emails. Now I should try to call that guy back so hubby doesn’t think I’m totally inept. Except baby just started stirring.
3:01pm: Full frontal meltdown.
3:05pm: I may need someone to stage an intervention. Why is this baby so fired up?
3:10pm: WHAT IN ALL THAT IS SACRED HAS HAPPENED TO MY SWADDLE SKILLS?? HOW DOES THIS BABY GET OUT OF A SWADDLE WITHIN SECONDS OF ME WRAPPING HER? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? I’m starting to think those kids on “16 and Pregnant” are more qualified than me.
3:15pm: Need to call my bestie. She’s on maternity leave too… need to kvetch about my inability to swaddle. And hemorrhoids.
3:35pm: Awesome call with bestie. She always knows what to say. Ew, why does this child smell so badly? Um, why is my arm all wet? UGH. Baby pooped through clothes. And swaddle. At least she poo’d on my not-clean arm. Other arm still smells like Aveeno from my half-shower.
4:00pm: Well now’s as good a time as ever to get laundry out of dryer. Since we have no more clean clothes for baby anyway. Guess I should do another load.
4:15pm: Did I ever eat lunch? I can’t remember. I’m starving. Must stop in kitchen at some point soon and get a snack before I die.
4:20pm: Ok, I’ve finally got this baby swaddled. We are ready for a nap! Annnd of course my breastfeeding app just alerted me that it’s time to feed her again. Awesome. I am the worst planner ever. And the worst mom ever, clearly, because it only took me an hour and a half to swaddle a 5-week old. I’m not cut out for the big leagues.
5:00pm: It’s 5:00?? Already? Where has this day gone? Did I even let the dog out today? And what am I feeding this family for dinner? I don’t even understand how it’s possible that it’s 5pm. I want to crawl in a hole. But I’m starving. And I have nothing to make for dinner. Damn you, world!
5:05pm: Call the hubby. Meekly ask him to pick up Chipotle on way home. Feel like failure of a wife and mother. How is it I haven’t left this house all day and the only human who remains fed is the baby?
5:43pm: Baby FINALLY drifts off to sleep, after I build a contraption with a sound machine, strap it to the carseat, swaddle her so the binky is held in her mouth with the swaddle blanket. Because if that binky falls out, apeshittedness will be reached.
5:45pm: Hubby and son walk in door. Baby is sleeping so peacefully, you could put her on stage at a Foo Fighters concert and she wouldn’t wake up. I look like I’ve been through the meat grinder. Hubby looks at me, looks at baby, and says…
“So what’s the problem? She looks pretty content to me…”
Hey Mike. You’ve been very quiet. Everything OK? I just wanted you to know that I voted for you. I was also hoping you might explain what the hell happened on Tuesday, and say something to make me feel better about my fellow man. Thanks,
Carol Savoy
Hi Carol
Last Friday, my dog posted a video that featured a man licking a cat with the aid of a device that’s designed for the specific purpose of making it easier for people to lick their cats.I’ve been silent ever since, because frankly, I couldn’t think of a better way – metaphorical or otherwise – to express my feelings about this election cycle. The entire country it seems, has been preoccupied with finding a way to lick a cat without actually putting their tongue on it.
Too oblique? Too weird? Ok, how about this analysis:
Back in 2003, a very unusual TV pilot called Dirty Jobs, Forrest-Gumped its way onto The Discovery Channel and found an audience – a big one. For Discovery, this was a problem. You see, Dirty Jobs didn’t look like anything else on their channel. It wasn’t pretty or careful. It took place in sewers and septic tanks, and featured a subversive host in close contact with his 8-year old inner child who refused to do second takes. Everyone agreed that Dirty Jobs was totally “off-brand” and completely inappropriate for Discovery. Everyone but the viewers. The ratings were just too big to ignore, so the pilot got a green-light, and yours truly finally got a steady gig.
But here’s the thing – Dirty Jobs didn’t resonate because the host was incredibly charming. It wasn’t a hit because it was gross, or irreverent, or funny, or silly, or smart, or terribly clever. Dirty Jobs succeeded because it was authentic. It spoke directly and candidly to a big chunk of the country that non-fiction networks had been completely ignoring. In a very simple way, Dirty Jobs said “Hey – we can see you,” to millions of regular people who had started to feel invisible. Ultimately, that’s why Dirty Jobs ran for eight seasons. And today, that’s also why Donald Trump is the President of the United States.
I know people are freaked out, Carol. I get it. I’m worried too. But not because of who we elected. We’ve survived 44 Presidents, and we’ll survive this one too. I’m worried because millions of people now seem to believe that Trump supporters are racist, xenophobic, and uneducated misogynists. I’m worried because despising our candidates publicly is very different than despising the people who vote for them.
Last week, three old friends – people I’ve known for years – each requested to be “unfriended” by anyone who planned on voting for Trump. Honestly, that was disheartening. Who tosses away a friendship over an election? Are my friends turning into those mind-numbingly arrogant celebrities who threaten to move to another country if their candidate doesn’t win? Are my friends now convinced that people they’ve known for years who happen to disagree with them politically are not merely mistaken – but evil, and no longer worthy of their friendship?
For what it’s worth, Carol, I don’t think Donald Trump won by tapping into America’s “racist underbelly,” and I don’t think Hillary lost because she’s a woman. I think a majority of people who voted in this election did so in spite of their many misgivings about the character of both candidates. That’s why it’s very dangerous to argue that Clinton supporters condone lying under oath and obstructing justice. Just as it’s equally dangerous to suggest a Trump supporter condones gross generalizations about foreigners and women.
These two candidates were the choices we gave ourselves, and each came with a heaping helping of vulgarity and impropriety. Yeah, it was dirty job for sure, but the winner was NOT decided by a racist and craven nation – it was decided by millions of disgusted Americans desperate for real change. The people did not want a politician. The people wanted to be seen. Donald Trump convinced those people that he could see them. Hillary Clinton did not.
As for me, I’m flattered by your support, but grateful that your vote was not enough to push me over the top. However, when the dust settles, and The White House gets a new tenant, I’ll make the same offer to President Trump that I did to President Obama – to assist as best I can in any attempt to reinvigorate the skilled trades, and shine a light on millions of good jobs that no one seems excited about pursuing. http://bit.ly/2fG1SxI
Like those 3 million “shovel ready” jobs we heard so much about eight years ago, the kind of recovery that Donald Trump is promising will require a workforce that’s properly trained and sufficiently enthused about the opportunities at hand. At the moment, we do not have that work force in place. What we do have, are tens of millions of capable people who have simply stopped looking for work, and millions of available jobs that no one aspires to do. That’s the skills gap, and it’s gotta close. If mikeroweWORKS can help, we’re standing by.
If not, I suppose we’ll just have to find another way to lick the cat.
Morning sickness might have you throwing up last night’s dinner, but there’s no need to throw up last week’s pay check too.
Pharmacist:Alright sir, your total comes out to $743.36
Me:Ummm, I think my wife is just going to have to suffer for a few more weeks.
Pregnancy is expensive. I knew this going in, but I figured the bulk of the costs would stem from the pregnancy itself. Most health insurance plans have a “pregnancy co-pay” up front that covers a few doctors visits and a couple of ultrasounds before the delivery. Then, they hit you with the big bill, hospital fees, doctor fees, epidural fees, delivery fees, etc. I wasn’t expecting a large bill for anti-nausea/morning sickness meds. Not forking out $700 for nausea meds might have been a wise financial decision…but it definitely was NOT the best “supportive husband” decision. I vividly remember the look of terror on Kialy’s face when I returned home without the Diclegis. Follow along at your own risk.
So here’s what happened. Kialy started experiencing morning sickness around the 13th week. She wasn’t throwing up (at first), but she was extremely nauseous, and working the night shift sure wasn’t helping. Thankfully the onset of this morning sickness coincided with one of her scheduled doctor’s visits. During the appointment, her doctor recommended trying out Diclegis, and she conveniently had a free week’s sample. The Diclegis starting to kick in after a few days and the nausea disappeared, but after a week she was out of samples so we had her doctor order a prescription.
When I went to fill the prescription I was shocked to find out that our insurance didn’t cover it, and on top of that, they wouldn’t accept the $30 coupon I had, without her doctor filling out a ton of paperwork, and last, it was going to cost $700+. So naturally, being the cheap ass that I am, I left with free prenatal vitamins instead. Once she got past the initial shock of me coming home empty handed, it really wasn’t that bad. She called her doctor up and asked for more free samples, and I picked up 3 weeks worth of samples up the next day.
The reason I wanted to share this story is because it’s easy to just accept that pregnancy is expensive and shell out tons of $$$ without even thinking twice. And sure a lot of it is expensive, but you have to know when to call B.S.
If your wife has bad morning sickness, here are a few pointers that could help you save some $$$:
There’s nothing magical about Diclegis. All it is, is unisom and vitamin b6, both drugs you can get over the counter, but Diclegis IS time released so you take it once or twice a day and your covered.
There are plenty of alternatives out there. Be sure you check your insurance before having your doctor call in a prescription. Zofran is another popular morning sickness drug that is covered by most insurance providers, and it doesn’t make you sleepy like Diclegis.
Ask your doctor for FREE samples! They have tons of this shit just sitting in a closet in their office. They are usually more than happy to hand the stuff out like candy, unless they’re hoarding it for themselves… and well, if you have any leftover…you know what the going rate is…
Learning that you’re going to be a father for the first time is an exhilarating feeling. Here was my immediate thought process.
OMG babe I am so excited!
Are you sure I’m the father?
Holy shit I’m going to be a father.
It truly is an amazing whirlwind of emotion.
I have been wanting to start a “personal” blog for quite some time now, but it seems as though every time I get a good idea for a witty domain main and blog topic, Netflix releases a new season of House of Cards…How do you compete with that? Now that Kialy is almost 20 weeks pregnant, in true procrastination form, I figured NOW would be an excellent time to document this journey.
As a warning to my readers, I have never done this before, so please do not hold me accountable for any parenting mistakes you might make as a result of reading this blog. In fact I hope you will be able to learn from the many mistakes I am sure to make.
“A smart man learns from his mistakes. A wise one learns from the mistakes of others.”
My goal for this blog is simple. Inspire more people than I offend. I figure if I set that bar low, I am sure to succeed. I would also like to use this blog as evidence to my children in the future, that their father was once a pretty cool & witty dude.
I’ve always been fascinated by the internet’s ability to connect people. It’s amazing how open people are willing to be in the hope that they might connect with someone, somewhere…No i’m not talking about Ashley Madison… This blog is my attempt to be open in the hope that I am able to connect with others who have gone through or are currently going through similar experiences. I also hope that when you’re bored at work and tired of hitting the refresh button on Yahoo’s home page, that you’ll find entertainment & inspiration in this blog.
Enough of the sappy stuff…
For those who don’t know us, I figured it would be beneficial to share some details to help set the stage for the many blog posts to come.
My wife Kialy, pronounced “Kylie”, and I have been married for just over a year. She found out she was pregnant back in September, the day after my 26th birthday. She’s a labor & delivery nurse, which is comforting knowing she knows what to expect when you’re expecting…see what I did there?
Now me on the other hand, am not a nurse, and have a hard time pronouncing most prescription drugs. My degree is in accounting, but I have spent the last two years in software sales. My true passion is music. In college I played guitar in the band “Airplanes,” and I still operate a small home recording studio, working with local St. Louis artists. I’m sure that’s all about to change!
In fear of giving you enough information to steal my identity…I’m going to end it here. Be sure to subscribe to my weekly news letter to stay up to date with all of my posts!
-Tom (pronounced, “Tom”)
For the story on how the name “Mandoula” came about, be sure to visit the “About Us“ page.
