You need three things to raise twins and a toddler.
Energy, a sense of humor and patience.
I ran out of all three Sunday night.
Jayden started screaming about a half hour after I got home from work Sunday night. I'm still not sure what set him off, but it was probably residuals from pacifier withdraw. We took it away a few weeks ago, and after a few days of him acting like a tweaker without his needles, he's beaten it for good.
Except, of course, for these midnight outbursts where he is in an unreachable state, almost like he has autism (with apologies to parents who actually have autistic kids). Nothing works with him. You just have to ride it out.
Well, his screaming fits numbered one, two, three, and on the third, he woke up both of the girls.
Now I am an introvert in the worse sense, and all that means is being around people really wears me down. On the weeknights it's not a huge deal because I know I still need to get the kids dinner and baths and bed. But Sunday I've usually spent all morning and afternoon dealing with the kids, then work is almost always really busy. So when I come home on Sundays, I'm running on fumes until I can get some alone time and get at least a little of my energy back.
This is, by far, the most difficult part of having kids for me. Energy restoration, i.e. alone time, is in short supply.
So of course, I'm still on fumes when I sighed and went to get Andie, and after a short fight, I got a bottle ready. She didn't want the bottle. I tried rocking her. It seemed to work, until I put her back in her crib.
We tried to let them cry it out, but they're teething right now (again, I'm not sure why evolution decided that having sharp things poke out from your gums one at a time for a year was a good idea), and they screamed for a good half hour.
One of the many fun things about twins is crying it out rarely works when they're both awake because they feed off each other.
So I went to pick up Andie and Kate went to get Allie and Andie fought me like a badger. Nothing would calm her down. She was too worked up, and I even dug out infant tricks like shusshing in the ear and walking and rocking, even though she's almost 14 months now, and nothing worked. I literally fought her for 15-20 minutes before Kate put a sleeping Allie in her crib. When Kate came in I handed Andie off like a football, totally frazzled, completely spent and almost insane.
And that's when Jayden started screaming again and woke Allie up.
In my Boot Camp for New Dads class I say there will be moments when you will be angry enough to hurt your children. Some prospective fathers look at me in shock. That's because they don't know. My boot camp vets, the guys with new babies, look at me and nod their heads. They know.
I don't know if I was there last night, but I was close. I went into Jayden's rooms and told him to shut the F up because he woke up his sisters AGAIN. Kate, still holding a screaming Andie, rushed in and kicked me out. She knew. It was time to leave. It's OK to feel that angry as long as you recognize it and take a time out when you do. It was time for an adult time out.
I went downstairs for a break on the couch.
Five minutes later, Kate was still struggling with both, so I went upstairs, took Andie from her, and sat. She calmed down fairly quickly, and I gave her Motrin and a bottle, and she took it, and then she went to sleep.
Tonight we start driving to Salina, Kan., my old stomping grounds and home to Kate's grandmother and the annual vacation with my in-laws. The drive, and most likely the trip, will try my patience, even when I"m on fumes. Wish me luck.
I'll need something to ensure I don't fail again like I did last night.
Showing posts with label twins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label twins. Show all posts
Monday, July 07, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Every day is a race
"They never tell you ahead of time how impossibly difficult it's going to be."
- Frazzled mother, speaking to Keri Russel about her child
That quote is from the wonderful Waitress, which I watched today. Of course, I watched it in pieces, like the pie Keri Russel serves so well. Breaks today, as they do almost every day I'm home with Kate, came in small portions.
The girls did not nap in the afternoon. At all. Jayden napped for maybe a half an hour. I corralled them in the morning, when Kate went to work out, and then I got my turn to blast off some energy, thereby decreasing my chances of getting too frustrated simply because we won't have the strength for it.
Every day is a joy these days, and yet, every day, more and more, at the end, when Jayden finally gets sent to bed with Dr. Seuss or something similar, I feel completely drained.
Those who say kids make you younger were so very, very wrong. They were laughably wrong. I feel 50 right now. And the kind of 50 who smoked and drank every day rather than ran and ate brussel sprouts three times a day. I am 36.
I feel as I do after a hard race, like the kind I ran Monday, or just climbed a mountain, although the weariness is even worse in a way because those are renewing, no matter how exhausting. A day like today with the kids, as rewarding as it is, is not renewing. It pecks away at your sanity and greedily sucks the very last drops of your reserves with the large straw Daniel Day Lewis shouted about in "There Will Be Blood."
My kids do indeed drink my milkshake.
It's worth it, as I'd much rather spend my energy every day rather than keep it in my gut. And the payoff is huge. Tax breaks. Someone to invite over at Christmas when you're 85. And all the smiles and love you can handle.
But as I look over that quote from the movie I watched in pieces today, I can only think of one word in response.
Amen.
- Frazzled mother, speaking to Keri Russel about her child
That quote is from the wonderful Waitress, which I watched today. Of course, I watched it in pieces, like the pie Keri Russel serves so well. Breaks today, as they do almost every day I'm home with Kate, came in small portions.
The girls did not nap in the afternoon. At all. Jayden napped for maybe a half an hour. I corralled them in the morning, when Kate went to work out, and then I got my turn to blast off some energy, thereby decreasing my chances of getting too frustrated simply because we won't have the strength for it.
Every day is a joy these days, and yet, every day, more and more, at the end, when Jayden finally gets sent to bed with Dr. Seuss or something similar, I feel completely drained.
Those who say kids make you younger were so very, very wrong. They were laughably wrong. I feel 50 right now. And the kind of 50 who smoked and drank every day rather than ran and ate brussel sprouts three times a day. I am 36.
I feel as I do after a hard race, like the kind I ran Monday, or just climbed a mountain, although the weariness is even worse in a way because those are renewing, no matter how exhausting. A day like today with the kids, as rewarding as it is, is not renewing. It pecks away at your sanity and greedily sucks the very last drops of your reserves with the large straw Daniel Day Lewis shouted about in "There Will Be Blood."
My kids do indeed drink my milkshake.
It's worth it, as I'd much rather spend my energy every day rather than keep it in my gut. And the payoff is huge. Tax breaks. Someone to invite over at Christmas when you're 85. And all the smiles and love you can handle.
But as I look over that quote from the movie I watched in pieces today, I can only think of one word in response.
Amen.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Happy Birthday Andie and Allie
One year ago today, Kate delivered twins.
My girls are 1.
We were cleaning and blowing up balloons and getting gift bags together for all the minnows who will be tromping through our house. Today we'll be picking up cake and ice cream and thawing and throwing chicken on the grill.
"All this work," Mom said, "and they won't even know it's for them."
This party is not for the girls.
It's for us.
We survived.
Here's a column I wrote for the paper I write for, the Greeley Tribune, that ran in my Tuesday slot. Or you can just skip to the picture below:
Some would have called me anal before the girls were born.
I preferred the term “organized.”
No matter what you called me, one thing was certain. I did not like the unexpected. I loathed it, in fact. I preferred to plan out my life as if it were a to-do list.
So when our ultrasound technician said to us that we were having twins, I was in immediate denial. Our technician assumed we knew, of course. Who doesn’t know they’re having twins at 21 weeks?
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said to her.
She wasn’t kidding.
I took the news about as well as someone who doesn’t like surprises can take it, meaning when Kate’s doctor came in to confirm the news, she was initially more concerned about me.
Once Kate, our toddler, Jayden, and I celebrated that night with a dinner that mainly consisted of me staring blankly into the menu and saying “Huh?” a lot to our waitress, our lives melted into the kind of chaos that you normally see in a “Family Circus” cartoon. You know, the ones that feature the mother in her bathroom with a boiling pot on the stove, laundry, four crying kids, the dog with a dish in his mouth, and an electrician at the door.
The twins hadn’t even arrived yet, and we had to move Jayden to the smaller bedroom, paint his room red and blue, paint the girls’ room pink, gather a whole lot of dresses and pink onesies and get another one of everything, including another swing, another crib and another stroller, this one built for two.
When they were born, we learned what the term “sacrifice” really means. I sacrificed my time in the mountains. We sacrificed friendships, some of which have never recovered. We sacrificed sleep, some special time with Jayden and, at times, our sanity.
Most of the time, we felt like single parents, constantly feeding and changing and carting a baby around.
Kate and I learned to work together, much more than the vows say you will, and yet we had two periods where we fought every day, long and hard. The problem, of course, is that there was too much work to go around.
Any infant is hard. But parents usually can take shifts for midnight feedings, diaper changes and making sure the little one doesn’t crawl off the staircase. Shifts don’t exist when you have twins.
When you’re raising infant twins, when one parent takes a break, any kind at all, the other pays for it dearly.
So now we find ourselves breathing a sigh of relief come Saturday. The twins will turn 1. Every parent I have talked to who went through what we went through has assured me that it gets easier after the first year.
I’m hopeful because the first year was not easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing Kate and I have ever done. In fact, it still is.
But it’s changed me. I’m more relaxed now. It’s not a cliché. I mean, you have to be.
When you have a day like I did three months ago, when Allie had a poop that exploded out of her diaper and went all over the kitchen floor, and Andie was doing everything in her power to play in it, and Kate was at Target, well, you learn that little surprises like that aren’t really problems. They’re funny.
Every day, like that day, holds something unexpected. Some still call me anal. I still prefer the term “organized.” My to-do lists are still there. But the day doesn’t always follow them. And I have learned that’s OK.
I have learned to not only deal with the unexpected, I have learned to embrace it.
I embrace it every day, in fact, when I crawl out of bed, pick up one of the girls and hold her high above my head, completely aware of just how lucky I am that chance found its way into my heart.
And here they are one year later, toasting their birthday. I, too, will drink to that::
My girls are 1.
We were cleaning and blowing up balloons and getting gift bags together for all the minnows who will be tromping through our house. Today we'll be picking up cake and ice cream and thawing and throwing chicken on the grill.
"All this work," Mom said, "and they won't even know it's for them."
This party is not for the girls.
It's for us.
We survived.
Here's a column I wrote for the paper I write for, the Greeley Tribune, that ran in my Tuesday slot. Or you can just skip to the picture below:
Some would have called me anal before the girls were born.
I preferred the term “organized.”
No matter what you called me, one thing was certain. I did not like the unexpected. I loathed it, in fact. I preferred to plan out my life as if it were a to-do list.
So when our ultrasound technician said to us that we were having twins, I was in immediate denial. Our technician assumed we knew, of course. Who doesn’t know they’re having twins at 21 weeks?
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said to her.
She wasn’t kidding.
I took the news about as well as someone who doesn’t like surprises can take it, meaning when Kate’s doctor came in to confirm the news, she was initially more concerned about me.
Once Kate, our toddler, Jayden, and I celebrated that night with a dinner that mainly consisted of me staring blankly into the menu and saying “Huh?” a lot to our waitress, our lives melted into the kind of chaos that you normally see in a “Family Circus” cartoon. You know, the ones that feature the mother in her bathroom with a boiling pot on the stove, laundry, four crying kids, the dog with a dish in his mouth, and an electrician at the door.
The twins hadn’t even arrived yet, and we had to move Jayden to the smaller bedroom, paint his room red and blue, paint the girls’ room pink, gather a whole lot of dresses and pink onesies and get another one of everything, including another swing, another crib and another stroller, this one built for two.
When they were born, we learned what the term “sacrifice” really means. I sacrificed my time in the mountains. We sacrificed friendships, some of which have never recovered. We sacrificed sleep, some special time with Jayden and, at times, our sanity.
Most of the time, we felt like single parents, constantly feeding and changing and carting a baby around.
Kate and I learned to work together, much more than the vows say you will, and yet we had two periods where we fought every day, long and hard. The problem, of course, is that there was too much work to go around.
Any infant is hard. But parents usually can take shifts for midnight feedings, diaper changes and making sure the little one doesn’t crawl off the staircase. Shifts don’t exist when you have twins.
When you’re raising infant twins, when one parent takes a break, any kind at all, the other pays for it dearly.
So now we find ourselves breathing a sigh of relief come Saturday. The twins will turn 1. Every parent I have talked to who went through what we went through has assured me that it gets easier after the first year.
I’m hopeful because the first year was not easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing Kate and I have ever done. In fact, it still is.
But it’s changed me. I’m more relaxed now. It’s not a cliché. I mean, you have to be.
When you have a day like I did three months ago, when Allie had a poop that exploded out of her diaper and went all over the kitchen floor, and Andie was doing everything in her power to play in it, and Kate was at Target, well, you learn that little surprises like that aren’t really problems. They’re funny.
Every day, like that day, holds something unexpected. Some still call me anal. I still prefer the term “organized.” My to-do lists are still there. But the day doesn’t always follow them. And I have learned that’s OK.
I have learned to not only deal with the unexpected, I have learned to embrace it.
I embrace it every day, in fact, when I crawl out of bed, pick up one of the girls and hold her high above my head, completely aware of just how lucky I am that chance found its way into my heart.
And here they are one year later, toasting their birthday. I, too, will drink to that::
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Does 6 a.m. suck?
A younger co-worker, after hearing me long for the day when I could sleep in, you know, past 7:30 a.m., looked at me and said, "Nothing good happens at 6 a.m."
I'm inclined to agree with him.
Allie and Andie are still getting up. Last night it was twice, once at midnight and once at 5 a.m., for feedings.
I am so so so so so so so so so so so so so sos os so so so sos so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so burned out on getting up in the middle of the night. I can't remember the last time I felt refreshed when I got up in the morning. Even when I go to bed early, which is rare, given my owl-like body clock, I never get a good night sleep because we're getting up two or three times a night.
They're almost a year old. Really, when does it stop?
I'm beginning to think this is more common than I would like to believe. I hear all the time from husbands who say their children slept through the night at six weeks. I don't think so. I think that's when they stopped getting up. We have twins, so neither of us have a choice.
I'm not sure why we were "blessed" with such early birds, but there you go.
And so at the bright-and-early time of 5:45 a.m., Andie, who seems to be getting a few fangs and doesnt' seem to like that very much, was up and wanting some food. Kate was obliging while I had two pillows over my head until guilt got the better of me and I went into the twins' room to get Allie.
Andie, kind soul that she is, got Allie up three times last night thanks to voicing her displeasure over getting canines so eventually she can eat a cheeseburger instead of gulping $25-a-can formula like a hobo and a bottle of Jack. I approached her crib, and she stirred, looked at me, then plopped her head back down.
I know, honey. I agree.
Getting up got the better of her, too, and so she stirred, rumbled around and finally sat up so I could pick her up.
She looked right at me, smiled and said, "Da da."
I looked at the clock.
6 a.m.
And it was at that time that I disagreed with my co-worker.
I'm inclined to agree with him.
Allie and Andie are still getting up. Last night it was twice, once at midnight and once at 5 a.m., for feedings.
I am so so so so so so so so so so so so so sos os so so so sos so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so burned out on getting up in the middle of the night. I can't remember the last time I felt refreshed when I got up in the morning. Even when I go to bed early, which is rare, given my owl-like body clock, I never get a good night sleep because we're getting up two or three times a night.
They're almost a year old. Really, when does it stop?
I'm beginning to think this is more common than I would like to believe. I hear all the time from husbands who say their children slept through the night at six weeks. I don't think so. I think that's when they stopped getting up. We have twins, so neither of us have a choice.
I'm not sure why we were "blessed" with such early birds, but there you go.
And so at the bright-and-early time of 5:45 a.m., Andie, who seems to be getting a few fangs and doesnt' seem to like that very much, was up and wanting some food. Kate was obliging while I had two pillows over my head until guilt got the better of me and I went into the twins' room to get Allie.
Andie, kind soul that she is, got Allie up three times last night thanks to voicing her displeasure over getting canines so eventually she can eat a cheeseburger instead of gulping $25-a-can formula like a hobo and a bottle of Jack. I approached her crib, and she stirred, looked at me, then plopped her head back down.
I know, honey. I agree.
Getting up got the better of her, too, and so she stirred, rumbled around and finally sat up so I could pick her up.
She looked right at me, smiled and said, "Da da."
I looked at the clock.
6 a.m.
And it was at that time that I disagreed with my co-worker.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The struggle within
Kate and I enjoy watching "Jon and Kate Plus 8." It's honestly the only show we watch together besides repeated and repeated and repeated viewings of "Little Einsteins."
The babies are cute, and we love teasing Kate for her anal ways (something I can relate to, although not to that degree), but we mostly like the show for the fights.
When Kate and Jon tear into each other, even just for brief moments, Kate and I look at each other and share a knowing smile.
We've been there.
The last couple nights we were there, too, as Kate fed a twin and I fed another, her upstairs in the dark, me downstairs in the dark, with only the laptop and the Kansas/Davidson postgame press conference on the NCAA's Web site to cut through the black.
Both of us fuming.
After almost 11 months of raising twins, the stress continues to chip away at what we've built for five years, the whole foundation that led us to having children in the first place.
This fight, as many do, started with resentment at someone's free time. My own. I went downstairs to the basement to play "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas" for an hour and a half after the kids when to bed. I didn't want to play poker - Mondays typically suck for cash games - and I didn't want to watch a movie. I wanted to finish a mission or two, crash some fancy cars and mostly just kill some innocents. It had been a tough weekend.
Maybe I should have expected Kate would have to get up several times as a result. Maybe I'm a bad husband for wanting an hour and a half to myself. Maybe I'm selfish. Regardless, when I came back upstairs, Kate couldn't wait to lay into me.
We've had these fights since Jayden was born, and they're pretty much boiled down to two sentences.
"You're not doing enough."
"Yes I am."
Kate, however, had a point during Jayden's first year. She got up with him throughout the night. She bathed him most of the time and fed him most of the time too. I did a share of the work, but it probably wasn't my fair share.
The problem, of course, came with twins.
I could go on about getting up with Kate at least twice a night to feed for 11 months now, or the dozens of diapers I've changed or the sacrifices I've made, but really, this post isn't about me. It's about us.
Even so, last nght's fight was pretty simple.
"You're not doing enough."
"Yes I am."
And the problem this time is raising twins, plus the toddler, is so much work that you can't ever do enough to take the pressure off your spouse. On one hand, that will bring you closer together, in the same way that mountain climbing partners or war buddies make friends for life. But on another hand, it's easy to tear down what you've created if your'e not careful.
The reason is because that stress, eventually, has to come out, and it can either come out in small bits, during calm conversations that you don't have time for over dinners that you don't have time for, or it can explode in a violent, volcanic eruption.
Obviously small conversations are better. But there's the time thing. And the energy thing. And the patience thing. It's all in pretty short supply. By the time you put everyone to bed, all you want to go is either go to bed yourself (Kate) or burn off the tension over poker or video games (me).
We can work it out, as Stevie Wonder says, and we continue to work it out, but I think it will always be an issue. At least until the twins turn 16.
Then we're really screwed.
As much as I love the girls, I sometimes can't help but think it would have been better with just one. I can't help but think that, sometimes, we really didn't ask for this. We didn't take any kind of fertility drugs. This just happened. It was a 1/150 shot. Less than a one-outer's chance at hitting the felt.
And as lucky as we were to get two, man, do I feel unlucky at times.
The babies are cute, and we love teasing Kate for her anal ways (something I can relate to, although not to that degree), but we mostly like the show for the fights.
When Kate and Jon tear into each other, even just for brief moments, Kate and I look at each other and share a knowing smile.
We've been there.
The last couple nights we were there, too, as Kate fed a twin and I fed another, her upstairs in the dark, me downstairs in the dark, with only the laptop and the Kansas/Davidson postgame press conference on the NCAA's Web site to cut through the black.
Both of us fuming.
After almost 11 months of raising twins, the stress continues to chip away at what we've built for five years, the whole foundation that led us to having children in the first place.
This fight, as many do, started with resentment at someone's free time. My own. I went downstairs to the basement to play "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas" for an hour and a half after the kids when to bed. I didn't want to play poker - Mondays typically suck for cash games - and I didn't want to watch a movie. I wanted to finish a mission or two, crash some fancy cars and mostly just kill some innocents. It had been a tough weekend.
Maybe I should have expected Kate would have to get up several times as a result. Maybe I'm a bad husband for wanting an hour and a half to myself. Maybe I'm selfish. Regardless, when I came back upstairs, Kate couldn't wait to lay into me.
We've had these fights since Jayden was born, and they're pretty much boiled down to two sentences.
"You're not doing enough."
"Yes I am."
Kate, however, had a point during Jayden's first year. She got up with him throughout the night. She bathed him most of the time and fed him most of the time too. I did a share of the work, but it probably wasn't my fair share.
The problem, of course, came with twins.
I could go on about getting up with Kate at least twice a night to feed for 11 months now, or the dozens of diapers I've changed or the sacrifices I've made, but really, this post isn't about me. It's about us.
Even so, last nght's fight was pretty simple.
"You're not doing enough."
"Yes I am."
And the problem this time is raising twins, plus the toddler, is so much work that you can't ever do enough to take the pressure off your spouse. On one hand, that will bring you closer together, in the same way that mountain climbing partners or war buddies make friends for life. But on another hand, it's easy to tear down what you've created if your'e not careful.
The reason is because that stress, eventually, has to come out, and it can either come out in small bits, during calm conversations that you don't have time for over dinners that you don't have time for, or it can explode in a violent, volcanic eruption.
Obviously small conversations are better. But there's the time thing. And the energy thing. And the patience thing. It's all in pretty short supply. By the time you put everyone to bed, all you want to go is either go to bed yourself (Kate) or burn off the tension over poker or video games (me).
We can work it out, as Stevie Wonder says, and we continue to work it out, but I think it will always be an issue. At least until the twins turn 16.
Then we're really screwed.
As much as I love the girls, I sometimes can't help but think it would have been better with just one. I can't help but think that, sometimes, we really didn't ask for this. We didn't take any kind of fertility drugs. This just happened. It was a 1/150 shot. Less than a one-outer's chance at hitting the felt.
And as lucky as we were to get two, man, do I feel unlucky at times.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Scrambled thoughts on poker, not the NCAA tournament
My wife would disagree with me, but really, I have thought about other things than basketball (Rock Chalk Jayhawk!) since the NCAA tournament started.
Like poker, for instance.
And, oh, making sure the twins don't crawl down the stairs.
(Really, what is it with a baby's propensity to commit suicide? The population would be much, much lower if babies were allowed to act on their own. Maybe that's why it's an issue: We really all are lemmings at heart and are just trying to control the population, and our parents, because they've spent a few months (make that 10) getting up three times a night, won't let us plunge off the cliff. Maybe if our wives gave birth three weeks after getting pregnant, this wouldn't be a problem, but then again that wouldn't be as much fun as four months of getting yelled at for cutting a grapefruit in front of her, three months of crying jags and two months of snoring loud enough to wake three states.
Dear Girls: The stairs are dangerous. It's also not wise to shove every throat-sized thing you see on the floor, like the dog food, down your throat. Love, Daddy).
Thought #1 - Don't go to bed angry. That's what our preacher told us during those pre-marriage sessions that the Catholic church requires (along with pledging your first born and promising not to use birth control, the last of course we did with fingers crossed). And yet I have had trouble not taking stupid plays and bad beats to bed.
The problem is you're probably going to have one or the other every time you play an hour or more of online poker. I never play a session perfectly, for instance, and suckouts always happen to me, as they do to anyone who understands that if you are re-raised and you are holding J-K os, you should probably fold.
After waking up still mad and frustrated, I've decided that enough is enough. My health is good and I'm in great shape, so it would be stupid to blow up my heart on stress related to poker. Besides, I don't play high limits and poker, ultimately, is about making a little money while having fun. It's not a job. Not even close.
Once I made that resolution - call it my New March Resolution - I had one of my best runs of the year today, almost 12 miles and feeling great. I hope there's a connection there.
I can't say I'll live up to the resolution - most people don't - but I'll continue to try.
Thought #2 - Usually when I have a big hand on the river, I'm having a hard time these days deciding whether to value bet, check and hope for a bet so I can raise, overbet for value (usually just jamming) or bet lightly and hope for a raise.
I'm usually failing on the side of overbetting because I figure the times they do call will make up for the times I get nothing out of the river bet. Skalansky advocates this as well.
I still believe this although lately I'm having a hard time getting my monsters paid, and I don't think I'm playing overly tight (plus I'm playing at the lemming level where they don't pay attention to table image too much), though that is always my nature.
Your thoughts?
Thought #3 - I have been more aggressive lately in cash games and it seems to be paying off, though I'm still jamming at the wrong times occasionally (on the river, when I have no fold equity) and just jamming with high pocket pairs instead of playing them better.
This seems to be making me money, though I've made two bad mistakes lately that cost me more profit, mistakes I would not have made, because I"m trying to be more aggressive.
I suppose this is what we call learning.
Like learning that crawling down the stairs is not a good thing. The trick is for it not to kill you before the lesson is learned.
Like poker, for instance.
And, oh, making sure the twins don't crawl down the stairs.
(Really, what is it with a baby's propensity to commit suicide? The population would be much, much lower if babies were allowed to act on their own. Maybe that's why it's an issue: We really all are lemmings at heart and are just trying to control the population, and our parents, because they've spent a few months (make that 10) getting up three times a night, won't let us plunge off the cliff. Maybe if our wives gave birth three weeks after getting pregnant, this wouldn't be a problem, but then again that wouldn't be as much fun as four months of getting yelled at for cutting a grapefruit in front of her, three months of crying jags and two months of snoring loud enough to wake three states.
Dear Girls: The stairs are dangerous. It's also not wise to shove every throat-sized thing you see on the floor, like the dog food, down your throat. Love, Daddy).
Thought #1 - Don't go to bed angry. That's what our preacher told us during those pre-marriage sessions that the Catholic church requires (along with pledging your first born and promising not to use birth control, the last of course we did with fingers crossed). And yet I have had trouble not taking stupid plays and bad beats to bed.
The problem is you're probably going to have one or the other every time you play an hour or more of online poker. I never play a session perfectly, for instance, and suckouts always happen to me, as they do to anyone who understands that if you are re-raised and you are holding J-K os, you should probably fold.
After waking up still mad and frustrated, I've decided that enough is enough. My health is good and I'm in great shape, so it would be stupid to blow up my heart on stress related to poker. Besides, I don't play high limits and poker, ultimately, is about making a little money while having fun. It's not a job. Not even close.
Once I made that resolution - call it my New March Resolution - I had one of my best runs of the year today, almost 12 miles and feeling great. I hope there's a connection there.
I can't say I'll live up to the resolution - most people don't - but I'll continue to try.
Thought #2 - Usually when I have a big hand on the river, I'm having a hard time these days deciding whether to value bet, check and hope for a bet so I can raise, overbet for value (usually just jamming) or bet lightly and hope for a raise.
I'm usually failing on the side of overbetting because I figure the times they do call will make up for the times I get nothing out of the river bet. Skalansky advocates this as well.
I still believe this although lately I'm having a hard time getting my monsters paid, and I don't think I'm playing overly tight (plus I'm playing at the lemming level where they don't pay attention to table image too much), though that is always my nature.
Your thoughts?
Thought #3 - I have been more aggressive lately in cash games and it seems to be paying off, though I'm still jamming at the wrong times occasionally (on the river, when I have no fold equity) and just jamming with high pocket pairs instead of playing them better.
This seems to be making me money, though I've made two bad mistakes lately that cost me more profit, mistakes I would not have made, because I"m trying to be more aggressive.
I suppose this is what we call learning.
Like learning that crawling down the stairs is not a good thing. The trick is for it not to kill you before the lesson is learned.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Torn
I got my swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated in the mail a couple weeks ago. Normally this is cause for a celebration that rivals the Irish whooping it up for St. Patrick's Day. Instead, I haven't even cracked its cover.
I was whooping up a storm as I walked in the kitchen, mail in hand, already anticipating a night of Marvin Gaye, low lighting and soft, slow turns of the page. It's a tradition I've loved since I was 13, when the Internet didn't exist, we didn't have cable and its generous helpings of Cinemax every night and the Sears catalouge sometimes had to do.
The SI swimsuit, compared to the Sears catalouge, rocks.
I used to bargain with my friends. We would trade Paulina Porizkova for Kathy Ireland as if they were baseball cards and when I stumbled upon the old Christie Brinkley issues, I was treated like the guy with the best snow in Miami. Fortunately reason took over me at the last second and I turned away the sissors, preferring to keep Ms. Brinkley whole, the way she should always be, before Billy Joel got to her.
I still have all the issues in a box up on the shelf, next to the Kansas Jayhawk Final Four editions and when the Royals won the World Series.
Only when I walked into the kitchen, my two girls were staring up at me, happy and excited to see their Daddy home.
And I remembered when I gave my brother a Girls of KU calendar for Christmas one year. We were both new parents. Our children were just a few months old, and I thought it would be fun to relive our college days.
I had a son. He had a daughter.
Kate looked at the calendar.
"Maybe Sofia will be in there one day," Kate said.
She knew exactly what she was doing. Brian laughed for just a second, and then his mouth slowly turned into a grimace, then a frown, and finally, a new expression I hadn't seen before, one with wide eyes, a slightly downturned gnash and a wrinkled nose.
It is probably the face of any father the first time they see their daughter walk down the stairs in her prom dress, or when they take a family trip to the beach and notice that their little girl has boobs.
The three stages I saw in Brian, just like any father, I would imagine, were:
• Holy Shit.
• Wait, I remember what I was like when I was a teenage boy.
• If anyone touches my daughter, I'll KILL him. With an axe. While I laugh merrily and sing "Helter Skelter" by the Beatles or maybe, in a pinch, the Motley Crue version.
I didn't go through all those stages just yet. I blocked out my thoughts, and my hearing, and ran downstairs before Kate could see the magazine and ruin it for me.
But the vision of my two, smiling, innocent faces is enough to make me pause and think "that's someone's daughter" when the TV brushes across Cinemax late at night.
Before you think I've reformed, let me tell you I haven't. That would be too easy. I'd throw the magazines away, block Cinemax and smash all my extra-special videotapes that I keep downstairs. And that would be the end of it.
But I'm torn, and it's not just because the 15-year-old in me says "WAIT, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" with his voice cracking under puberty.
I really don't think what the women are doing is immoral. I'm not exactly the church-going type, anyway, but the photos in SI are tasteful and professional (at least I think so, I haven't seen them yet) and, though they border on Playboy material these days, the models do that for a living and make damn good money doing it, in fact.
I don't even have a problem with stripping or, I suppose, porn. I dated a stripper once, and she was a good woman. We had a good time together.
And I'm still a guy and love beautiful women who like to get naked.
Finally, it bothers me that a woman who models or strips or even does porn is a whore but the men who do it are studs (or gay, but that's not what I'm talking about here).
Yet I can't help but wonder, especially when it comes to strippers and porn, that for every liberated, well-spoken woman who chooses to do that for a living because it's great money and because she feels great about herself and her body, there are dozens who do it because Daddy fucked up, or Step-Daddy fucked her, or Uncle Johnny stared at her a little too long and did something about it later that night.
Or her parents ignored her.
That makes me sad.
At one point, they were daughters in their high chairs, happy when their Daddy came home, just wanting him to love them.
That's the image I can't get out of my head when I look at that Sports Illustrated issue.
That's why, for now, it remains closed.
I was whooping up a storm as I walked in the kitchen, mail in hand, already anticipating a night of Marvin Gaye, low lighting and soft, slow turns of the page. It's a tradition I've loved since I was 13, when the Internet didn't exist, we didn't have cable and its generous helpings of Cinemax every night and the Sears catalouge sometimes had to do.
The SI swimsuit, compared to the Sears catalouge, rocks.
I used to bargain with my friends. We would trade Paulina Porizkova for Kathy Ireland as if they were baseball cards and when I stumbled upon the old Christie Brinkley issues, I was treated like the guy with the best snow in Miami. Fortunately reason took over me at the last second and I turned away the sissors, preferring to keep Ms. Brinkley whole, the way she should always be, before Billy Joel got to her.
I still have all the issues in a box up on the shelf, next to the Kansas Jayhawk Final Four editions and when the Royals won the World Series.
Only when I walked into the kitchen, my two girls were staring up at me, happy and excited to see their Daddy home.
And I remembered when I gave my brother a Girls of KU calendar for Christmas one year. We were both new parents. Our children were just a few months old, and I thought it would be fun to relive our college days.
I had a son. He had a daughter.
Kate looked at the calendar.
"Maybe Sofia will be in there one day," Kate said.
She knew exactly what she was doing. Brian laughed for just a second, and then his mouth slowly turned into a grimace, then a frown, and finally, a new expression I hadn't seen before, one with wide eyes, a slightly downturned gnash and a wrinkled nose.
It is probably the face of any father the first time they see their daughter walk down the stairs in her prom dress, or when they take a family trip to the beach and notice that their little girl has boobs.
The three stages I saw in Brian, just like any father, I would imagine, were:
• Holy Shit.
• Wait, I remember what I was like when I was a teenage boy.
• If anyone touches my daughter, I'll KILL him. With an axe. While I laugh merrily and sing "Helter Skelter" by the Beatles or maybe, in a pinch, the Motley Crue version.
I didn't go through all those stages just yet. I blocked out my thoughts, and my hearing, and ran downstairs before Kate could see the magazine and ruin it for me.
But the vision of my two, smiling, innocent faces is enough to make me pause and think "that's someone's daughter" when the TV brushes across Cinemax late at night.
Before you think I've reformed, let me tell you I haven't. That would be too easy. I'd throw the magazines away, block Cinemax and smash all my extra-special videotapes that I keep downstairs. And that would be the end of it.
But I'm torn, and it's not just because the 15-year-old in me says "WAIT, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" with his voice cracking under puberty.
I really don't think what the women are doing is immoral. I'm not exactly the church-going type, anyway, but the photos in SI are tasteful and professional (at least I think so, I haven't seen them yet) and, though they border on Playboy material these days, the models do that for a living and make damn good money doing it, in fact.
I don't even have a problem with stripping or, I suppose, porn. I dated a stripper once, and she was a good woman. We had a good time together.
And I'm still a guy and love beautiful women who like to get naked.
Finally, it bothers me that a woman who models or strips or even does porn is a whore but the men who do it are studs (or gay, but that's not what I'm talking about here).
Yet I can't help but wonder, especially when it comes to strippers and porn, that for every liberated, well-spoken woman who chooses to do that for a living because it's great money and because she feels great about herself and her body, there are dozens who do it because Daddy fucked up, or Step-Daddy fucked her, or Uncle Johnny stared at her a little too long and did something about it later that night.
Or her parents ignored her.
That makes me sad.
At one point, they were daughters in their high chairs, happy when their Daddy came home, just wanting him to love them.
That's the image I can't get out of my head when I look at that Sports Illustrated issue.
That's why, for now, it remains closed.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
A step-by-step guide to changing twins at the ass-crack of dawn
Before you begin changing your 9-month-old, just-learned-to-crawl-twins (video coming), it's highly recommended you practice for a bit.
We recommend fishing out a bass with your bare hands and trying to put a sweater on it, learning how to scuba dive and wrestling with a squid or playing with a Slinky while you juggle a carton of eggs and jog up and down a flight of stairs.
1. Hear wife's lovely voice asking you to get up at 6 a.m. Try to ignore fact that wife's voice sounds like sandpaper being rubbed on a chalk board that early in the morning.
2. Walk into nursery and have gray clouds lifted from soul, at least a little, by big, wide smiles and babbling.
3. Remove twin from crib and place on carpet.
4. Instantly scoot over to catch twin before she crawls into the bathroom.
5. Pull now screaming twin back to you.
6. Put pacifier in twin's mouth.
7. Remove one piece of tape from diaper.
8. Flip twin back over.
9. Remove other piece of tape from diaper.
10. See something that looks like Bill Cosby stuck one of his Jello Pudding Pops inside diaper overnight.
11. Yell for wipes when you discover the bag is out.
12. Try to hold twin by leg while she squirms left and right and try to clean bottom with wipe.
13. Ignore protests from said twin, who prefers to be on the move ALL THE TIME.
14. Finish job, release twin from foothold and turn around to get diaper.
15. Scoot across carpet to catch twin. Drag her back, flip her over.
16. Move her to open diaper.
17. Move her again.
18. Again.
19. There you go. Put diaper on twin.
20. Ask wife to pick out outfits. Grunt when she asks if everything is OK.
21. Hold down protesting twin long enough to get pants on. Fight like hell to get her to stay put long enough to put on pants.
22. Remove twin's legs from one pant and start over.
23. Do it again. Fight like hell urge to toss twin out of second-story window.
24. Catch twin, flip her over and put pants on one leg at a time.
25. Give twin plastic crab.
26. Sit twin up and put on shirt. Make brrrrrrrr noise with mouth so twin doesn't panic when her face is covered for 30 seconds.
27. Give twin a smile. You're done!
28. Close bedroom door so twin doesn't escape.
29. Lift second twin out of crib.
30. Start over.
We recommend fishing out a bass with your bare hands and trying to put a sweater on it, learning how to scuba dive and wrestling with a squid or playing with a Slinky while you juggle a carton of eggs and jog up and down a flight of stairs.
1. Hear wife's lovely voice asking you to get up at 6 a.m. Try to ignore fact that wife's voice sounds like sandpaper being rubbed on a chalk board that early in the morning.
2. Walk into nursery and have gray clouds lifted from soul, at least a little, by big, wide smiles and babbling.
3. Remove twin from crib and place on carpet.
4. Instantly scoot over to catch twin before she crawls into the bathroom.
5. Pull now screaming twin back to you.
6. Put pacifier in twin's mouth.
7. Remove one piece of tape from diaper.
8. Flip twin back over.
9. Remove other piece of tape from diaper.
10. See something that looks like Bill Cosby stuck one of his Jello Pudding Pops inside diaper overnight.
11. Yell for wipes when you discover the bag is out.
12. Try to hold twin by leg while she squirms left and right and try to clean bottom with wipe.
13. Ignore protests from said twin, who prefers to be on the move ALL THE TIME.
14. Finish job, release twin from foothold and turn around to get diaper.
15. Scoot across carpet to catch twin. Drag her back, flip her over.
16. Move her to open diaper.
17. Move her again.
18. Again.
19. There you go. Put diaper on twin.
20. Ask wife to pick out outfits. Grunt when she asks if everything is OK.
21. Hold down protesting twin long enough to get pants on. Fight like hell to get her to stay put long enough to put on pants.
22. Remove twin's legs from one pant and start over.
23. Do it again. Fight like hell urge to toss twin out of second-story window.
24. Catch twin, flip her over and put pants on one leg at a time.
25. Give twin plastic crab.
26. Sit twin up and put on shirt. Make brrrrrrrr noise with mouth so twin doesn't panic when her face is covered for 30 seconds.
27. Give twin a smile. You're done!
28. Close bedroom door so twin doesn't escape.
29. Lift second twin out of crib.
30. Start over.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
There Will Always Be Conflict
I remember being a little relieved when "The Sopranos" quit its run as perhaps the best show ever on television.
As much as I loved the show, I'd always feel drained at the end of it, sort of like my soul got the shit kicked out of it. I'd feel dirty, too, like how it must feel to visit a porn shop with slick floors and peek shows for a quarter.
I felt the same way Saturday after seeing "There Will Be Blood."
The movie is a remarkable achievement, thanks mostly to the performance of Daniel Day Lewis, who plays an oilman with a soul as black as the crude goop he covets.
The oilman creeps through most of the movie friendless and alone, plainly ignoring questions about a wife and cutting down anyone who dares to show anything less than perfection.
The most heartbreaking part of the movie for me, however, was the relationship he had with a boy he claimed as his own after the boy's father is killed in a brutal scene (and there are several, though not as many as the title seems to imply).
At first Lewis' character, named Daniel Plainview, seems to love the boy, but after he loses his hearing in an accident, Plainview takes his inability to communicate as an affront and cuts him off emotionally, treating him like a shelter dog, something that needs only food and shelter.
It was hard for me to watch him break his son's heart over and over.
Mainly because I could relate to him.
I've been guilty of thinking of my children as a burden, rather than the blessings they are, because of the way I crave time alone.
I crave time with a book, a movie, a video game, a run, a climb, even at an online poker table, which is proof to me just how internal poker is even if it is a game played with others.
As an introvert, I get my energy from being alone, and so I constantly struggle with the fact that part of me would rather be writing or spending time on my computer than roughhousing on the carpet with my son or holding my daughters.
I knew this about myself, and for many years I hesitated to have children because of it. I didn't think I'd be a good father because I knew I'd struggle with the time it takes to do it right.
I surprised myself. I love my kids far more than I ever thought I would, and I miss them when I'm apart from them. But I still struggle more often that I should admit here.
I struggle the most at times like this morning, when I wanted Kate to go to church and yet slightly resented her leaving me with two cranky, teething, fussy girls.
I sat them between me and enjoyed their company, until that part of me cried out for something to do rather than just be in the moment, and when I fired up my computer to read about my Jayhawks, the girls started fussing and I internally started whining myself about soothing their red eyes.
They are so cute these days - and I promise to post a video or pictures soon - so it only takes a pouty lip and teary eyes to melt my heart, close the computer and cuddle them until they nap. Twenty hard minutes later, after trying to get one down while the other cried out, I was glad when they did fall asleep rather than stay up and play.
I defend myself, maybe to a fault, by telling myself that we're at a hard stage right now, and the care is almost constant until the few golden hours that they're down before my bedtime.
When something like free time is taken away from you that much, you're bound to miss it, even crave it, the same way people crave cookies when they're on a diet.
But I've always been this way, and it seems like for me that I never get enough time to myself, even on the days when I get three hours or more.
Still, my heart hurt as I walked out of the theater, as Daniel Plainview was reduced to an old, bitter hermit whose only pleasure was hurting others, even the son who still loved him.
I hope one day it's not that hard to love me.
When I got home, I listened for Jayden's heavy breathing behind his bedroom door, and I gave a peck to the girls' heads. Then I went into the bedroom, anxious to relieve my craving for an hour of online poker, before the girls interrupted it with their midnight feeding.
As much as I loved the show, I'd always feel drained at the end of it, sort of like my soul got the shit kicked out of it. I'd feel dirty, too, like how it must feel to visit a porn shop with slick floors and peek shows for a quarter.
I felt the same way Saturday after seeing "There Will Be Blood."
The movie is a remarkable achievement, thanks mostly to the performance of Daniel Day Lewis, who plays an oilman with a soul as black as the crude goop he covets.
The oilman creeps through most of the movie friendless and alone, plainly ignoring questions about a wife and cutting down anyone who dares to show anything less than perfection.
The most heartbreaking part of the movie for me, however, was the relationship he had with a boy he claimed as his own after the boy's father is killed in a brutal scene (and there are several, though not as many as the title seems to imply).
At first Lewis' character, named Daniel Plainview, seems to love the boy, but after he loses his hearing in an accident, Plainview takes his inability to communicate as an affront and cuts him off emotionally, treating him like a shelter dog, something that needs only food and shelter.
It was hard for me to watch him break his son's heart over and over.
Mainly because I could relate to him.
I've been guilty of thinking of my children as a burden, rather than the blessings they are, because of the way I crave time alone.
I crave time with a book, a movie, a video game, a run, a climb, even at an online poker table, which is proof to me just how internal poker is even if it is a game played with others.
As an introvert, I get my energy from being alone, and so I constantly struggle with the fact that part of me would rather be writing or spending time on my computer than roughhousing on the carpet with my son or holding my daughters.
I knew this about myself, and for many years I hesitated to have children because of it. I didn't think I'd be a good father because I knew I'd struggle with the time it takes to do it right.
I surprised myself. I love my kids far more than I ever thought I would, and I miss them when I'm apart from them. But I still struggle more often that I should admit here.
I struggle the most at times like this morning, when I wanted Kate to go to church and yet slightly resented her leaving me with two cranky, teething, fussy girls.
I sat them between me and enjoyed their company, until that part of me cried out for something to do rather than just be in the moment, and when I fired up my computer to read about my Jayhawks, the girls started fussing and I internally started whining myself about soothing their red eyes.
They are so cute these days - and I promise to post a video or pictures soon - so it only takes a pouty lip and teary eyes to melt my heart, close the computer and cuddle them until they nap. Twenty hard minutes later, after trying to get one down while the other cried out, I was glad when they did fall asleep rather than stay up and play.
I defend myself, maybe to a fault, by telling myself that we're at a hard stage right now, and the care is almost constant until the few golden hours that they're down before my bedtime.
When something like free time is taken away from you that much, you're bound to miss it, even crave it, the same way people crave cookies when they're on a diet.
But I've always been this way, and it seems like for me that I never get enough time to myself, even on the days when I get three hours or more.
Still, my heart hurt as I walked out of the theater, as Daniel Plainview was reduced to an old, bitter hermit whose only pleasure was hurting others, even the son who still loved him.
I hope one day it's not that hard to love me.
When I got home, I listened for Jayden's heavy breathing behind his bedroom door, and I gave a peck to the girls' heads. Then I went into the bedroom, anxious to relieve my craving for an hour of online poker, before the girls interrupted it with their midnight feeding.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Goodbye strangers, goodbye friends?
Lately for short periods I've thought about what my funeral would be like.
There would probably be a picture montage set to U2 because, let's face it, Iron Maiden or Metallica would probably not be appropriate. Besides, I'd be dead, so I'd have no say in what music was picked. And U2 does open the movie I'm making about the twins, so they'd probably deem it a safe choice and move on.
I suppose there would be flowers, maybe me in an open casket, if I'm not too gashed up from my fall off a peak, dressed in fleece and my ice axe by my side.
The thing I can't picture is just how many people would show.
But I think the pews are getting emptier.
Even before we had the kids, I wasn't one to have a lot of friends, and quite frankly I liked it that way. I liked having free nights, even on the weekends, to myself. I love time alone. The time I spend with people, while fun, drains me of the pieces of energy I have left after burning it running or working or living.
In the eight months since we added twins to Jayden, however, the few friendships I enjoyed have been difficult to maintain, and lately I've worried about their erosion, to the point where I wonder at times if I have any friends left at all.
I've had to leave poker games as they're just starting to pick up, turn down invitations to movies and forgo inviting others to watch a Kansas basketball game with me. In the past I'd probably gather a few friends to watch the Orange Bowl. Last Thursday I watched it alone, and silently, because the kids were all asleep.
I've constructed a pretty thick cocoon around myself as a parent of a toddler and twins.
We used to have a group of friends Kate and I hung with every few weeks, where we'd gather and drink and play games (NO, not spin the bottle or the car keys in a fishbowl). Once we even ran around different neighborhoods on a scavenger hunt, like eighth graders. It was fun. We took a five-day mountain climbing trip with a couple in that group and went out to dinner several times a season with another.
Now we haven't seen any of them in months.
It's just easier that way.
It's so much work to go out these days. It's not like we can just call a babysitter. "Hi, can you take care of two eight-month-old infants and a toddler with more endurance than an Ironman athlete? OK, see you at 7!" And taking the kids anywhere, even to dinner with friends, means shoving more things into a backpack that I used to bring climbing 14ers, clipping in two babies in their carriers and belting in Jayden and praying to God they don't throw a fit in the restaurant.
We're trapped in our own house, and though it's not prison because the girls are now super cute and getting big (videos to come I promise) and Jayden is speaking more words every day, those refreshing times with friends are fading fast. Even when we're out, sometimes it's too hard to have the singleton parents to make plans for some trip/night out and act disgusted when we say we can't go. One friend of Kate's constantly asks her why she can't go out to dinner with them every week, and Kate says "that leaves Dan at home with the three kids." I do give Kate a girls' night out once a month, and even then, her friend just asks her why Kate can't go out with them more as they take their calm, single child out in a stroller and to swim lessons and lunches in a high chair.
They don't get it, Kate says many times, and no one really does.
People, however, get tired of asking if you can make it to a movie and eventually just assume you can't. That's where we are now, and I'm beginning to question what, if anything, I want to do about it.
As I said, I'm perfectly happy playing online poker and chatting with virtual friends made and strengthened in Las Vegas and hitting up Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and reading and watching movies. Now that my free time has been cut in half, at least, with caretaking, those activities are more important to me than ever.
Yet I do fall into depression at times, and I think it's because no matter how much of an introvert you are, and no matter how renewing time alone is, human contact with others you care about is important.
Kate and I realized how nice it was to have a few hours alone, without the kids, when Dad and his family watched all three of them during our trip to Kansas recently. So we made it a point, then and there, to try to have at least a couple hours together once every couple of weeks.
We're trying to watch our own relationship, and then we'll work on rebuilding the ones we enjoyed with others. But finding the time to do that continues to be challenging.
Kate asked her brother this weekend if he could watch the kids for a couple hours. We're not sure yet. We're starting to get the idea that he may be busy.
There would probably be a picture montage set to U2 because, let's face it, Iron Maiden or Metallica would probably not be appropriate. Besides, I'd be dead, so I'd have no say in what music was picked. And U2 does open the movie I'm making about the twins, so they'd probably deem it a safe choice and move on.
I suppose there would be flowers, maybe me in an open casket, if I'm not too gashed up from my fall off a peak, dressed in fleece and my ice axe by my side.
The thing I can't picture is just how many people would show.
But I think the pews are getting emptier.
Even before we had the kids, I wasn't one to have a lot of friends, and quite frankly I liked it that way. I liked having free nights, even on the weekends, to myself. I love time alone. The time I spend with people, while fun, drains me of the pieces of energy I have left after burning it running or working or living.
In the eight months since we added twins to Jayden, however, the few friendships I enjoyed have been difficult to maintain, and lately I've worried about their erosion, to the point where I wonder at times if I have any friends left at all.
I've had to leave poker games as they're just starting to pick up, turn down invitations to movies and forgo inviting others to watch a Kansas basketball game with me. In the past I'd probably gather a few friends to watch the Orange Bowl. Last Thursday I watched it alone, and silently, because the kids were all asleep.
I've constructed a pretty thick cocoon around myself as a parent of a toddler and twins.
We used to have a group of friends Kate and I hung with every few weeks, where we'd gather and drink and play games (NO, not spin the bottle or the car keys in a fishbowl). Once we even ran around different neighborhoods on a scavenger hunt, like eighth graders. It was fun. We took a five-day mountain climbing trip with a couple in that group and went out to dinner several times a season with another.
Now we haven't seen any of them in months.
It's just easier that way.
It's so much work to go out these days. It's not like we can just call a babysitter. "Hi, can you take care of two eight-month-old infants and a toddler with more endurance than an Ironman athlete? OK, see you at 7!" And taking the kids anywhere, even to dinner with friends, means shoving more things into a backpack that I used to bring climbing 14ers, clipping in two babies in their carriers and belting in Jayden and praying to God they don't throw a fit in the restaurant.
We're trapped in our own house, and though it's not prison because the girls are now super cute and getting big (videos to come I promise) and Jayden is speaking more words every day, those refreshing times with friends are fading fast. Even when we're out, sometimes it's too hard to have the singleton parents to make plans for some trip/night out and act disgusted when we say we can't go. One friend of Kate's constantly asks her why she can't go out to dinner with them every week, and Kate says "that leaves Dan at home with the three kids." I do give Kate a girls' night out once a month, and even then, her friend just asks her why Kate can't go out with them more as they take their calm, single child out in a stroller and to swim lessons and lunches in a high chair.
They don't get it, Kate says many times, and no one really does.
People, however, get tired of asking if you can make it to a movie and eventually just assume you can't. That's where we are now, and I'm beginning to question what, if anything, I want to do about it.
As I said, I'm perfectly happy playing online poker and chatting with virtual friends made and strengthened in Las Vegas and hitting up Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and reading and watching movies. Now that my free time has been cut in half, at least, with caretaking, those activities are more important to me than ever.
Yet I do fall into depression at times, and I think it's because no matter how much of an introvert you are, and no matter how renewing time alone is, human contact with others you care about is important.
Kate and I realized how nice it was to have a few hours alone, without the kids, when Dad and his family watched all three of them during our trip to Kansas recently. So we made it a point, then and there, to try to have at least a couple hours together once every couple of weeks.
We're trying to watch our own relationship, and then we'll work on rebuilding the ones we enjoyed with others. But finding the time to do that continues to be challenging.
Kate asked her brother this weekend if he could watch the kids for a couple hours. We're not sure yet. We're starting to get the idea that he may be busy.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Perspective
Today was one of those days when I really question why I'm a parent, and it officially started at midnight, sort of like a New Year's Eve in hell.
I was at a home game with friends over cheap poker. There was queso. There were nachos. There was Omaha and wild-card stud and a little bit of Hold 'Em. There was good conversation and hair metal on Comcast. I was in heaven.
Then the phone rang.
"I'm shaky, I'm sick, and the girls want to eat," she said.
And that's how I fell from heaven.
This is the price you pay for twins, and parents rarely talk about little sacrifices like this that we go through every single day. We have one baby, even with the toddler, and Kate feeds her and goes back to bed. But we have two, and so I'm needed at home, especially when Kate feels as if the black plague is crawling through her.
I run upstairs, pat Kate on the head and walk over to the nursery to grab a baby. Andie squeals when I enter the room. It's really cute and endearing. It's also not something you want to hear at midnight.
My fears are confirmed when I work Andie into a side position against my chest to help her sleep and she squirms and starts fighting me almost immeaditely. Translation: "I'm having none of THAT Daddy."
So, being the junkie that I am, I fire up three .25/.50 NL tables on Ultimate Bet and place Andie on a pillow on my lap. She gazes up at me and babbles. Allie, in her carrier, softly whines occasionally, but she seems sleepy.
I win $30 (woot!) and an hour and a half later, Andie goes to sleep, and Allie starts screaming. She wakes up Andie, and I pick up Allie and smell the worst. I open up her diaper. Jackpot!
At 2 a.m., I crawl into bed.
Kate wakes me at 7 a.m. miserable and cranky.
"I need to trade with you," she says and crawls into bed.
I think about protesting that this trade actually would be like trading a fourth-round draft pick for Randy Moss, but I think better of it. Kate's really sick. Poor thing. I go downstairs into chaos. Hi, girls, and hi, Jayden.
I never wake up fresh. It's more like the fog a bear must feel after hibernation.
Kate, through tears, says she doesn't want to drive to Kansas tomorrow. I say we must go because it will actually be harder to do another day with the kids without the extra help. So I:
Pack for Kate, the twins and Jayden
Play a $2.25 SnG while I'm doing this. I take second to a card rack.
Tinker with my computer.
Change the twins. I open Allie's diaper. Jackpot!
Run downstairs for laundry.
Wolf down some lunch.
Pack my suitcase for the trip.
Fold my laundry.
Calm down one of the girls at least 50 times.
Try to calm one of Jayden's tantrums. Unsuccessfully.
More laundry.
Pack more.
Answer "HA!" when Kate asks if I wanted to go running. Yes, but my eight-mile run Saturday will have to do.
By the time it's 1:15 p.m. and Kate's parents arrive to rescue us, I'm so frayed I threaten my beloved dog with a plastic bat to shut him up so his barking doesn't wake the twins.
And then I'm assigned to cover this story. Here's part of what I wrote for Monday's paper:
Shane and Amy Fuller didn’t want to break the news and tear a small piece of innocence away from their 7-year-old daughter, Kaylie.
No one in Johnstown, or any parent, for that matter, could blame them. No one wanted to hear what had happened to Zoe Garcia. But the TV blared Zoe’s name everywhere, and Kaylie knew enough about the Internet to see that something had happened to one of her best friends, and so the Fullers prepared themselves for the kind of news that should only come from the mouths of caring parents, not TV or the Internet. Shane told Kaylie to sit down, and he told her she had been killed.
Killed? But Kaylie was supposed to go over to her house the next day to play. She began to cry. Then she got angry. It was hard for her to understand why Zoe was beaten to death and why Zoe’s sister and her boyfriend were arrested in connection with her death.
“She wanted to know why people would do those things,” Shane said.
They didn’t have that answer. No one did. But they could offer their daughter one thing. There would be a candlelight vigil at Letford Elementary School in Johnstown, where Zoe filled the hallways with her smile and sat next to Kaylie in class.
“We talked about this being a chance to say goodbye,” Amy said.
That’s why dozens gathered Sunday night and clutched sad, shivering candles under a silver full moon and surrounded by neighborhoods lit by colorful Christmas lights.
I'm cutting it out and keeping it in my back pocket. When I face another day like today, I hope the perspective salves the pity I have for my difficult life.
I was at a home game with friends over cheap poker. There was queso. There were nachos. There was Omaha and wild-card stud and a little bit of Hold 'Em. There was good conversation and hair metal on Comcast. I was in heaven.
Then the phone rang.
"I'm shaky, I'm sick, and the girls want to eat," she said.
And that's how I fell from heaven.
This is the price you pay for twins, and parents rarely talk about little sacrifices like this that we go through every single day. We have one baby, even with the toddler, and Kate feeds her and goes back to bed. But we have two, and so I'm needed at home, especially when Kate feels as if the black plague is crawling through her.
I run upstairs, pat Kate on the head and walk over to the nursery to grab a baby. Andie squeals when I enter the room. It's really cute and endearing. It's also not something you want to hear at midnight.
My fears are confirmed when I work Andie into a side position against my chest to help her sleep and she squirms and starts fighting me almost immeaditely. Translation: "I'm having none of THAT Daddy."
So, being the junkie that I am, I fire up three .25/.50 NL tables on Ultimate Bet and place Andie on a pillow on my lap. She gazes up at me and babbles. Allie, in her carrier, softly whines occasionally, but she seems sleepy.
I win $30 (woot!) and an hour and a half later, Andie goes to sleep, and Allie starts screaming. She wakes up Andie, and I pick up Allie and smell the worst. I open up her diaper. Jackpot!
At 2 a.m., I crawl into bed.
Kate wakes me at 7 a.m. miserable and cranky.
"I need to trade with you," she says and crawls into bed.
I think about protesting that this trade actually would be like trading a fourth-round draft pick for Randy Moss, but I think better of it. Kate's really sick. Poor thing. I go downstairs into chaos. Hi, girls, and hi, Jayden.
I never wake up fresh. It's more like the fog a bear must feel after hibernation.
Kate, through tears, says she doesn't want to drive to Kansas tomorrow. I say we must go because it will actually be harder to do another day with the kids without the extra help. So I:
Pack for Kate, the twins and Jayden
Play a $2.25 SnG while I'm doing this. I take second to a card rack.
Tinker with my computer.
Change the twins. I open Allie's diaper. Jackpot!
Run downstairs for laundry.
Wolf down some lunch.
Pack my suitcase for the trip.
Fold my laundry.
Calm down one of the girls at least 50 times.
Try to calm one of Jayden's tantrums. Unsuccessfully.
More laundry.
Pack more.
Answer "HA!" when Kate asks if I wanted to go running. Yes, but my eight-mile run Saturday will have to do.
By the time it's 1:15 p.m. and Kate's parents arrive to rescue us, I'm so frayed I threaten my beloved dog with a plastic bat to shut him up so his barking doesn't wake the twins.
And then I'm assigned to cover this story. Here's part of what I wrote for Monday's paper:
Shane and Amy Fuller didn’t want to break the news and tear a small piece of innocence away from their 7-year-old daughter, Kaylie.
No one in Johnstown, or any parent, for that matter, could blame them. No one wanted to hear what had happened to Zoe Garcia. But the TV blared Zoe’s name everywhere, and Kaylie knew enough about the Internet to see that something had happened to one of her best friends, and so the Fullers prepared themselves for the kind of news that should only come from the mouths of caring parents, not TV or the Internet. Shane told Kaylie to sit down, and he told her she had been killed.
Killed? But Kaylie was supposed to go over to her house the next day to play. She began to cry. Then she got angry. It was hard for her to understand why Zoe was beaten to death and why Zoe’s sister and her boyfriend were arrested in connection with her death.
“She wanted to know why people would do those things,” Shane said.
They didn’t have that answer. No one did. But they could offer their daughter one thing. There would be a candlelight vigil at Letford Elementary School in Johnstown, where Zoe filled the hallways with her smile and sat next to Kaylie in class.
“We talked about this being a chance to say goodbye,” Amy said.
That’s why dozens gathered Sunday night and clutched sad, shivering candles under a silver full moon and surrounded by neighborhoods lit by colorful Christmas lights.
I'm cutting it out and keeping it in my back pocket. When I face another day like today, I hope the perspective salves the pity I have for my difficult life.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Growth
Someone replaced my twin infants with squirming babies who eat all the time (yep, still at 3 a.m.) and have grown at the rate of a bamboo plant these last couple of weeks. Andie is now adept at doing "the worm" across the floor, which makes my heart heavy with cuteness every time I see it, and Kate thinks she's not far from crawling.
I'm not so sure, probably because I'm in denial. Mobile twins? Yikes.
What's also grown is my poker game. I'm not sure why but that Vegas trip put a bug in my brain that continues to whisper "play more aggressive" to me, and that's exactly what I've done lately, even at the cash games. Not only that but I'm suddenly playing $50 NL poker (yes, I'm rolled for it) again, and yet I'm playing the games even more aggressively than ever. I guess watching so many great players at work was good for my poker soul.
Of course, I'm didn't say I was winning. No, the tournament Gods have decided to fuck up my psyche and make me lose every hand that goes in pre-flop. If it's a race, a 60/40 or even a re-cock-u-lus 75/25, I'm gonna lose it. The suckouts have crept into my cash game, too, with people going all in on flush draws and hitting them and shit like that. Actually, I consider myself lucky to be breaking even in the cash games. A few flopped sets have helped with that.
Seriously, I'm looking forward to when this turns around, as it always does, because I will be red hot.
Christmas and the craziness that goes with it will cut down on some posting these next few days, but once I reach Kansas, I'll be a blogging fool, as I'll finally have a bit of time to do something for myself other than throw virtual chips around the digital cards. Saturday I've got a cheap home game with some longtime friends, something I'm really needing right now, and then the holidays will hit like Dorothy's tornado and sweep me to her home state.
I'll still play the Mookie tonight because life without the Mookie is no life at all.
And unfortunately I won't make this because I work Sunday nights, but I'll pimp it nonetheless because Trip is one of the coolest guys on the planet.
And it sounds fun, and fun is something we all need a little more of right now. Especially when it comes to poker.
I'm not so sure, probably because I'm in denial. Mobile twins? Yikes.
What's also grown is my poker game. I'm not sure why but that Vegas trip put a bug in my brain that continues to whisper "play more aggressive" to me, and that's exactly what I've done lately, even at the cash games. Not only that but I'm suddenly playing $50 NL poker (yes, I'm rolled for it) again, and yet I'm playing the games even more aggressively than ever. I guess watching so many great players at work was good for my poker soul.
Of course, I'm didn't say I was winning. No, the tournament Gods have decided to fuck up my psyche and make me lose every hand that goes in pre-flop. If it's a race, a 60/40 or even a re-cock-u-lus 75/25, I'm gonna lose it. The suckouts have crept into my cash game, too, with people going all in on flush draws and hitting them and shit like that. Actually, I consider myself lucky to be breaking even in the cash games. A few flopped sets have helped with that.
Seriously, I'm looking forward to when this turns around, as it always does, because I will be red hot.
Christmas and the craziness that goes with it will cut down on some posting these next few days, but once I reach Kansas, I'll be a blogging fool, as I'll finally have a bit of time to do something for myself other than throw virtual chips around the digital cards. Saturday I've got a cheap home game with some longtime friends, something I'm really needing right now, and then the holidays will hit like Dorothy's tornado and sweep me to her home state.
I'll still play the Mookie tonight because life without the Mookie is no life at all.
And unfortunately I won't make this because I work Sunday nights, but I'll pimp it nonetheless because Trip is one of the coolest guys on the planet.
And it sounds fun, and fun is something we all need a little more of right now. Especially when it comes to poker.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Hangover
The best parts about getaways aren't the good times while you're there.
It's the hangover.
A weekend in Vegas with people I can now call real, flesh-and-blood friends was just what I needed to get through these next two weeks before I head to see my parents in Kansas and revel in the barbecue, old friends and extra help with the twins. This year the extra help makes me drool more than the barbecue.
Many of you are probably experiencing a let down after such a Grand 'Ole Time, but for me it's just the opposite. My desire to write well again has been restored (not always successful, though, as that last sentence shows), I'm playing much better, aggressive poker after watching all of you and my chat box is full of comments every night from those I enjoyed sin city with last weekend.
That's what was so intoxicating about mountain climbing. I'd work hard, to the point of exhaustation, but the next day, after dragging myself home, even after a climb that lasted 18 hours with a long drive home, I was renewed.
Vegas trips won't take the place of that, but this was the closest I've gotten in a while.
And boy, thank God, too, because the grind is really getting to me.
Work continues to knee me in the groin. As much as I love journalism, newspapers are asking their writers to do far more than we ever have, namely because staffs are sliced like thin ham (mmmm, I can already taste that barbecue) thanks to lean advertising and readership. I'm writing a tough story about a high school student with a brain tumor, and I doubt I'll get more than a few hours here and there to complete it, and that's just one of at least a half-dozen stories I'll need to write in the next four days. Meanwhile, Sunday I have to cover a biker toy run. Did I cover a biker toy run two weeks ago? I did indeed. No offense, Katitude, but there's only so much you can say about bikers with a teddy bear strapped to their handlebars.
And yeah, it's Christmas, so I have dozens of things to do to get ready.
And did I mention the twins? My nights are now reduced to offering me maybe a couple hours of free time. Any more than that, and I pay, sometimes dearly. I really need to write more for Pokerworks and blog more and pick up around the house more, but once I gently lay those girls in their cribs, all I want to do is something fun for an hour or two, and lately that's either poker or Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, and then it's time for bed.
The mornings usually start at the cruel hour of 6 a.m., after a night waking or two, and every minute is full, with diaper changings, outfit changes, feedings and strapping into the carriers, followed by a run in, lately, -6 degree weather. Two days ago the snot in my nose froze on my 3-mile run.
It's hard to go to work after that and make the grindstone spark, but I've done it well lately, thanks to Vegas.
After a weekend of no responsiblity and making new connections and pokerpokerpokerpokerpokerpoker, I can see the dim light at the end of this dark tunnel, and I'm heading for it full bore with gas in my engine and wings on my feet, until I crash into Kansas City, my hometown, and pull on the emergency brake with both hands.
It's the hangover.
A weekend in Vegas with people I can now call real, flesh-and-blood friends was just what I needed to get through these next two weeks before I head to see my parents in Kansas and revel in the barbecue, old friends and extra help with the twins. This year the extra help makes me drool more than the barbecue.
Many of you are probably experiencing a let down after such a Grand 'Ole Time, but for me it's just the opposite. My desire to write well again has been restored (not always successful, though, as that last sentence shows), I'm playing much better, aggressive poker after watching all of you and my chat box is full of comments every night from those I enjoyed sin city with last weekend.
That's what was so intoxicating about mountain climbing. I'd work hard, to the point of exhaustation, but the next day, after dragging myself home, even after a climb that lasted 18 hours with a long drive home, I was renewed.
Vegas trips won't take the place of that, but this was the closest I've gotten in a while.
And boy, thank God, too, because the grind is really getting to me.
Work continues to knee me in the groin. As much as I love journalism, newspapers are asking their writers to do far more than we ever have, namely because staffs are sliced like thin ham (mmmm, I can already taste that barbecue) thanks to lean advertising and readership. I'm writing a tough story about a high school student with a brain tumor, and I doubt I'll get more than a few hours here and there to complete it, and that's just one of at least a half-dozen stories I'll need to write in the next four days. Meanwhile, Sunday I have to cover a biker toy run. Did I cover a biker toy run two weeks ago? I did indeed. No offense, Katitude, but there's only so much you can say about bikers with a teddy bear strapped to their handlebars.
And yeah, it's Christmas, so I have dozens of things to do to get ready.
And did I mention the twins? My nights are now reduced to offering me maybe a couple hours of free time. Any more than that, and I pay, sometimes dearly. I really need to write more for Pokerworks and blog more and pick up around the house more, but once I gently lay those girls in their cribs, all I want to do is something fun for an hour or two, and lately that's either poker or Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, and then it's time for bed.
The mornings usually start at the cruel hour of 6 a.m., after a night waking or two, and every minute is full, with diaper changings, outfit changes, feedings and strapping into the carriers, followed by a run in, lately, -6 degree weather. Two days ago the snot in my nose froze on my 3-mile run.
It's hard to go to work after that and make the grindstone spark, but I've done it well lately, thanks to Vegas.
After a weekend of no responsiblity and making new connections and pokerpokerpokerpokerpokerpoker, I can see the dim light at the end of this dark tunnel, and I'm heading for it full bore with gas in my engine and wings on my feet, until I crash into Kansas City, my hometown, and pull on the emergency brake with both hands.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Babies that were....
Oh and here's the obligatory "aren't they cute now that they've moved to solid food shot"
Andie
Allie
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The grind
We were in McDonald's the day after Thanksgiving to let Jayden burn off some energy in one of those plastic playgrounds that looks like it was built for a giant hamster.
A guy was over there watching his children, and I ignored him, as I usually do in public, since I'm such a social butterfly.
When we traded off, and I started wolfing down some pancakes and sausage, Kate came back in and said, "That guy has twins."
My ears perked. Sweet. Someone to comiserate with us. And his twins were boys! Heh! He must have had it worse than us.
"Yeah, it was pretty hard," he said. "That first year. Wow."
I nodded my head, soaking in the sympathy. Yep. That first year. Wow.
"Of course, they slept through the night at three months," he said.
"Oh, really," I said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to hit him with a tray.
Our girls are six months old now, and they are not sleeping through the night. In fact, their sleeping habits are much worse now than they were at three months. I actually remember telling my running partners at that time that they were basically making it through the night.
Last night? Allie woke up at midnight for a feeding, using her newfound opera-star lungs for emphasis. Andie woke up at 1:30 a.m. for a feeding (I took that one). Allie woke up at 3 a.m. and screwed around a bit. Andie and Allie both woke up at 4:45 a.m., hungry again. Then at 5:15 a.m., Andie decided it was time to get up and began squealing, and when that didn't work, decided to fuss. Kate probably jolted out of bed seven times to put the pacifer back in her mouth, but we were both awake after 4:45 a.m. Kate left for work at 6:45 a.m. and let me sleep until 8:20 a.m.
I am not only sick of the grind of the twins right now, I'm sick of not having the energy to do the grind because we can't ever rejuvenate at night.
To top things off, Jayden is 2-and-a-half and in full toddler mode. He's sometimes just impossible to deal with. He wants his mommy all the time, which honestly makes me wonder sometimes why I bother. I realize that's a pretty immature attitude but at times like these I can't help it.
Which reminds me.
Vegas.
10 days (right?).
Vegas tempts people with all sorts of vices. Pai Gow, poker, slots, rich food, alcohol, casual sex, strippers, skin, probably drugs if that's your thing. I'll partake in my fair share of poker and good times with virtual friends.
But Vegas may just tempt me with sleep most of all. I'll do my best to resist, but the siren song may be too much to resist.
P.S. Come back for cute pictures tommorow, just so you don't think I'm hating them too much. :)
A guy was over there watching his children, and I ignored him, as I usually do in public, since I'm such a social butterfly.
When we traded off, and I started wolfing down some pancakes and sausage, Kate came back in and said, "That guy has twins."
My ears perked. Sweet. Someone to comiserate with us. And his twins were boys! Heh! He must have had it worse than us.
"Yeah, it was pretty hard," he said. "That first year. Wow."
I nodded my head, soaking in the sympathy. Yep. That first year. Wow.
"Of course, they slept through the night at three months," he said.
"Oh, really," I said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to hit him with a tray.
Our girls are six months old now, and they are not sleeping through the night. In fact, their sleeping habits are much worse now than they were at three months. I actually remember telling my running partners at that time that they were basically making it through the night.
Last night? Allie woke up at midnight for a feeding, using her newfound opera-star lungs for emphasis. Andie woke up at 1:30 a.m. for a feeding (I took that one). Allie woke up at 3 a.m. and screwed around a bit. Andie and Allie both woke up at 4:45 a.m., hungry again. Then at 5:15 a.m., Andie decided it was time to get up and began squealing, and when that didn't work, decided to fuss. Kate probably jolted out of bed seven times to put the pacifer back in her mouth, but we were both awake after 4:45 a.m. Kate left for work at 6:45 a.m. and let me sleep until 8:20 a.m.
I am not only sick of the grind of the twins right now, I'm sick of not having the energy to do the grind because we can't ever rejuvenate at night.
To top things off, Jayden is 2-and-a-half and in full toddler mode. He's sometimes just impossible to deal with. He wants his mommy all the time, which honestly makes me wonder sometimes why I bother. I realize that's a pretty immature attitude but at times like these I can't help it.
Which reminds me.
Vegas.
10 days (right?).
Vegas tempts people with all sorts of vices. Pai Gow, poker, slots, rich food, alcohol, casual sex, strippers, skin, probably drugs if that's your thing. I'll partake in my fair share of poker and good times with virtual friends.
But Vegas may just tempt me with sleep most of all. I'll do my best to resist, but the siren song may be too much to resist.
P.S. Come back for cute pictures tommorow, just so you don't think I'm hating them too much. :)
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The gift that kept on giving - until we got tired
My birthday was Friday, and my wife asked me what I wanted.
Other than the usual wisecracks, I told her I only wanted one thing.
Time.
Time is the most precious commodity we have (or, usually, don't have) in our house.
So Friday night, Kate and I went to a Japanese steakhouse, the kind where they cook the food in front of you and throw bits of chicken for you to catch in your mouth. I love watching the chefs throw their cutlery around, just barely missing a finger (both the patrons' and the cookers) and slicing up the veggies and meat with the skill of a veteran serial killer. But I love the food even more. I think shrimp on a grill just might be my favorite food. It's even healthy so you don't have to feel guilty about eating it.
And Saturday, at 10 a.m., Kate dropped me off with a longtime buddy of mine.
It was time for Black Hawk poker!
If there's one thing I truly do mourn since the twins were born, it's time with my friends. Sadly, I just don't get that much anymore. It's not fair to the other person to leave the house at night with three kids up and around (two infants and a toddler I should say), and so everything has to work out just right, and it has to be planned like a D-Day invasion. We went down to Kate's parents in Lakewood for the day, so she would have extra help, and though it worked great, as an example, we packed enough clothes, diapers and other baby crap to get the adults through a month in Germany. It took me five minutes to pack for me and an hour, at least, to pack for the kids.
So Saturday would be great for two reasons. I would get to spend time with a close friend, and I would get to play live poker.
Now it's Black Hawk poker, $2/5 limit, so it wouldn't be very imaginative, skilled or quite frankly much fun at times. But it's still live poker, and complaining about live poker, especially now that I rarely get to leave the house, would be like bitching because your peanut butter pie didn't quite have enough whipped cream.
Probably the most interesting hand came when someone raised and I looked down at a pair of 8s. I called, and an older, 60ish, friendly, chatty lady with a thick Texas accent called as well.
We called her Auntie Poker because she would have made a great aunt. You'd learn how to play poker, and the Thanksgiving dinners would be a lot more lively. But she's also the typical Black Hawk poker player. She wasn't a total idiot, but she played a lot of hands, especially if it was soooted, chased every draw (correctly, if you're into odds) and overvalued marginal hands.
The flop came 8,9,2 with two spades. The original raiser, a young, cool, aggressive player who had climbed Longs Peak seven times (so I liked him right away), bet, Auntie called, and I raised with two spades and a straight draw out there. The raiser re-raised me and Auntie called. I paused for a second and figured if he had a set of 9s, congrats, and re-raised to $20. He just called, and Auntie Poker called.
The third spade came down, a 5, and my heart sank. I did not put the younger guy on a spade, but I definitely put Auntie on one. I figured she had to have some kind of draw. I checked it around. Maybe that's weak but I didn't want to get check-raised, and there was a ton of money in the pot already. Plus I was hoping the board would pair. I weakly checked it around to the river and showed my 8s. The younger guy had K-K, and Auntie mucked. I have no idea what she had. Maybe JJ? I wouldn't even put her past a pair of 9s.
I got A-A three times and it held every time, and I flopped a set of queens and later Kings, but those didn't get much action, and almost all the rest of my big hands, few as they were, didn't get much either. I also did not have a draw hit all day and didn't get a straight or a flush the whole day. And I took a flush too far on a paired board and couldn't fold TPTK to a set of 4s, though in this game it didn't cost me too much, and it's hard to fold a strong hand when it's only $5 more to call and there's a ton in the pot and the players will bet second pair all the way down.
The last two hours we were in card dead hell, and we relied on the Kansas game to entertain us.
What a game. KU played a tough OSU team at their place and really controlled most of the game. It's really unreal that they will most likely be 11-0 and playing for a spot in the national title game. I have to say that over and over to believe it. This is like the Bad News Bears going to the Little League World Series.
As a bonus, my Mookie Vegas bet was on the game, so I'm gonna get a nice payoff for that. Ship it!
As we drove home, we talked poker, our relationships and football. It was disappointing to finish down, but the poker was not about the money. Not today.
The time spent playing it was much more valuable than that.
Other than the usual wisecracks, I told her I only wanted one thing.
Time.
Time is the most precious commodity we have (or, usually, don't have) in our house.
So Friday night, Kate and I went to a Japanese steakhouse, the kind where they cook the food in front of you and throw bits of chicken for you to catch in your mouth. I love watching the chefs throw their cutlery around, just barely missing a finger (both the patrons' and the cookers) and slicing up the veggies and meat with the skill of a veteran serial killer. But I love the food even more. I think shrimp on a grill just might be my favorite food. It's even healthy so you don't have to feel guilty about eating it.
And Saturday, at 10 a.m., Kate dropped me off with a longtime buddy of mine.
It was time for Black Hawk poker!
If there's one thing I truly do mourn since the twins were born, it's time with my friends. Sadly, I just don't get that much anymore. It's not fair to the other person to leave the house at night with three kids up and around (two infants and a toddler I should say), and so everything has to work out just right, and it has to be planned like a D-Day invasion. We went down to Kate's parents in Lakewood for the day, so she would have extra help, and though it worked great, as an example, we packed enough clothes, diapers and other baby crap to get the adults through a month in Germany. It took me five minutes to pack for me and an hour, at least, to pack for the kids.
So Saturday would be great for two reasons. I would get to spend time with a close friend, and I would get to play live poker.
Now it's Black Hawk poker, $2/5 limit, so it wouldn't be very imaginative, skilled or quite frankly much fun at times. But it's still live poker, and complaining about live poker, especially now that I rarely get to leave the house, would be like bitching because your peanut butter pie didn't quite have enough whipped cream.
Probably the most interesting hand came when someone raised and I looked down at a pair of 8s. I called, and an older, 60ish, friendly, chatty lady with a thick Texas accent called as well.
We called her Auntie Poker because she would have made a great aunt. You'd learn how to play poker, and the Thanksgiving dinners would be a lot more lively. But she's also the typical Black Hawk poker player. She wasn't a total idiot, but she played a lot of hands, especially if it was soooted, chased every draw (correctly, if you're into odds) and overvalued marginal hands.
The flop came 8,9,2 with two spades. The original raiser, a young, cool, aggressive player who had climbed Longs Peak seven times (so I liked him right away), bet, Auntie called, and I raised with two spades and a straight draw out there. The raiser re-raised me and Auntie called. I paused for a second and figured if he had a set of 9s, congrats, and re-raised to $20. He just called, and Auntie Poker called.
The third spade came down, a 5, and my heart sank. I did not put the younger guy on a spade, but I definitely put Auntie on one. I figured she had to have some kind of draw. I checked it around. Maybe that's weak but I didn't want to get check-raised, and there was a ton of money in the pot already. Plus I was hoping the board would pair. I weakly checked it around to the river and showed my 8s. The younger guy had K-K, and Auntie mucked. I have no idea what she had. Maybe JJ? I wouldn't even put her past a pair of 9s.
I got A-A three times and it held every time, and I flopped a set of queens and later Kings, but those didn't get much action, and almost all the rest of my big hands, few as they were, didn't get much either. I also did not have a draw hit all day and didn't get a straight or a flush the whole day. And I took a flush too far on a paired board and couldn't fold TPTK to a set of 4s, though in this game it didn't cost me too much, and it's hard to fold a strong hand when it's only $5 more to call and there's a ton in the pot and the players will bet second pair all the way down.
The last two hours we were in card dead hell, and we relied on the Kansas game to entertain us.
What a game. KU played a tough OSU team at their place and really controlled most of the game. It's really unreal that they will most likely be 11-0 and playing for a spot in the national title game. I have to say that over and over to believe it. This is like the Bad News Bears going to the Little League World Series.
As a bonus, my Mookie Vegas bet was on the game, so I'm gonna get a nice payoff for that. Ship it!
As we drove home, we talked poker, our relationships and football. It was disappointing to finish down, but the poker was not about the money. Not today.
The time spent playing it was much more valuable than that.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Rocky Mountain High
One of the popular sayings of grandparents is you get to enjoy them, and then you can hand them off when they get hungry, tired or poopy.
Not my Mom. By necessity, she's been in the front lines with us. She stayed with us for more than a month when the twins were born, and she did everything, even the occasional midnight feeding. She had to.
That's why I was excited about her visit this weekend. It was another set of experienced arms to help us with the twins.
She let us go out to eat Friday, by ourselves, which just doesn't happen anymore, and when we came back, she said, "I don't know how you do it." And she had the help of her husband too.
Every time she's out here, I really don't know how we do it alone. It was still chaotic. It was less chaotic but still chaotic.
So I wanted to show Mom what I love about Colorado. She's been to the mountains many times, but she's never been out here in the fall, when the aspen change. That's one of my favorite parts of Colorado.
The leaves were really pretty this year, even offering up some red, a rare sight among the aspen gold.
Mom feeding a twin in the car at Rocky Mountain National Park
We ate at a pizza place that reminded me of 1980s pizza joints, with old-style arcade games in the back and good sausage pizza.
"Papa Pat" does a good job of keeping the girls entertained.
Not my Mom. By necessity, she's been in the front lines with us. She stayed with us for more than a month when the twins were born, and she did everything, even the occasional midnight feeding. She had to.
That's why I was excited about her visit this weekend. It was another set of experienced arms to help us with the twins.
She let us go out to eat Friday, by ourselves, which just doesn't happen anymore, and when we came back, she said, "I don't know how you do it." And she had the help of her husband too.
Every time she's out here, I really don't know how we do it alone. It was still chaotic. It was less chaotic but still chaotic.
So I wanted to show Mom what I love about Colorado. She's been to the mountains many times, but she's never been out here in the fall, when the aspen change. That's one of my favorite parts of Colorado.
The leaves were really pretty this year, even offering up some red, a rare sight among the aspen gold.
Mom feeding a twin in the car at Rocky Mountain National Park
We ate at a pizza place that reminded me of 1980s pizza joints, with old-style arcade games in the back and good sausage pizza.
"Papa Pat" does a good job of keeping the girls entertained.
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