Golden Means and Such

Although there are many things about our current home that I’ve learned to adjust to, (such as strange hallway acoustics that make it sound like you’re talking into a bucket) one of the house's quirks that remains outside the grasp of my adjustability is its inability to produce a consistently comfortable water temperature.

I should have had some idea when I first looked in the basement (what my wife refers to as “the archaeological dig” due to the multi-layered dugout earth floor) and set eyes on the tank of a water heater/furnace. It’ probably only a few hundred years old.

My showers were never super hot, but I began to agree that something was wrong when heating enough water for Lyric’s bath regularly required a kettle of hot water from the stove. It turns out that the temperature setting for hot water output was much too low, so says the maintenance man whom I finally coaxed out of a prolonged “vacation” to come look at my dinosaur fossil in the archaeological dig. Turning up the temp seems to do the trick – we’re able to have nice hot showers most of the time. It’s also much easier to burn your hands when washing dishes.

If you wash dishes by hand every day, you usually get to know the dynamics of the hot water output, how far to turn the faucet handle left or right in order to produce which temperature. I like to have the water nice and hot for rinsing dishes, right before the scald-skin-off-hands stage. But for some reason, this level of intimacy with my hot water heater eludes me (I think we need counseling) and I continue to be surprised by an inconsistent temperature of water, either to cold or too hot.

The same thing happens to me in the shower, which also seems to have a life of its own. Allow me to attempt description. First, it takes about a minute for the hot water to kick in at all so you let gallons and gallons of Mr. Cold rush down the drain until Miss Hot arrives with vengeance. So for another minute you try to convince Miss Hot to back off to a manageable level by adjusting and readjusting the little hand knob. At the moment when you feel you have finally reached that pristine little paradise of just-right-mmmm-hot shower temp, you jump in and realize that Miss Hot is trying to peel strips of skin off your back. I’ve finally come to realize that Mr. Cold and Miss Hot do not like to compromise. There is a specific point on the dial of the water knob that seems to be the dividing line between scalding and luke-warm with no middle ground. Only if I can turn the knob ever so slightly between these two states of reality do I sometimes find a compromise – but my joy is short-lived because in the midst of all this vascillating, there is a constant decline of water tempt overall of the dinosaur fossil’s willingness to keep up with Miss Hot’s output. (Mr. Dinosaur also needs counseling) So because of all these strained relationships, even a short five-minute shower (between attempts to find the right temp and then maintain it) requires dozens of water knob adjustments – a regular nightmare for an obsessive compulsive guy like me.

I’ve been thinking there must be a useful analogy here somewhere, and I think I’ve found it. Life is about finding balance, right? (the “golden mean” of Plato, or was it Aristotle?) Without the ability to balance out extremes – in this case hot and cold – discomfort and pain and difficulty results. And what greater example of the need for balance than the marriage? What an amazing idea, attempting to blend and mesh and fuse two entities who are stock full of the un-blend-able, the un-mesh-able, the non-fuse-able. One is a clean freak, the other finds that the path to enlightenment leads through a house scattered with randomly strewn objects. One is helpless and maimed without well-planned schedules, detailed lists and clear goals while the other enjoys floating about like jetsam and flotsam on troubled seas. One has their scrooge wound tightly, the other enjoys casual spending and finds receipts trifling. (You know who you are out there.)

So I like to think of myself as Mr. Cold and my wife as Miss Hot. She is goal-oriented and a visionary, a disciplined worker for the most part with a good grasp of the big picture. I tend to be oriented toward the nebulous and undefined, get absorbed in the details and constantly forget my wallet and keys while I am trying to suck the marrow out of life’s bones. Sometimes her hot is entirely essential, sometimes my cold is absolutely necessary.

She is the one who woke me up at age 18 by randomly walking up behind me and dumping Queen Ann’s Lace on my head (hot water), but I’m the one who’s kept her sane through residency (cold water). She’s the one who got me off my duff to start running again (hot water) but I’m the one who can mediate familial conflicts with cold water. Hands down, my life is better because of Miss Hot. She’s opened a world to me that I couldn’t have found just sitting around sucking on bones and I’ve opened a world to her that she couldn’t have found by chasing goals and checking off lists.

I suppose we could survive on our own (it’s impossible even to imagine that after seven years of marriage) but there are so many ways we can help each other – if we can find the elusive middle ground between scalding and luke-warm. If we can learn to use each other’s strengths at the appropriate times - learn to compromise just a bit for the task at hand - if we can blend our hot and cold – we can be dynamite.

Sleep Deprivation, Part 3 of 3

written August 11, 2008

so we’ve been in PA for what . . . two weeks now? it is definitely strange to have rushed out of our little house in Akron, zoomed across PA, stuffed all our belongings into a small storage space and then flopped into a secluded cabin. we are left trying to make sense of it all. there has been no shortage of excitement: in two short weeks, Lyric has gotten a bee sting, been shocked by the electric fence, been nibbled on by a donkey, had a splinter removed from her foot, and has taken a trip to the emergency room because of a scratch on her eye. she’s learning that it is a different set of survival skills in the country than the city. Olivia and I are trying to adapt as well. the insects and birds are a wonderful new sound to listen to, but sometimes they keep us up at night, even though we could sleep through garbage trucks and Harleys in Akron. it is startling to not see any other humans around outside, only trees, insects and birds and the occasional small mammal.

we continue to adjust to parenting two girls instead of one . . . we are gradually readjusting to getting only a few hours of sleep at a time instead of one nice big chunk. two nights ago we didn’t get to sleep until around five in the morning. even then I lay in bed wide awake, writing an imaginary article in my head entitled “The Will to Parenthood: the complete eradication of self.”

we had been getting into a fairly nice routine of putting Lyric (5) to bed around 9:30 and putting Maggie (two months old at the time) to bed between 10 or 11and having a few hours of the evening to ourselves. I was taking particular pride in this on Saturday evening as I talked to Mom on the phone. however, my optimism was to be soon overturned and trampled upon. about 10:30 we heard Maggie starting to cry and simultaneously, Lyric crying too. Since Lyric hardly ever wakes up when Maggie cries, we knew something unusual might be afoot. Olivia and I gave each other the “oh boy, aren’t we glad to be parents!” look and I took Maggie while she tended to Lyric. Lyric was complaining of something in her eye and refused to let us look at it or open it. Maggie soon settled and went back to sleep for a few minutes. she continued to wake up frequently but her role in the story is pretty irrelevant after this. Lyric continued to moan, groan and be generally insulted by the pain in her eye that dared to come upon her. we double-teamed her and tried to look in her eye, without finding much of anything. after some amount of wrestling with Lyric and discussion on our part, we attempted to get her back to sleep. she would doze off briefly and then suddenly cry out in pain, becoming more and more restless and anxious about the whole affair. after a few hours of this we realized more drastic measures would have to be taken. we held Lyric down and tried to flush out the eye with water, apparently to no effect other than to create more pain and anxiety in Lyric. (not the least of which was losing faith in her parents) we tried going to bed again and then repeated the yelling/flushing procedure yet again. and yet again, this only resulted in more anxiety in Lyric and despair in us. we discussed going to the emergency room but were hesitant based on the fact that we did not at the moment have medical insurance due to having just moved and being between jobs. in a last ditch effort we brought Lyric to bed with us. I told her a Pooh Bear story and stroked her hair. she knew we were contemplating going to the hospital, something she absolutely wanted to avoid since we had gone to the doctor’s office last week where she had received four shots. so realizing that if she went back to sleep she wouldn’t have to go to the doctor, she resolutely tried to go to sleep and not whimper in pain. she relaxed and drifted off to sleep, but at last, the pain was too much and we finally resolved to take her to the emergency room.

I strapped a sleepy and distraught Lyric in the car and we drove off in the darkness of early morning. the doctor was unable to see any foreign bodies in Lyric’s eye but was able to detect a nice big spot of scratches on Lyric’s cornea which was causing pretty severe pain. whatever had been in there was gone. they gave her some numbing drops and the pain gradually decreased. we knew the pain must have been pretty bad because Lyric didn’t open her eyes the entire next day.

till all was said and done we got everyone back in their respective beds around 5 o-clock a.m. at least we got some sleep before Maggie got up demanding to be fed around 7.

let’s just say that some nights are better than others. raising a family is hard work, but the hard work makes you a family for keeps, and a family that you are willing to work hard for.

Favorite Photographs from October

form in lewisburg 1

box play: proof that a cardboard box is the all-around best toy in the world

faces of interest: Lyric the dramatist, Daddy the manic, Maggie the philosopher



arch: Lyric complies with fathers explorative photography

Frodo: at the recent heritage days, I found Frodo making fresh apple cider, I didn't see the ring

generational craft: knitters at heritage days

framed photographs: my display

form in lewisburg 2

Where We Were

so we decided to make Friday our shopping day, the day where we would “take care of that Christmas list” by double teaming it during our annual pilgrimage to the MALL. well aware that partaking in consumerism within densely stocked stores densely placed within acres of concrete and pavement tends to make me giddy with depression, I prepared myself ahead of time – talked myself down, took on an optimistic outlook, a ride-with-the-waves mentality. so we walked into the mall and made our way through the large stores into the main mall complex, past the Santa picture-taking and the cell phone salesman with the alluring foreign accent, past the kiddie rides and the little pig that flips and oinks outside the toy store. we passed an elderly man in Velcro shoes slowly eating an ice cream cone when suddenly my wife says quietly, “Here we are.”

Sleep Deprivation part 2

Olivia professionally reacts to her 27th page for the weekend, mostly from silly, overparenting mothers.



written 11-25-08

last night was a “duze-ee”. we attempted to go to bed early and for once in a rarity, we did. lights out at 10:48 . . . plenty of time for some good rest. but we couldn’t sleep. we rolled around some, tried to breathe slowly and evenly, pinched our eyes shut . . . but Olivia took her turn with a drippy throat and regular coughs like clockwork, marking the passing minutes abruptly with mini shock waves throughout the bed. finally I begin to doze off, just in time to hear Maggie coughing and doing her half-wail, not so much that she is in desperate straits as just lonely or sad. I sigh and throw on my heavy bathrobe – the hallway is always such an ice house experience. I get Maggie settled and then come back to bed to restart the relaxing process that will hopefully again lead towards subconscious sleep.

but Olivia’s anxiety demons are out in full force tonight and will not take no for an answer. Olivia rants angrily about how unfair it is not to be able to sleep when exhausted. we’ve been pinching our eyes shut for an hour. I try every trick in the book. I fight fire with fire, raise the volume of my voice for intimidating effect, and rant about being ranted against. the demons multiply. Olivia moans and groans about how she will become a complete medical professional failure, how the patients and their demands mount up like a tsunami rushing toward her in full force, and she is the sole mud-and-thatch hut right on the edge of the beach – IMMINENT DESTRUCTION! the demons scream, IMMINENT DESTRUCTION!

Realizing the demons are beyond intimidation I switch tactics. I try rationalization, despite the fact that it has never worked in my marriage. I am met with more dire pronouncements of fatality and complete hopelessness. I finally give my wife three choices: 1 leave the bed and go do some journaling, have it out on paper, 2 lay there quietly in bed and accept that fact that she might soon self-destruct, or 3 allow me to read to her. After some whining and resistance (she wants to keep fighting the demons) she allows me to read to her.

at 1 a.m. I read Klinkenborg, chapters about farming and fathers and the subtle motivations that drive us and identify us to ourselves. He thinks that our physical surroundings depict precisely who we are inside, we cannot hide. He says that in our rebellion we think that we can choose our influences, but later we realize that they are the ones who choose us. I read for some time, periodically checking Olivia’s face for any sign of relaxation. She continues to look like she is struggling for mental air, her skin a bit gray – but at least she is quiet while I read. at one point she has the covers pulled over her head. I secretly laugh. Eventually we decide to try sleeping again. It doesn’t work.

In a final attempt – I bring up funny memories from our honeymoon; the time I got snorted on by a horse, the time we couldn’t find anything to eat except day-old dried-out egg sandwiches and killer-fire Doritos. She chuckles some and I think that we might be gaining ground. I stroke her hair into the night and listen carefully for her breathing to change. It does ever so slightly and I think I feel her toe twitch, a sign that her muscles are being handed over to the autonomic system – I wait and wait, but her breathing again becomes short, and she swallows several times. My best attempts have come short, she continues to cough and toss and turn.

I doze briefly and then Maggie is awake. I must have scared a demon off of Olivia that attacked Maggie. Usually all that Maggie requires is one or two Nuk-reinsertions or some blankie-rearranging, but this time she is audibly upset. She has a grievance and wants to discuss it with me in loud tones. I listen to what she has to say, patiently reinserting the Nuk between her dogmatic reiterations of her 5 month woes and her endless coughing. She sounds like her lungs are under water. I consider giving her formula but it is only 3:30 in the morning, not the time or the place in which to begin a nice, comfy tradition that will be expected again tomorrow morning. So I opt instead to stand there for fifteen minutes and coax Maggie back to sleep. I think about how similar it was trying to coax Olivia to sleep, only the methods vary.

Dealing with sleep deprivation is probably one of the least anticipated skills I’ve had to learn since becoming a parent. I don’t know if skill is the right word . . . it’s really a new form of reality – seeing the world through half-open eyes maybe. Not that you see less things, but you see different things. Sleep is such a healing experience, one that I miss. Without it there are more demons, and they are harder to deal with. But music sounds sweeter and I am for once motivated to get up at 6:30 in the morning for nothing else but to write out a silly description of it. Surely there is a place for chaos and demons to help build us into better people. We must believe this or else we would have to surrender to it and them. We must always muster the creative instinct along with the will to live and go on. There is always a new sun on the morrow, regardless of how much we have or have not slept.