Dodo Eggs

Foresyth says,

Young men caught in the heady exuberance of new love can be convinced of anything.  They accept the quest to prove themselves by ridiculous feats and silly vows forged from their overheating inner furnace.  Their head swims.  The universe is a top spinning on the head of a single head of long beautiful hair, a single set of fantastically blue eyes, and a magnificently assembled set of curves.

(And then like all strong feelings…it fades a bit.  Gravity pulls you back to the earth and the obstacles, thistles, and dust that you once flew above now clogs your path.  That’s love’s ugly ankle tattoo that eventually comes to light.)

When Melissa and I began dating, little else mattered.  We had been friends for years and discovered feelings for each other at the same moment.  There was no getting-to-know you phase just a getting-to-know-you-better phase.  We had fun and even better, our personal traits either matched or complimented each other.  I felt like nothing could dent this relationship.

(Plenty of things did put a few dents and cracks in our early relationship.  No two people ever match seamlessly.  Of course, the small things didn’t matter when you were excited about everything else.)

About two months after we reached “item” status, I decided it was time for me to put my overwhelming tide of affection into some concrete display.  I recalled the story of the grandfather on my mother’s side; how he went and purchased an expensive clock for his wife.  The power of each second together being marked by a gentle, steady tick appealed to me.

I saved for a few months and put aside nearly $400 dollars to buy my girlfriend a true clock.  Like the naïve soul I was, I drove to the mall thinking I’d find the perfect one.

The clocks at one of the “fine” department stores under whelmed me.  I picked each up with easy effort and opened the back.  The body of the clock was made from some sort of pressed wood product only a quarter inch thick!  The clockwork was hidden in a small black box with “Made in China” slapped just above the battery.  There were no springs, no chimes, and not a comforting tick to be heard.

“Excuse me ma’am.”  I pulled aside one of the salespeople.  “Yea, I’m looking for a real clock.  You know, one that I might pass down to my children and still be taken seriously.”

“Oh, you wont’ find anything like that here!”  A slight chuckle escaped.  “You’d have to go to a real clock store to get anything like that.  And those are expensive.”

I waved my arm toward the wall full of one hundred dollar travel clocks.  “And what are these supposed to be?  Who would give you a hundred dollar bill for this glossed up junk?!”

“Those are for people who just want something that looks nice.  You know people who just want to give the impression of wealth.”

People are quick to complain and often slow to praise.  Why?  Because many of us feel that when something goes right…THEY (IT) WERE SUPPOSED TO DO IT THAT WAY!  There’s no point in thanking them if that’s how we expected it to be done in the first place.

It’s a shame but we’re four times as bothered by things that go wrong than we are pleased by things that go right.  Just ask a football fan.

My wife does so many of the little things right that I often take them for granted.  After all, that’s the way it’s SUPPOSED to work.  But eventually I become surprised by her traits.

Case in point…With the birth of our second child, it became my responsibly to do the grocery shopping for a while.  Shopping for groceries is normally a team effort.  I keep Saul corralled and load the cart while Melissa scrolls down the list and pushes the cart.  Now it was up to me to keep the cart rolling, the list in front of my eyes, and Saul’s perpetual motion in check.  I must have looked like a one-man band reaching for a jar of salsa, Saul, the list, and the cart all at the same time.

(Dear reader:  You can rest assured that when my wife finally reads this she’ll read the hectic description above and mumble, “amateur.” under her breath.)

Here’s where my wife’s abilities impressed me…I never had to turn around.  The list was in exact order.  I walked through the grocery store reading an item off the list then reaching out and snatching it.  I didn’t need to turn around and I was never lost looking for an item.  You could have drawn a simple dotted line going down the isle and each corresponded with the perfectly!

You other guys can just eat your heart out.

I’ve just finished holding my newborn daughter. During our special Father-Daughter time, I could hear and feel her lining the inside of her diaper. Melissa was in the kitchen enjoying a snack and chatting on the phone with her sister. She would return soon and if I were still around, she’d have me changing the diaper.

Acting with the speed of trained father, I gingerly set the baby into the bassinet and began tiptoeing out of the bedroom. If I could make it to the bathroom on the second floor, there was a chance I could get by with this stunt.

She caught me in the hallway. “Hey Matt, would you do the dishes while I tend to Olivia? Thanks.”

I paused in mid-step. Melissa normally does the dishes but with a new child I’d been forced to help out a little more. “Why do we have children again? Think about it. You used to help me with dishes. Sometimes we would go out to eat and not have to worry about dishes at all. Remember that? Think about the immense amount of money, time, effort, and energy we put into these little people and when their finally able to function in society they take off with merely a wave of the hand.”

“The hospital has a strict policy on returns but I’m willing to bet the government wouldn’t mind taking them. Do you want me to let them know we spank?”

I ignored her poor attempt at humor. “All I’m asking is what do we ultimately get out of the whole thing?”

After a moment, Melissa replied, “Grandkids of course.”

Here are a couple of extras for you to throw in the toy box…

*Saul had a plastic book that was affectionately titled, “Who Loves Baby.” The inside pages had pockets for pictures. Melissa and I not only left it empty but I made sure it stayed in Saul’s travel pack of toys.

At the beginning of each long trip I’d hand the infant Saul the book and ask, “Hey junior, look at this, it’s called Who Loves Baby? Let’s look inside and see…oh, tough break kid.”

Saul didn’t know what I was saying. I guess the joke was just for me.

*The other night Saul and I were playing a bit rough and he was mildly hurt on a few occasions. (You know, the three Cs – cuts, contusions, and concussions.) The last time he put his head into a door jam and the sound was a perfect, “Thud.”

I thought about it for a second and decided that Thud would be a pretty cool nickname for my boy. Melissa was, of course, aghast but I persisted and tried it out.

“Hey Thud, do you want to go wrestle again or throw your mother’s exercise ball through the window?”

Saul reached up and clamped both hands on my lips. He brought his face in close to mine and with all the seriousness of an action hero he said, “My name’s Saul James.”

I’m glad he wasn’t carrying a gun…toy or otherwise.

Olivia Kay Teply

It began on a Sunday morning after church.  Matt and Melissa were sitting in their kitchen enjoying a simple lunch of tuna melts complemented by a short pile of sweet gherkin pickles.  They had just returned from church and were looking forward to a quiet day.  In the adjoining room their little boy played with cars.

Melissa looks over at Matt and casually inquires, “So, when are we going to try for a second child?”

“You mean Luke?”

She responded quickly.  “You don’t know that.  I could be talking about Olivia.”

Matt took an overly large bite and chewed while he spoke.  “Well, we didn’t want the boy here to be an only child so I guess that meant we planned on having another.  Are you implying you wanted to start trying now?’

“Oh no, I want you to make the decision.  I’m fine with Saul and I but I knew we were eventually going to have another.”  She waited for Matt to swallow.  “So when are we going to do it?”

As if he was relating the time, Matt responds, “Ok then, why don’t we start now?”

That conversation occurred on January 13th, 2008.  Exactly three hundred and sixty-five days later Olivia Kay Teply was born and Matt is forced to face the profound ramifications of his oh-so nonchalant decision.   

Life long affection in the form of joyful tears emerged the moment he met her.  For Matt, kissing her round, sensitive cheeks is like taking in life itself.  It isn’t just his arms that embrace her but the breadth of his very soul.   

Of course, he doesn’t talk like this around other people.  Instead he says things like, “She is as pure as fine porcelain and softer than an angel’s butt.”

Personally…

There are two challenges with a second child.  The first is (deep breath) starting completely over.  Long nights, three-hour feedings, and enough soiled diapers to insulate my walls.  It took time and a second helping of patience to get my son where he is now and now I’m (deep breath) starting over!

The next impossible task is trying to go anywhere.  I’ll be honest; it would be easier to move Stonehenge than try to get out the door in a half hour.  Getting oneself ready is the easy part.  Now try finding the older one’s shoes, packing twelve-pound survival kit (I mean diaper bag), dressing the spawn, and cinching them into a car seat.  I’d say organization is the key but we can’t find that either.

Here’s what I’m counting on…That Olivia is a unique human being and on a different path.  The benchmarks (walking, talking, eating) may be the same but the trip will be different.  It should be.  The guide book for raising a girl has about sixteen additional, bonus chapter from the one we received with Saul.

When my three-year-old son and I are left to our own devices I pitch one of four things…every time. I don’t have to think about child development strategies or the best ways to increase his vocabulary. I just follow the options like a flow chart with only one flow or a winning game plan that never fails. Here it is…

“Hey kid, do you want to wrestle?” If not then, “Hey fruit-of-my-loins, are you hungry?” Already eaten? Then, “Hey junior, care for a overdose of your favorite cartoon?” Mom shakes her head so, “Hey buckwheat, let’s go to the park.”

Each option is a little more appealing than the last. When I finally mention the park, his eyes widen and he jumps up with all the energy of someone with a brand new body. He becomes a three-foot blur scampering toward the front door. Shoes? Maybe. A coat? Only if I can wrestle it on him.

We always have a good time. In defiance of the Law of Averages and even Murphy’s Law, we’ve never been hurt. If we need to pee, we shuffle behind the bathrooms and drop trousers. (Note: He has somehow translated this option into, “You can pee anywhere as long as you’re outside.” Ask our neighbors.) There are swings, and slides, places to climb, and tunnels to hide.

In fact, the most harrowing experience we’ve ever had involved something my boy has said not something he’s done.

We met a boy who was obviously a couple years older. This child had two pop guns (unloaded, whew!) and a fireman’s helmet.

He approached my son and asked, “Do you wanna play firehouse?” Then he offered my son one of the plastic guns.

My son has a mind still soft enough to absorb almost anything from anywhere. Like a well-tended garden, this mind will grow and respond as Melissa and I plant. However, even in the best gardens the wind may bring in ill placed seeds. One of these is the word, “Lipstick.” Although I never use the word and Melissa rarely says it, our son decided it was some sort of game. Your guess is as good as mine.

You can guess how he responded to the other boy. “Nah, do you wanna play lipstick?”

(Awkward pause. Older boy and father staring at my son in confusion.)

I cleared my throat. “What he meant to say was hide-and-seek. His mother looses her lipstick from time to time and it becomes a hide-and-seek game. Heh, heh.”

I guess they bought it. It really didn’t matter. My son didn’t want anything to do with the pretend world all he cared about was running, jumping, throwing, and sliding.

On the way home, I had a talk with my son, “Look pal, repeat after me…nuclear warhead, circular saw, musk, toxic waste dump, pit stains,….”

I’m standing beside my kitchen counter late one evening with an ugly pink slip on the counter.  It was the speeding ticket I’d earned a few weeks ago.   Unfortunately, I didn’t have proof of insurance with me so I would need to appear in court.  The coverage was there but the state trooper was unimpressed with my glove compartment full of expired insurance cards.  Waldo only knows what I did with my current card.

Our little boy had been asleep for a while and the only things to be heard was the refrigerator and the slight “shshship” sound of my wife cutting an apple.

“You know what,” I began.  “If I could go back in time and avoid this ticket, do you realize that I wouldn’t do it?  Something as precious as time and I wouldn’t accept getting some of it back because I don’t want to rework all those days.  I don’t want to rework all the problems.  What does that tell you about how much I’m enjoying life?”

“Not much I suppose.”  As my wife cut each portion of apple free, it would rock back and forth on the cutting board.

I turned to the calendar on the fridge behind me.  “I mean look, It’s another two solid weeks before my next break from school and even then I’ll still have to work at the pool so I really don’t get a whole lot of time off.  And after that I’ll be counting down the days until winter break!  I’m standing here wishing my entire life away!”

My wife finished cutting her apple and tossed the core into the sink.  A few seeds came loose and tinked a bit as they bounced off the side of our iron sink.  “It sounds to me like you don’t like your jobs.”

“Yes, but I think there’s more to it.  They say each day is a gift but I really have no excitement at all when I wake up in the morning.  I like going to bed more than getting up!”

Melissa took a bite from her apple and gave me a sultry look.  “Here’s what you need to do.  Surprise me tomorrow without spending a lot of money.  Start thinking of something starting now.  I look forward to finding out what it is.”

“Wait, I was talking about a vacation not putting something else on my plate!”

“Just try it.”

I thought about my assignment the rest of the evening and came up with an idea right before sinking into sleep.  It was an exciting idea.  Already, I was distracted from my muddy thoughts. 

Most of the next day was spent thinking thorough my idea and sketching it down on paper.  By the time I arrived home, it was finished and for the first time in a while I felt excited about something.

I had written a letter to Penthouse regarding the last time Melissa and I spent quality time together.  There was a bit of fictitious flourish and the way I abused adjectives and adverbs was brutal.  The envelope was delivered with a bit too much of her favorite cologne and all the pomp I could muster.  We spent most of the evening laughing over it.

“So how was your day?”  Melissa had finished cutting another apple and was in the spice cabinet pushing a few things aside.

“You know what?  I had a better day.  I suppose I was just excited to get home.”

She pulled out the sugar and sprinkled a little over one of her apple slices.  Without warning, she popped it into my mouth.  The taste was overwhelming.

“Sounds to me like you just needed to sweeten things up a bit.”

What is the difference between the sweet feelings of infatuation and a love that is more precious than diamonds and twice as resilient?  The answer is simple:  true love has been tested.  The gloss that comes with young love has been worn away and all that you have left is the relationship as it truly is.  This trial came for Mrs. Teply not long after we began dating. 

At the time, both of us worked part-time at a day care center in a decent part of Memphis.  The daycare was housed in a massive church, which also built the large family life center next door.  (A family life center is three parts gym, two parts convention center and one part a reason to join the church.)  During the week, large groups of day care children would be funneled to the FLC for open gym and the chance to run around like the heathens they were.

I was still in my semester of student teaching.  Rushing into work at the last possible moment, I would still have on my nice cotton slacks and dress shirt.  The tie was usually but little else before picking up a basketball.  I would play an easy pickup game with some of the older kids.  Yet, even just fifteen minutes of tomahawk jams and ankle breaking, double clutch, jaw-dropping moves can cause perspiration.

A fifth grade girl approached Mrs. Teply.  “Miss Melissa, aren’t you going out with Mr. Matt?”

Mrs. Teply replied.  “Yes, why do you ask?”

(While this conversation was beginning, I was in the middle of a quadruple pump fake from just over the half court line.  It’s a tactic that NBA players haven’t picked up yet but I’ll tell you this…it freezes a defense!   They will come out of their ready positions and just put their hands on their hips.  This leaves me free for another pump fake.)

The girl arched her eyebrows and gestured toward me.  “Well, he’s a little sweaty.  Do you like that?”

Melissa watched my lithe form dance up and down the court.  Since I couldn’t take my eyes off the ball and dribble at the same time, I always displayed powerful concentration.  Yes, there was a glint on my brow but what the girl was referring to was the wet streak down the middle of my seat. 

Mrs. Teply grimaced a bit and assured the girl, “Well, no but Mr. Matt’s hindquarters isn’t always like that.”

Au contraire!  It was at least three times a week!  That’s how often we went to the FLC and each time I did the same thing.  Many kids laughed and giggled but they didn’t understand the strengthening process that was taking place between Mr. Matt and Miss Melissa.  She looked upon the sweaty band in my slacks and loved me anyway.

I know we haven’t met yet but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a good father to daughter conversation.  We’ve got a long road ahead of us and having a strong dialogue with each other can only help. Of course, right now we can’t keep your mother from eavesdropping.

Kids learn better when things rhyme so I’ve composed a few verbal keepsakes for you.  

PLAYING PARENTS AGAINST EACH OTHER, CAUSES THE WRAITH OF BOTH FATHER AND MOTHER.  Please don’t expect me to side with you over your mother.  There is a ninety percent chance I will agree with her anyway and a ten percent chance I won’t care enough one way or another.  (Besides, bucking your mother carries risks.  I’m not a gambling man.) 

Kick your mother in the kidneys twice if you understand.

DAD HAS NO USE FOR A PRIMA DONNA, SO SAVE THE DRAMA FOR YOUR MAMA.  I live my life in as much of a drama vacuum as I possibly can and like your mother’s yellow squash casserole, I can only handle it in small doses.  If you approach me regarding the possibility your best friend is moving in on your boy, I will respond in one of three ways.  You get to choose.

A. You know what?  I think your brother Saul may have an interesting take on this thorny issue.  I think he’s upstairs playing video games with your out of work uncle.

B. Darling, let me tell you something.  When something becomes so infected it threatens the entire body, you have to amputate.  That’s what I would do here.  Amputate both the friend and the useless boy. 

C. I’ll give you ten dollars right now if you take this issue to your mother.

Sit on you mother’s bladder if you understand.

MY RULES OF SPEECH ARE VERY FIRM, YOU ARE TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT IF YOU SEE ME SQUIRM.  I want to know as much as I can about what’s going on in your heart and mind except for the things that I find uncomfortable.  The rules used to determine these subjects are a little ambiguous so I’m having a straight list prepared.  My highly paid team of research consultants is eyeing a release date of around late May 2034.   We’re having a hard time deciding whether to to go with three smaller volumes or the podium bending master tome.  Until then, if you broach a topic I don’t want to discuss just look for the pained expression on my face.

Head butt you mother’s liver if you got the message.

BOYS LIKE LOTTERY TICKETS ARE CHEAP AND ABUNDANT.  THEY SCRATCH AND ARE WORTHLESS, DISAPPOINTING, REDUNDANT.  Just so that you know…I will not look kindly on any of your boyfriends.  In fact, each one will start with a negative balance and I will be on a faultfinding mission the entire time.  I may seem polite on the outside and smile but that’s only a front. 

Each of your boyfriends has a very narrow chance of being the one who becomes a member of our family.  The rest have a small potential to do good and an almost unlimited ability to do harm.  I promise there will be no guns but your dreaming if you think I am really going to like any of them. 

Punch your mother’s pancreas if you understand.

Love, your father.

I sat in a darkened closet with my wife stretched out on an examination table.  She had to be more comfortable than I was.  My insides were knotted with anticipation.  Soon, the mystery over my second child’s gender would finally be solved.

“Why don’t you quit squirming?  I’m just as excited as you are and you don’t see me fidgeting so much.”

“You don’t understand.”  I began.  “Everyone for the last four months has been promising me that it would be a girl.  And I mean everyone!  If this child were a boy, it would amount to the biggest ‘I told you so’ in history.  We’re talking about mocking emails and strutting about with my chest stuck our far enough I could push a lawn mower with it.”

The narrow door finally opened.  The technician had arrived.  Before I could say anything she handed me a brochure with the details of the procedure.

It read, “Ultrasound is a completely safe way to monitor the growth of you child and check its development.  Here is a list of quick facts regarding the procedure:

1. Your unborn child will be bombarded by high frequency polka music.  Your child’s body will physically reject the sound and return it to the receptor.  This does not harm the baby but it may stimulate development of the parts of the brain responsible for forming opinions.

2.    The image on the monitor is purposely grainy and nearly indecipherable.  Studies have shown that new parents are disturbed by actual images of cross-sectioned babies.

3. The gender of your child is saved until the end of the examination to keep you entranced and looking desperately for any sign of a penis.  This usually provides the technician with a quiet working environment.

4.  This moment may be special to you but not to your technician.  She does this nearly a dozen times a day and considers your above average child just another widget strolling down the conveyor.  Please do not ask her to pose for pictures with you and your wife’s obtrusive belly.

5.  No, the monitor receives no cable channels or the Internet.  Please refrain from asking.  We know you’re missing your favorite show.  We are too.

I closed the brochure and stared into the grainy image as if it were some sort of crystal ball.  My thoughts ran amok.  “Did I see something there?  Was that what I think it was?  Did I just see the Virgin Mary?”

Finally, the tech froze the image.  “Ok, what you see here are the girl parts.  Congratulations, it looks like you’re having a girl.”

My head spun for a moment and my vision blurred.  When I could refocus, Mrs. Teply was looking at me from her reclined position.

“Are you ok?”

“Well, I’m confused.  Questions are piling up in my head.  What do I do with self-image concerns?  How do I react to the drama of he-said-she-said?   Will she be able to throw a football?  How will I get the blood out of the carpet when I rip the earring out of her boyfriend’s ear?”

Melissa smiled.  “Silly.  I’ve got cleaner that will take almost any stain out including blood.”

As previously posted in DodoEggs.com (see: The Big News), Mrs. Teply and I have begun construction of a new human!  It was the brochure that really sold us…

The TeplyGeneration XXI Version 2 will come complete with a large capacity OBGYN bill and matching hospital expenses.  It is delivered without the social norm and language software preinstalled that would make operating so much easier.  Also missing is the converter that changes its waste into more environmentally friendly compounds like water or turpentine.  Unfortunately, the handling will be a tad sensitive and the lack of motor skills makes the Teply Generation XXI a little sluggish off the changing pad.

The truth is a little more complicated.  Melissa and I were both happy with our first child and neither of us was particularly interested in starting from scratch.  The memories of having to feed every two hours, diapers, and teaching the young one to eat were still fresh on our minds.  Also, Melissa didn’t like being pregnant and I don’t care to listen to her being pregnant.  Why would we want to start over?

Answers:  We didn’t want Saul to be an only child and we wanted to get it out of the way.

It sounds a bit harsh but it’s the truth. Obviously we will love the second child as much as the first.  It will be a pride and joy to us and every measure of affection set aside for our first would be given to our second.  But making the decision was a bit different.   

Melissa and I were staring at one another on a slow Sunday afternoon.  She was finishing her lunch when she turned to me and asked.  “Matt, when are we going to have another child?  I don’t want our boy to be an only child and I don’t want to be a mom-with-baby forever.”

“Well, why don’t we go ahead and have our second now?  Then when it’s old enough for school you can go back to work or whatever.  Counting the time you’ve spent at home with our first it will be ten years of staying at home.”

Melissa shrugged her shoulders.  “Ok then.”

The conversation was so benign you could have close captioned a conversation on losing a sock.  

I’ve asked many of our friends the following question, “Is it reasonable to have a second child simply because you don’t want the first to be an only child?  Given that parents are capable, loving, and competent.”

Surprisingly, most folks responded that our reasoning was sound.  They called it “family planning.”  It’s a phrase that doesn’t fit in well with the clashing cymbals, fireworks, and singing angels that should be heralding such a decision.