After my Apple experience this week, I saw this video clip and thought it was hilarious. Either Meredith Viera (sp?) is an idiot, or the iPhone took a big old digger on national television. I like to think that's what happened.
Read On...
6.30.2007
Bite the Poison Apple
I know I promised another installment of the My Nevada series this week, but I'm so pissed off about something else, I can't even see straight.
BACK STORY:
For those of you who haven't heard me bitch endlessly about my iPod, here's the edited version. In late 2004, I finally joined the age of iPod. I was a holdout until the marketing blitz of the U2 Special Edition iPod sucked me in. I had a near religious experience at a U2 concert in Seattle's King Dome in 1997 (the year before the King Dome was imploded to make way for the new Seahawks Stadium). I was a late U2 bloomer. The Joshua Tree was really the first album of theirs I actually purchased, and over the years, I only listened to them passively. That is, until that concert I mentioned. After that, I was like a born-again Bible Thumper. I went out and bought all the old CDs and listened to them incessently. In 2001, I shelled out over $1,000 to see them at the Tacoma Dome [$530 for the tix as a going away present for myself and 3 friends when I moved away from Seattle (this is a story in itself-- remind me to tell it some time); $85 for the limo from the Marriott when the radiator in the Saab blew up; $400+ for the new radiator, but I throw it into the tally because it makes a great story]. Anyway, when the Special Edition iPod came out, I bought one without hesitation. And, as a purchaser of the U2 iPod, Apple was offering a discount on the download of the entire U2 collection, which I purchased at a reduced rate of $149. So, from jump street, I basically spent $500 for my iPod with this additional download purchase.
The damn thing hasn't worked properly since I got it. It has a really sensitive head phone jack that cuts out and re-starts songs if you so much as breathe on it the wrong way. It frequently freezes and does nothing. Sometimes, the battery holds a charge, sometimes it doesn't. It skips in the middle of songs. When updating songs to the unit, it encounters other difficulties such as incomplete downloads or telling me I need to restore the iPod to factory settings (which, for those of you that don't have one, means starting over). Sometimes, when I plug my iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says "Windows does not recognize USB device". I'm probably leaving a few off the list, but clearly, my experience has been tenuous and complicated. I've told a few people (who own their own iPods) about the problems I've had with my iPod and they have been astounded, not having experienced similar problems. I have spent more hours on the phone with Apple Tech Support than I have listening to my iPod. That's how bad it has been.
Toward the end of the first year, as the warranty was about to expire, I purchased an extended warranty because I was confident the unit would fail. And, toward the end of the extended warranty, it did. I sent the iPod in to be serviced with the following letter, hoping it would help the Uber Goobers at Apple diagnose and fix my iPod. The letter, in it's entirety is shown below:
Hi,
I think my ipod needs to be replaced. It has never worked correctly since I got it. I am finally getting around to sending it in because I have lost all patience with it. My only other alternative would be to smash it, but I paid good money for it, so I thought I’d give you a chance to correct the problems before I do that.
Here are the problems I am having with my iPod. Each of these problems has happened repeatedly since I purchased the unit, and sometimes I have more than one problem at a time. Here goes:
1) The unit has a very sensitive headset jack. I bought the iPod to take snowboarding with me, but have never been able to because the unit barely performs while resting on a bed, let alone swooshing down the slopes. Sometimes all I have to do is breathe on the headset jack and the unit will either freeze, stop a song or skip a song
2) The unit frequently stops working for no good reason… It stops in the middle of songs, skips songs or freezes.
3) The unit frequently prompts me to restore it to factory settings… which always takes me hours because either the updater doesn’t work correctly, or the unit doesn’t download songs correctly or completely after updater is used, or stays in a perpetual state of worthlessness by saying “do not disconnect”—yet nothing happens.
4) The most recent problem is that when I plug the iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says “Windows does not recognize USB device”.
5) The unit will currently not shut off and is completely frozen.
I would not be opposed to receiving a new unit if this one cannot be fixed. It has not worked correctly since I have gotten it. Other friends of mine who have iPods tell me they have never had any problems like the ones I have described.
I have spent countless hours trying to restore/fix/download with this thing. I think it finally gave up and died. Please do what you can to revive it. I was really hoping to have a positive experience with an Apple product, but to date, cannot say I’m at all satisfied with my iPod.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
Apple has a repair policy that basically will replace your iPod if there are any difficulties. That's why I paid for the extended warranty. The agent who sold it to me assured me there would be no problem in replacing my unit if I had any problems. Well, Apple sent my iPod back to me with a letter that stated my iPod had suffered damage to the case and could not be repaired or replaced. Basically, they said I was screwed. Keep in mind, I had so many problems with the iPod to begin with, that it spent most of its days either in a drawer of a desk or in the back pocket of my backpack. When I got the iPod back, I could not find any damage to the case. There was a tiny little dimple on the back that might have been caused by resting against a key or a AAA battery, but nothing major.
One of the other problems with my iPod, is that sometimes it actually works. This happens often enough that I had become complacent and didn't pursue remedies to fix it in the most expedient manner possible. Also, in the past 2 years, I have sold a home, moved out of state, started essentially 2 new jobs and tried to start my own business, met the woman of my dreams, moved her to Portland, got her pregnant, endured the most grueling of pregnancies with her, and had a baby... just a little too busy to make returning an iPod my top priority.
Well, for Father's Day, Stephanie and Elliott bought me the Bose speaker unit that you hook an iPod into. It's sleek, compact and discreet. It sits on the mantel and you barely notice it is there until the harmonic sounds bellow around you. The day I got the new Bose, I dug my iPod out of the coffee table drawer and plugged it into the Bose. It charged and worked perfectly. For two days, I thought all my problems were over. I thought it was great. I wouldn't have to baby my iPod any longer. It could just sit on the mantel in it's protective Bose cradle, and I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to take it snowboarding again.
But on the 3rd day, it died again.
Feeling pissed of and indignant, I decided to take it to the top. No more middle men. No more tech support. No more pnone calls. I sent my iPod and the following letter to Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple:
To: Steve Jobs, CEO
1 Infinite Loop
Cupertino, CA 95014
Dear Mr. Jobs,
I am writing to you because I have been unsuccessful at solving my problem using other outlets within your organization, and feel like writing you is my last resort.
I am an extremely dissatisfied customer.
In 2004, I got very excited about Apple products, namely the iPod. When your company came out with the U2 special edition of the iPod, I purchased one immediately after seeing the commercial for it. My friends had raved for some time about how great iPod was, and I finally decided it was time to jump on board with the iPod revolution.
From the time my iPod arrived, however, I have had problems with the unit. I spent countless hours on the phone with your tech support team trying to fix the problems I was having. The short version of the story is that my iPod has never worked properly, yet worked often enough that I never got serious about sending it in for repair. At some point, I purchased an extended warranty because I knew eventually the unit would fail… and it DID.
This past fall, I sent my iPod in for repair under the extended warranty I purchased, only to have it sent back to me with a letter saying it was not covered under the warranty and could not be repaired. The letter that accompanied my iPod when your company returned it, stated it could not be repaired due to damage sustained by the case. After receiving my iPod back, I called to dispute this claim because since I purchased my iPod, it has either been in a desk or a backpack due to its poor performance and has sustained no such damage. I was told at the time, that there was nothing that could be done, or at least nothing Apple could or would do to help me fix my problem. My friends, who also own iPod products, have not experienced the type of problems I have had with my iPod. The have all been shocked not only with the stories I have told them about my difficulties, but also the level of apathy on the part of Apple in helping me.
To add insult to injury, for my first Father’s Day (I have a 4-month old newborn, or I would have written sooner), my wife just purchased a Bose SoundDock to accompany my iPod, but I cannot use it because my iPod does not work properly.
I feel extremely ripped off by your company. In the 2½ years since I bought my iPod, I have only been able to listen to it, without malfunctions, for a total of about 20 hours. I have spent more time on the phone with tech support and customer service than listening to my music. I also feel like I was lulled into a false sense of security when I was sold an extended warranty that turned out to be worthless. I basically feel like I own the world’s most expensive paper weight-- $350 for the iPod, $150 for the entire U2 library I downloaded, the $60 I spent on an extended warranty, and now the $300 my wife just spent on a fantastic sound system that I cannot use because my iPod is dead.
Worse than anything, however, is feeling like I don’t matter to your company as a consumer of its products. I am an extremely loyal customer when I like a company’s products I will return over and over and over to buy them. For example, I am driving my 3rd Saab. I love them so much, I can’t imagine driving anything else, and I am looking forward to my 4th. I am a big fan of the Bose Corporation. I love my music and I love hearing it out of top quality speakers. I once had a set of $300 Bose headphones that broke. Bose sent me a replacement set within week—completely free. I go to Starbucks at least 3 times a week. Starbucks goes above and beyond to keep its customers happy and will make you a new drink on the spot if they make a mistake, heck, sometimes they will even give you a voucher for a free drink in the future if you’re really unhappy.
I am writing you this letter on a Fujitsu Lifebook computer. I have been very happy with my Fujitsu as well. They treat their customers like they matter. The funny thing is, when I was shopping for a new computer, I considered buying a new PowerBook or G5.At the time, however, I didn’t buy either because of the problems I have had with my iPod.
Apple’s new iPhone looks REALLY great, but I think I’ll be sticking with my Treo because of the problems I have had with my iPod as well.
I want desperately to believe in the Apple Corporation, but so far, your company has been rotten to the core. Perhaps you should change the name to the Lemon Corporation. I think that would be much more suitable.
Your company does quite well. I wonder how well it could do if you took better care of your customers.
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
[address omitted]
P.S. I have included my iPod along with the letter I sent with the unit when I tried to have it fixed. I don’t know how else to rectify my situation. If you can’t help me by getting my iPod satisfactorily fixed or replaced as promised to me by the person who sold me the extended warranty, then you can keep it on your desktop as a reminder of how NOT to treat your customers in the future. If this letter prevents one other customer from feeling how I feel, that will be good enough for me.
About a week later (this past Tuesday) I got a phone call from a representative from the Apple Executive offices. He told me that they had received my letter, but regretted to inform me that it was Apple's position that my iPod was damaged and there was nothing further that Apple could do for me. After about 10 minutes of shouting obscenities at him, he agreed to look further into my service record and call me back.
That afternoon, just before the end of the business day, he called me back and basically stated the same thing to me, that Apple could not do anything to help me. I'll spare you most of the details, but I spent an hour on the phone with this pimple-faced bastard who was so condescending and rude to me that if I had met him in person, I might have acted on my impulse to rip his face off. After forcing him to stop interrupting me and actually listen to me plead my case, he stood firm and said he "represented the executives at Apple" and "Apple's stand" on the situation was that there was nothing they could do for me. I explained to him that I was not looking to scam Apple. I wasn't looking for freebies. I wasn't looking for a new iPod. I simply wanted the one I purchased to work properly. I also explained that I had other priorities in my life and therefore was not as expedient in pursuing the matter quickly. He basically criticized me and that it "wasn't Apple's fault" that my life was so busy and that it "wasn't Apple's responsibility" to repair a unit that was so clearly defective. I should have "sent it in sooner". Needless to say, this got me fired up. I insisted he connect me to his supbervisor... not only did he refuse, he told me that he "spoke on behalf of the executives at Apple" and there was nobody higher up the food chain that I could talk to. He refused to give me the name of his supervisor or manager, and reluctantly gave me his name. I further tried to explain to him that I wanted to believe in the Apple Corporation, and that they had a wonderful opportunity here to provide excellent customer service and perhaps one day I would buy a new PowerBook or iPhone.
He held firm, and basically I got nowhere.
Here's the rub. My wife spent $270 on a nice little Bose sound system that I am really happy with and want to use, but I can't use it without an iPod.
So, I bought another one, through Amazon.com this time, hoping that if I have problems with it, they will do something with it. My confidence in Apple at this point is ZERO.
I intend to keep sending the dead iPod and complaint letters to Apple until they cave and decide to do something about it. Then, I'll unload it on ebay or craigslist. And, if I continue to get nowhere, I'm going to send it to U2. Bono is enough of an activist, he may do something about it.
I know that Steve Jobs and the members of U2 are busy folks, and I'll probably get nowhere. But it's kind of fun trying. Who knows, maybe somebody will actually reach out and help the little guy.
At any rate, if you don't have to buy Apple products, don't... at least not if you expect any back end customer service.
BACK STORY:
For those of you who haven't heard me bitch endlessly about my iPod, here's the edited version. In late 2004, I finally joined the age of iPod. I was a holdout until the marketing blitz of the U2 Special Edition iPod sucked me in. I had a near religious experience at a U2 concert in Seattle's King Dome in 1997 (the year before the King Dome was imploded to make way for the new Seahawks Stadium). I was a late U2 bloomer. The Joshua Tree was really the first album of theirs I actually purchased, and over the years, I only listened to them passively. That is, until that concert I mentioned. After that, I was like a born-again Bible Thumper. I went out and bought all the old CDs and listened to them incessently. In 2001, I shelled out over $1,000 to see them at the Tacoma Dome [$530 for the tix as a going away present for myself and 3 friends when I moved away from Seattle (this is a story in itself-- remind me to tell it some time); $85 for the limo from the Marriott when the radiator in the Saab blew up; $400+ for the new radiator, but I throw it into the tally because it makes a great story]. Anyway, when the Special Edition iPod came out, I bought one without hesitation. And, as a purchaser of the U2 iPod, Apple was offering a discount on the download of the entire U2 collection, which I purchased at a reduced rate of $149. So, from jump street, I basically spent $500 for my iPod with this additional download purchase.
The damn thing hasn't worked properly since I got it. It has a really sensitive head phone jack that cuts out and re-starts songs if you so much as breathe on it the wrong way. It frequently freezes and does nothing. Sometimes, the battery holds a charge, sometimes it doesn't. It skips in the middle of songs. When updating songs to the unit, it encounters other difficulties such as incomplete downloads or telling me I need to restore the iPod to factory settings (which, for those of you that don't have one, means starting over). Sometimes, when I plug my iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says "Windows does not recognize USB device". I'm probably leaving a few off the list, but clearly, my experience has been tenuous and complicated. I've told a few people (who own their own iPods) about the problems I've had with my iPod and they have been astounded, not having experienced similar problems. I have spent more hours on the phone with Apple Tech Support than I have listening to my iPod. That's how bad it has been.
Toward the end of the first year, as the warranty was about to expire, I purchased an extended warranty because I was confident the unit would fail. And, toward the end of the extended warranty, it did. I sent the iPod in to be serviced with the following letter, hoping it would help the Uber Goobers at Apple diagnose and fix my iPod. The letter, in it's entirety is shown below:
Hi,
I think my ipod needs to be replaced. It has never worked correctly since I got it. I am finally getting around to sending it in because I have lost all patience with it. My only other alternative would be to smash it, but I paid good money for it, so I thought I’d give you a chance to correct the problems before I do that.
Here are the problems I am having with my iPod. Each of these problems has happened repeatedly since I purchased the unit, and sometimes I have more than one problem at a time. Here goes:
1) The unit has a very sensitive headset jack. I bought the iPod to take snowboarding with me, but have never been able to because the unit barely performs while resting on a bed, let alone swooshing down the slopes. Sometimes all I have to do is breathe on the headset jack and the unit will either freeze, stop a song or skip a song
2) The unit frequently stops working for no good reason… It stops in the middle of songs, skips songs or freezes.
3) The unit frequently prompts me to restore it to factory settings… which always takes me hours because either the updater doesn’t work correctly, or the unit doesn’t download songs correctly or completely after updater is used, or stays in a perpetual state of worthlessness by saying “do not disconnect”—yet nothing happens.
4) The most recent problem is that when I plug the iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says “Windows does not recognize USB device”.
5) The unit will currently not shut off and is completely frozen.
I would not be opposed to receiving a new unit if this one cannot be fixed. It has not worked correctly since I have gotten it. Other friends of mine who have iPods tell me they have never had any problems like the ones I have described.
I have spent countless hours trying to restore/fix/download with this thing. I think it finally gave up and died. Please do what you can to revive it. I was really hoping to have a positive experience with an Apple product, but to date, cannot say I’m at all satisfied with my iPod.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
Apple has a repair policy that basically will replace your iPod if there are any difficulties. That's why I paid for the extended warranty. The agent who sold it to me assured me there would be no problem in replacing my unit if I had any problems. Well, Apple sent my iPod back to me with a letter that stated my iPod had suffered damage to the case and could not be repaired or replaced. Basically, they said I was screwed. Keep in mind, I had so many problems with the iPod to begin with, that it spent most of its days either in a drawer of a desk or in the back pocket of my backpack. When I got the iPod back, I could not find any damage to the case. There was a tiny little dimple on the back that might have been caused by resting against a key or a AAA battery, but nothing major.
One of the other problems with my iPod, is that sometimes it actually works. This happens often enough that I had become complacent and didn't pursue remedies to fix it in the most expedient manner possible. Also, in the past 2 years, I have sold a home, moved out of state, started essentially 2 new jobs and tried to start my own business, met the woman of my dreams, moved her to Portland, got her pregnant, endured the most grueling of pregnancies with her, and had a baby... just a little too busy to make returning an iPod my top priority.
Well, for Father's Day, Stephanie and Elliott bought me the Bose speaker unit that you hook an iPod into. It's sleek, compact and discreet. It sits on the mantel and you barely notice it is there until the harmonic sounds bellow around you. The day I got the new Bose, I dug my iPod out of the coffee table drawer and plugged it into the Bose. It charged and worked perfectly. For two days, I thought all my problems were over. I thought it was great. I wouldn't have to baby my iPod any longer. It could just sit on the mantel in it's protective Bose cradle, and I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to take it snowboarding again.
But on the 3rd day, it died again.
Feeling pissed of and indignant, I decided to take it to the top. No more middle men. No more tech support. No more pnone calls. I sent my iPod and the following letter to Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple:
To: Steve Jobs, CEO
1 Infinite Loop
Cupertino, CA 95014
Dear Mr. Jobs,
I am writing to you because I have been unsuccessful at solving my problem using other outlets within your organization, and feel like writing you is my last resort.
I am an extremely dissatisfied customer.
In 2004, I got very excited about Apple products, namely the iPod. When your company came out with the U2 special edition of the iPod, I purchased one immediately after seeing the commercial for it. My friends had raved for some time about how great iPod was, and I finally decided it was time to jump on board with the iPod revolution.
From the time my iPod arrived, however, I have had problems with the unit. I spent countless hours on the phone with your tech support team trying to fix the problems I was having. The short version of the story is that my iPod has never worked properly, yet worked often enough that I never got serious about sending it in for repair. At some point, I purchased an extended warranty because I knew eventually the unit would fail… and it DID.
This past fall, I sent my iPod in for repair under the extended warranty I purchased, only to have it sent back to me with a letter saying it was not covered under the warranty and could not be repaired. The letter that accompanied my iPod when your company returned it, stated it could not be repaired due to damage sustained by the case. After receiving my iPod back, I called to dispute this claim because since I purchased my iPod, it has either been in a desk or a backpack due to its poor performance and has sustained no such damage. I was told at the time, that there was nothing that could be done, or at least nothing Apple could or would do to help me fix my problem. My friends, who also own iPod products, have not experienced the type of problems I have had with my iPod. The have all been shocked not only with the stories I have told them about my difficulties, but also the level of apathy on the part of Apple in helping me.
To add insult to injury, for my first Father’s Day (I have a 4-month old newborn, or I would have written sooner), my wife just purchased a Bose SoundDock to accompany my iPod, but I cannot use it because my iPod does not work properly.
I feel extremely ripped off by your company. In the 2½ years since I bought my iPod, I have only been able to listen to it, without malfunctions, for a total of about 20 hours. I have spent more time on the phone with tech support and customer service than listening to my music. I also feel like I was lulled into a false sense of security when I was sold an extended warranty that turned out to be worthless. I basically feel like I own the world’s most expensive paper weight-- $350 for the iPod, $150 for the entire U2 library I downloaded, the $60 I spent on an extended warranty, and now the $300 my wife just spent on a fantastic sound system that I cannot use because my iPod is dead.
Worse than anything, however, is feeling like I don’t matter to your company as a consumer of its products. I am an extremely loyal customer when I like a company’s products I will return over and over and over to buy them. For example, I am driving my 3rd Saab. I love them so much, I can’t imagine driving anything else, and I am looking forward to my 4th. I am a big fan of the Bose Corporation. I love my music and I love hearing it out of top quality speakers. I once had a set of $300 Bose headphones that broke. Bose sent me a replacement set within week—completely free. I go to Starbucks at least 3 times a week. Starbucks goes above and beyond to keep its customers happy and will make you a new drink on the spot if they make a mistake, heck, sometimes they will even give you a voucher for a free drink in the future if you’re really unhappy.
I am writing you this letter on a Fujitsu Lifebook computer. I have been very happy with my Fujitsu as well. They treat their customers like they matter. The funny thing is, when I was shopping for a new computer, I considered buying a new PowerBook or G5.At the time, however, I didn’t buy either because of the problems I have had with my iPod.
Apple’s new iPhone looks REALLY great, but I think I’ll be sticking with my Treo because of the problems I have had with my iPod as well.
I want desperately to believe in the Apple Corporation, but so far, your company has been rotten to the core. Perhaps you should change the name to the Lemon Corporation. I think that would be much more suitable.
Your company does quite well. I wonder how well it could do if you took better care of your customers.
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
[address omitted]
P.S. I have included my iPod along with the letter I sent with the unit when I tried to have it fixed. I don’t know how else to rectify my situation. If you can’t help me by getting my iPod satisfactorily fixed or replaced as promised to me by the person who sold me the extended warranty, then you can keep it on your desktop as a reminder of how NOT to treat your customers in the future. If this letter prevents one other customer from feeling how I feel, that will be good enough for me.
About a week later (this past Tuesday) I got a phone call from a representative from the Apple Executive offices. He told me that they had received my letter, but regretted to inform me that it was Apple's position that my iPod was damaged and there was nothing further that Apple could do for me. After about 10 minutes of shouting obscenities at him, he agreed to look further into my service record and call me back.
That afternoon, just before the end of the business day, he called me back and basically stated the same thing to me, that Apple could not do anything to help me. I'll spare you most of the details, but I spent an hour on the phone with this pimple-faced bastard who was so condescending and rude to me that if I had met him in person, I might have acted on my impulse to rip his face off. After forcing him to stop interrupting me and actually listen to me plead my case, he stood firm and said he "represented the executives at Apple" and "Apple's stand" on the situation was that there was nothing they could do for me. I explained to him that I was not looking to scam Apple. I wasn't looking for freebies. I wasn't looking for a new iPod. I simply wanted the one I purchased to work properly. I also explained that I had other priorities in my life and therefore was not as expedient in pursuing the matter quickly. He basically criticized me and that it "wasn't Apple's fault" that my life was so busy and that it "wasn't Apple's responsibility" to repair a unit that was so clearly defective. I should have "sent it in sooner". Needless to say, this got me fired up. I insisted he connect me to his supbervisor... not only did he refuse, he told me that he "spoke on behalf of the executives at Apple" and there was nobody higher up the food chain that I could talk to. He refused to give me the name of his supervisor or manager, and reluctantly gave me his name. I further tried to explain to him that I wanted to believe in the Apple Corporation, and that they had a wonderful opportunity here to provide excellent customer service and perhaps one day I would buy a new PowerBook or iPhone.
He held firm, and basically I got nowhere.
Here's the rub. My wife spent $270 on a nice little Bose sound system that I am really happy with and want to use, but I can't use it without an iPod.
So, I bought another one, through Amazon.com this time, hoping that if I have problems with it, they will do something with it. My confidence in Apple at this point is ZERO.
I intend to keep sending the dead iPod and complaint letters to Apple until they cave and decide to do something about it. Then, I'll unload it on ebay or craigslist. And, if I continue to get nowhere, I'm going to send it to U2. Bono is enough of an activist, he may do something about it.
I know that Steve Jobs and the members of U2 are busy folks, and I'll probably get nowhere. But it's kind of fun trying. Who knows, maybe somebody will actually reach out and help the little guy.
At any rate, if you don't have to buy Apple products, don't... at least not if you expect any back end customer service.
6.10.2007
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic
I got the idea for this week’s blog while writing last week.
As I was getting all gooey and sentimental about my wife last week [she loved it], I started thinking about all the possibilities that lie ahead for my son, Elliott. Other parents have told me that I would start living vicariously through my son. Although I hope that’s not completely true for me, it has begun to some degree. What got me thinking this week is the idea of first memories.
As Elliott grows, I wonder what his first memories will be. That got me to thinking of my own childhood and my first memories.
I cannot say I have a memory that stands out above all others as THE FIRST, but there are surprisingly many. I remember living in Hawthorne, California. Our house was tiny, just 2 bedrooms, but I remember the layout perfectly. I also remember the concrete wall out front and my aunt and uncles house that was just up the street. I remember running naked to the local liquor store [apparently I called it the “Yicker Tore”] to get candy. I also remember my grandparents house was only a few blocks away. They had a school and a playground down the street from them that I remember spending a lot of time in because the slide was shaped like a rocket ship that you had to climb into to slide down. The openings were kid-sized so parents couldn’t chase you inside. I would sit in there for hours (at least minutes) at a time until my mom or whoever was watching us would shout up into the opening from below to make sure I was OK before sliding down. There was also a wading pool at the playground that was maybe 18 inches deep in the center. It was a perfect circle. In the summer time, before the park volunteers would let us play in the pool, they would first pour in chlorine or some other chemical and make us walk around in circles (both directions) for 5-10 minutes before they would let us swim. I wonder how many of us will get cancer.
The list goes on and on. I’m sure I’ll include them here at some point, or at least in my autobiography, but for now I want to stay focused on every kid’s favorite things: TOYS. Looking back, I have picked my Top 10 favorite toys of all time [at least until the age of 12]. And I’m not talkin’ Frisbees, Hula Hoops, or marbles. I’m talking about toys I salivated over, toys I would have done chores for, toys I simply had to own and absolutely would have begged my parents for until they relented just so I would shut up.
As I wonder what Elliott’s favorite toys would be, these were mine [listed in more-or-less chronological order]:
SUPER ELASTIC BUBBLE PLASTIC— This is the memory that got this whole ball rolling. Now, this isn’t exactly a toy that I would have begged my parents for, but it was something I got my hands on as a little kid (I’m sure I stole it from the Yicker Tore) and thought it was the coolest stuff ever… probably because I couldn’t read the warnings that it should not be used by children under 8. Super Elastic Bubble Plastic [check out description of it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Elastic_Bubble_Plastic ] was this psychedelic plastic goo that you wadded up into little balls on the end of a straw and blew bubbles—not ordinary bubbles, but industrial size & strength multi-colored bubbles. The size of the bubble depended on how much goo you put on the end of the straw. This stuff was amazing. If blowing through the tiny little straw they provided didn’t make you somewhat anoxic, the chemical fumes from the glue were certainly powerful enough to get you high. Come to think of it, I think the first time I got high wasn’t smoking pot behind Mayfair Market in 10th grade with Frank Hobbs and Ron Santos; it was when I was three trying to make bubbles with this crap. I knew, secretly, that messing with this stuff was going to get me into trouble, and it did. After sneaking off with the tube of goo and the straw, I snuck around the corner of a neighbor’s house, loaded the straw and blew away. Long story short, it didn’t go well. I must have loaded the straw incorrectly because I was never able to blow a proper bubble. Well, the goo was tenacious like wet boogers. When I couldn’t wipe it off of my fingers onto my clothes, I used the next best thing—the side of the neighbor’s house, lucky me, at exactly the moment when that neighbor walked around the corner of the house to find me wiping the toxic sludge all over his stucco.
It took me nearly all day with a toothbrush to scrub that stuff off his stucco. I swore off being bad forever—at least until the next day when I let all the air out of the tires of my mom’s car just before she was supposed to leave for work.
[Apparently, there’s a band named Super Elastic Bubble Plastic because when I Googled and YouTubed it, most of the information that popped up first was about the band. Just FYI. I don’t know if they suck or not, I didn’t listen.]
MAGIC 8 BALL— Everybody is familiar with this classic fortune telling device. To this day, I think people believe in the advice of the Magic 8 Ball more than that of Emily Post, Dear Abby or Dr. Phil. If a social dilemma can’t be solved with Rock-Paper-Scissors, it most definitely can be answered by the Eight Ball. I was never actually given a Magic 8 Ball, but I ‘acquired’ one at some point. I don’t even remember how. I used to keep it behind the washer and dryer at that house we rented in Hawthorne, CA. The laundry room of that house could only be accessed via the outside, so I used to sneak in there and lock the door whenever I needed Eight Ball consultation. I would turn out the light for the mystery factor. There was just enough light shining beneath the door that I could read the advice of the Eight Ball as it floated through the Tidy Bowl blue liquid toward the surface of the viewing window. [Apparently, I could read then also. This is a distinct memory, yet I know for a fact I was less than four].
I have no idea what kinds of questions I used to ask the Eight Ball, but I’m sure there were a little like this: Will I grow up to be famous like Elvis? – IT IS DECIDEDLY SO. Will I drive a car as fast as Speed Racer? –BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. Will I get a Hippity Hop for my birthday? – OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
That Eight Ball is still probably behind the washer and dryer of that rental house. I have never been able to maintain an Eight Ball in my possession. The always seem to disappear, kind of like Ouija boards.
[For a full description of the Magic 8 Ball, a list of all 20 standard responses, and an impressive list of movie and music references to the Eight Ball, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_8-ball or for a demonstration on how to dissect the Magic 8-Ball go to http://8ball.ofb.net/procedure.html then come back.]
HOT WHEELS CARS— The Holy Grail of boy’s toys. I used to watch the cartoon Speed Racer when I was a little, little kid at my grandma & grandpa’s house. It came on at 2:30 p.m. right after Felix the Cat. I remember it like it was my job. When Speed Racer’s car, the Mach 5, became available years later as a Hot Wheels car (or Matchbox car, the two were rivals, but really they were interchangeable) I was all over it. I think the car itself was in the family budget, but all the Hot Wheels accessories were not, so when I found a set of Hot Wheels track at a garage sale, I’m sure I begged my mom a thousand times for the $2 that I thought was the ultimate deal for a boxful of bright orange track, burgundy tongue-shaped connectors, and accessories. My brother and I used to clamp the tracks at the top of the fireplace mantel and string the tracks in as many combinations we could create: long straight-aways, single loops, double loops. Sometimes, one of us would hold up the end opposite the mantel and we would crash the cars in the center. We spent entire summer days playing with these things. Neighborhood and school kids traded cars like baseball cards. Hot Wheels were serious business.
Our fascination with Hot Wheels came to a screeching halt, however. As it turns out, these tracks are indestructible implements of pain. We got in trouble one time (and who can ever remember what for) and received the spanking of a lifetime with one of the pieces of bright orange track. The red marks on our asses made Linda Blair’s welts in The Exorcist look like a Noxzema commercial.
That day, my brother and I snuck the entire box of Hot Wheels tracks into the trash, and never spoke another word about them to our parents ever again.
SLIP-N-SLIDE— a.k.a White Trash Water Park. Nevada summers can get hot. Not Arizona hot, but hot. Sometimes reaching 100 degrees for long stretches of days. We literally begged and begged and begged for a Slip-N-Slide. The concept was simple: a 25-foot piece of durable vinyl that you would place in the yard, wet with a hose, take a running start and slide for your life. Hours and hours of fun, I tell you. Kids from all around the neighborhood would come to our house to Slip-N-Slide. We were like trailer park royalty. Kids would bring bits of food, drinks, coin, pets, bikes, anything… just to be able to beat the heat with a nice wet down and a laugh.
Ours came with another contraption (although I’m sure it was sold separately) that was like the top half of a person’s head, with Medusa-like hair-hoses that you would hook the garden hose into, and a chaotic fountain of water would squirt and squiggle its way out the end of the hair-hoses spraying water everywhere.
[I’m only including this last paragraph in the hopes somebody remembers the name of this thing. It escapes me and it’s driving me crazy. If any of you know, please email me]
ETCH-A-SKETCH— I think every kid in the world had or has an Etch-A-Sketch. When I was a wee lad, I remember always wanting to know how to draw (instinctively) but didn’t really have the technical skills to do so on my own. When I got my first Etch-A-Sketch, I thought I had been given the tool that would allow me to become the next Picasso. I quickly found out that there was a serious flaw with the Etch-A-Sketch… the rack & pinion mechanisms that drove the stylus through the silver pixie dust were only good for drawing straight lines. To draw anything with curves, you needed manual dexterity that is simply not available in the younger models of Homo sapiens. Drawing simple circles was cumbersome, and they always turned out looking like gruesomely misshapen dodecahedrons. I pretty well mastered Etch-A-Sketching the American flag (sans stars), but anything beyond that required patience I simply did not have. There was a company later on that created a model of the Etch-A-Sketch that utilized a joystick instead of the standard two knobs. I pulled a Veruca Salt on my mom and insisted on getting one. The pixie dust inside was gold instead of silver… must have been some patent issue… anyway, it worked no better, and ended up in the trash by the time I was 10. So much for being the next Picasso.
I guess the flipside of not becoming a graphic artist… this was around the time I started discovering I enjoyed WORDS and could manipulate them in fun and interesting ways. I was in the cub scouts at the time (baby version of the boy scouts). I begrudgingly entered a writing contest, urged by my pack leader. The topic was supposed to be why our mom was the best mom. After dragging my feet, I finally entered… and won. The prize was a crappy white porcelain vase filled with tacky silk flowers that my mom displayed proudly in her master bathroom until well into high school. Since then, pretty much everything I’ve ever written has received some type of recognition. I ended up being the editor of my high school literary ‘magazine’ called “The Verbatim.” In my early college years, I had a weekly column called Cadger’s Corner [which was actually kind like Corybantic Commentary, just a lot more juvenile— it paid $80 per week]. Another short story I wrote was published in one of the UNR young writer type collections. My story was one of 25 selected from over 200— there was an awards dinner and everything. I was practically famous.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, that when I win the Pulitzer, I will have to pay tribute, at least in some small way, to my failure with the Etch-A-Sketch.
[In researching this week, I also found an online Etch-A-Sketch that you can play with yourself (I don’t mean, “play with yourself,” I mean play with an online Etch-A-Sketch) at www.etchy.org ]
STRETCH ARMSTRONG— Around the time I failed Etch-A-Sketch 101, there was another toy on the market that was all the rage in the trailer park, Stretch Armstrong.
[Click on the thumbnail in the upper right hand corner of this page to see the original commercial. It starts off with a commercial for some electric company then leads into the Stretch Armstrong commercial for the last 40 seconds. Disclaimer: It’s really grainy and some of the words are inaudible, but is in fact the exact commercial I remember seeing as a kid that had me drooling for this toy.]
Having a Stretch Armstrong doll was like owning a comic book character (like a Ken doll meets The Blob). The original Stretch Armstrong (there has since been a re-vamp of the original, I’ll explain why later) was about 14 inches tall, and bulky. I bet he weighed 5 pounds. The whole point of the doll was that you could stretch him to unfathomable lengths and his body would recoil back to his original position once you let go of him. My brother, Trevor, and I really tested the limits of this doll. You could, in fact, stretch him from corner to corner of a standard-sized room… let’s just say 12 feet or so. But, like Superman and Kryptonite, Stretch Armstrong also had a downfall that would be the death of him- COLD. I discovered the undoing of Stretch Armstrong completely by accident. For those of you who don’t know the joys of living in a mobile home, the older ones are really freaking cold during winter, especially in the closets. One day, I went to get something out of my closet, and notice my Stretch Armstrong on the floor. I picked him up and discovered he was rock solid in the cold, like a brick. I tried to stretch his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t budge. So, instead of pulling on his arms, I decided to bend one, and it snapped off in my hand like a twig. I’m sure I let out the most horrified squeal, but I don’t think anybody heard me. With his cold, lifeless plastic arm stump in my palm, I noticed his insides were nothing more than a thick, red sludge that at some point had to have been a liquid. Since he was more or less frozen, I left him out in my room to thaw. When I returned several hours later to investigate, I was surprised that the red sludge was flowing like lava from his arm socket onto my desk. On further investigation, the sludge appeared to be some sort of Karo corn syrup type concoction, colored red with Red Dye #40, and tasted freakishly like raspberry [I was a boy. Of course I tasted it]. It was gummy and sweet and stuck to my teeth like cinnamon bears on asphalt. I didn’t eat much, because even then, I was sure it must have been carcinogenic.
And that was the end of Stretch Armstrong. His lifeless, rubber body, complete with amputated Karo syrup arm stump was the next of my toys to hit the garbage after the Joystick style Etch-A-Sketch.
[Coincidentally, it was years later that I discovered they had come out with a new version of the original. I just thought he got recalled and went to toy heaven. The new and improved Stretch Armstrong is much smaller and has much more distinct features—like a facial expression and fingers. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like a professional wrestler, only plastic. Personally, I think the original was much better. If he hadn’t been so easily dismembered, I would probably still have him.]
GREEN MACHINE— The Green Machine was the next step in the evolutionary process of the Big Wheel. What made the Green Machine special was the upgrade in design from its predecessor. The Big Wheel is an important part of any kid’s childhood. It was the first symbol of freedom, a mode of transportation other than walking or running. It turned front yards into things of the past and expanded a child’s universe beyond the sidewalk in front of the house. The Green Machine was like the bad-boy stepbrother to the Big Wheel. It had a larger front wheel, so it could go faster. It had an adjustable seat/rear-axle wheel combo so it could grow with its owner. It had a recumbent seat, so it was more comfortable. But perhaps best feature of all was that it had dual brake levers… one that stopped the right rear tire and one that stopped the left… or if you pulled them at the same time, stopped both. What this meant was (for those of you that sucked at physics) was that you could do SPINOUTS at HIGH SPEED!
My brother and I fought so much over our Green Machine that our parents had to buy us two of them.
We would literally spend all day cruising up and down the block in the middle of the street on our Green Machines. We had contests to see who could do the biggest or the most spinouts (left AND right). We had contests to see who could make the longest skid marks. We had contests to see who could go around the block the fastest. We were even fairly adept at jumping off curbs and homemade jumps. The Green Machine was easily the most captivating and entertaining toy I ever had. If we had ridden them any harder, we were going to need a replacement set of tires, a pit crew, and corporate sponsors just to get through summer.
Like all good things, though, the legacy of The Green Machine had to come to an end at the Freeman house. After about a week, somebody stole both of our Green Machines out of the front yard (no doubt during the middle of a much needed pit stop). We never saw them again. I think they were expensive in 1970s dollars, so we never got replacements either, at least not until we were ready for bicycles.
SIMON—This was my first electronic brain toy. Distinctively shaped like a flying saucer no doubt inspired by the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” was an electronic memory game. There were four colored buttons (red, yellow, green and blue) that would light up and beep in varying sequences. The point was to remember the sequences and press the buttons accordingly.
There is nothing socially significant about this game except for that I mastered it quickly and could beat anybody I challenged at it, therefore, I liked it. There were other knock-off type games like Merlin and electronic football, but none of those held my interest like Simon. I think I kept it until I was in college. I’d probably still have it if one of the buttons hadn’t started to stick. It was tough to get the sequences right with malfunctioning parts. Some might have considered this an additional challenge of the game. I saw it as a reason to pitch it in the garbage. [Picture of original Simon below]
ATARI (5600)— I never owned the original video game PONG. Even then, I knew PONG was overly simple and soon to be obsolete despite being all the rage. However, when the original Atari video game came out, I moved heaven and earth to get one.
I sold a bicycle to get this (more or less) original home video game system. I had gotten a bicycle for my birthday. It was a Huffy, so I though I was hot stuff. My mom bought it for me from a local store in Carson City called Sprouse Reitz (spelling from memory—this store later became a Long’s Drugs). I knew the bike cost my mom $79.99 because I remember seeing the price tag. I sold it to some kid in the neighborhood that summer for $100. I don’t know how that kid came across a hundred dollar bill, and I never asked. Anyway, I told my parents about it, gave them the C-note (which was the first one I had ever seen), and told them I wanted to put it toward an Atari game system. I told them I would spend the rest of the summer selling lemonade or body parts to come up with the rest of the money.
I remember (NEW) the cost of the unit was $179.99. Within a matter of a few days, our parents gave us the Atari as a present for “being so good.” I guess they had forgotten about the windows we had broken, pet frogs and lizards we had starved, and stuffed toys we had set on fire… and I wasn’t about to remind them.
Now I can’t even remember the name of most of the games we had. I know the one included with the game set allowed two opposing players to shoot at each other with boxy airplanes and square bullets. Eventually we had an entire collection of games from bowling to imitation’s of commercially available games i.e. Pac Man, Asteroids and the one that started it all, Space Invaders.
This definitely falls into the category of “If I had known then what I know now,” but if I had realized video games were going to remain so popular, I’d probably still be a gamer today. I’d be one of those 40-year old losers who became a multi-millionaire when Nintendo, Game Cube, Play Station and X Box took off along with the Internet. I would have made a killing during the Dot-Com boom in the 1990s probably only to lose it all and become a Sales Manager at Best Buy today. Oh well, bygones.
DAISY BB GUN— Some of my fondest memories of being a kid are of spending time with my grandpa. He used to have an old BB gun that we would spend hours playing with. We would line up old aluminum beer cans along the fence and take turns shooting them down. At the end of the day, grandpa’s fence would be embedded with hundreds of shiny BBs that he would eventually pry out with his pocketknife and re-use.
When I got my first (and last) BB gun, I was 12. I think I got it the Christmas before my parents got divorced. There was nothing fancy about the BB gun that I got except that it was a “Daisy” which was supposed to mean something. It was the successor of the “Red Ryder” BB gun that became popular around the 1940s.
[BTW- Rent the movie ‘A Christmas Story.’ All that kid in the movie wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun. His mom swore “he’d shoot his eye out” but it didn’t matter to him. It’s a pretty funny movie. You should check it out if you haven’t seen it already. It’s a classic.]
Let me just say, that when you’re 12 and unsupervised, you should not own your own BB gun.
Apparently, BB guns were popular in the neighborhood. I was not the only kid who had one. We used to occasionally team up and have BB gun wars. As far as I know, there were never any fatal injuries, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. My brother once got shot in the back at point-blank range with a BB gun that left a bruise the size of a baseball once the swelling went down. Another time, we were having a BB gun war in our yard and I literally almost shot some kid’s eye out when a BB I fired ricocheted off a dog dish and caught him straight between the eyes. His name was Christian. He was one of the tougher kids in the neighborhood, but the shot between the eyes sent him crying to his mom. When his mom called asking for mine, I pretended to be her so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I was 12. My voice hadn’t quite changed, so I got away with it. I pretended to be my mom and assured Christian’s mother that I would punish myself severely when I got home. I must have been convincing because it never came back to haunt me. I’m not even sure my mom knows the story to this day.
One thing is for sure though… it scared the shit out me and I never aimed that BB gun at another person again. To this day, I have never purchased another gun. I inherited an old .22 caliber rifle when my grandfather died, but for the most part, I am not a gun person. I certainly don’t want my son around any firearms. He will not have some of the same stories to tell when he is older that I have.
HONORABLE MENTIONS —That pretty much rounds out the Top 10 list. Here are some of the toys that didn’t quite make the cut for one reason or another:
SILLY PUTTY— I remember being highly impressed by Silly Putty’s ability to “lift” images from newspapers, but beyond that, it was pretty boring stuff. Plus, the image was always backwards.
SLIME— A slimy green boogery substance that I think all little boys found fascinating, especially when the manufacturer added worms and a Mad Scientist Laboratory spin to their advertising, but again, beyond the first five minutes, boring. Plus, it dried out and went bad.
PLAY-DOH— Now this moldable clay came in many colors and was actually lots of fun. I liked it because it allowed me to use my imagination. The drawback to it was that once you mixed any of the colors it basically turned brown and looked like poop. To this day, however, when some substance gets squeezed through something mechanical, it still makes me thing of the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop, which was a toy we played with in which Play Doh could be pressed to come out some plastic character’s head in the form of hair.
HIPPITY HOP— A child’s first mode of transportation. Basically, it was a giant rubber ball with a handle on it. There was even a variation where a horse head was substituted for the rubber handle. The problem was, even at 3, I realized the Hippity Hop was slower than walking.
JARTS— Jarts was actually a very cool toy. I remember playing with them every summer at my aunt and uncles house. If we weren’t in the pool, we were playing with Jarts. Essentially, Jarts were a metal-tipped lawn dart. Individuals stood at opposite ends of the yard trying to score points… 3 points for anything inside the circle (included) and one point for anything thrown within a Jart-length of the circle. It was a lot like horseshoes. I think Jarts were ultimately recalled. If you threw them high enough in the sky, they were definitely sharp enough to impale a kid’s head.
SHRINKY DINKS— If I remember correctly, these were little sheets or characters made of plastic that would shrink once you put them in the oven at 375 degrees. I remember thinking they were neat, but lost their appeal due to supply chain issues. Once you were out of the plastic figures, the game was over.
EASY BAKE OVEN— This was definitely a girl toy. I know my cousins Jennifer and Missy had one. It was amazing what kind of stuff you could cook solely with the heat from a light bulb. I remember that thing producing some very tasty cakes. Just like the Shrinky Dinks, though… once the dough was gone, there was nothing left to bake. Its popularity was short lived.
SIT-N-SPIN— A toddler’s version of the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland. You would literally “Sit” and “Spin” around in a circle. This thing really did make you dizzy, nauseous even. No points can be given to a toy that makes you sick.
LITE BRITE— I remember being quite enthralled with Lite Brite. It came with black paper that you placed over a light bulb in a box. Then you poked plastic pegs through the black paper to create a lighted image. You could create anything from a sailboat to Bozo the Clown. I remembered liking this toy a lot, but the pieces were easy to lose, and definitely a choking hazard.
And… just a tribute… some of the best toys we ever had were improvised. Cardboard boxes became secret hideaways. Bath towels became super hero capes. Sofa cushions became forts. Some of the best toys were actually things we came up with on our own.
My wife is crazy about wooden toys. Elliott’s collection of (great) wooden toys is already more extensive than anything I had as a kid. I think she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn out to be a rocket scientist or a doctor. With all the building blocks and Legos he has already accumulated, though, I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if he wants to be an architect when he grows up.
[I tried to include pictures of all these great toys, but the internet and or Blogger didn't cooperate or I just got bored trying to figure it out and gave up. I am also really curious to hear what your favorite toys were when you were a kid… especially girl toys. I remember being vaguely cognizant of Barbie dolls and Strawberry Shortcake etc., but really, I knew nothing of what girls liked or were interested in. Girls did have cooties after all.]
As I was getting all gooey and sentimental about my wife last week [she loved it], I started thinking about all the possibilities that lie ahead for my son, Elliott. Other parents have told me that I would start living vicariously through my son. Although I hope that’s not completely true for me, it has begun to some degree. What got me thinking this week is the idea of first memories.
As Elliott grows, I wonder what his first memories will be. That got me to thinking of my own childhood and my first memories.
I cannot say I have a memory that stands out above all others as THE FIRST, but there are surprisingly many. I remember living in Hawthorne, California. Our house was tiny, just 2 bedrooms, but I remember the layout perfectly. I also remember the concrete wall out front and my aunt and uncles house that was just up the street. I remember running naked to the local liquor store [apparently I called it the “Yicker Tore”] to get candy. I also remember my grandparents house was only a few blocks away. They had a school and a playground down the street from them that I remember spending a lot of time in because the slide was shaped like a rocket ship that you had to climb into to slide down. The openings were kid-sized so parents couldn’t chase you inside. I would sit in there for hours (at least minutes) at a time until my mom or whoever was watching us would shout up into the opening from below to make sure I was OK before sliding down. There was also a wading pool at the playground that was maybe 18 inches deep in the center. It was a perfect circle. In the summer time, before the park volunteers would let us play in the pool, they would first pour in chlorine or some other chemical and make us walk around in circles (both directions) for 5-10 minutes before they would let us swim. I wonder how many of us will get cancer.
The list goes on and on. I’m sure I’ll include them here at some point, or at least in my autobiography, but for now I want to stay focused on every kid’s favorite things: TOYS. Looking back, I have picked my Top 10 favorite toys of all time [at least until the age of 12]. And I’m not talkin’ Frisbees, Hula Hoops, or marbles. I’m talking about toys I salivated over, toys I would have done chores for, toys I simply had to own and absolutely would have begged my parents for until they relented just so I would shut up.
As I wonder what Elliott’s favorite toys would be, these were mine [listed in more-or-less chronological order]:
SUPER ELASTIC BUBBLE PLASTIC— This is the memory that got this whole ball rolling. Now, this isn’t exactly a toy that I would have begged my parents for, but it was something I got my hands on as a little kid (I’m sure I stole it from the Yicker Tore) and thought it was the coolest stuff ever… probably because I couldn’t read the warnings that it should not be used by children under 8. Super Elastic Bubble Plastic [check out description of it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Elastic_Bubble_Plastic ] was this psychedelic plastic goo that you wadded up into little balls on the end of a straw and blew bubbles—not ordinary bubbles, but industrial size & strength multi-colored bubbles. The size of the bubble depended on how much goo you put on the end of the straw. This stuff was amazing. If blowing through the tiny little straw they provided didn’t make you somewhat anoxic, the chemical fumes from the glue were certainly powerful enough to get you high. Come to think of it, I think the first time I got high wasn’t smoking pot behind Mayfair Market in 10th grade with Frank Hobbs and Ron Santos; it was when I was three trying to make bubbles with this crap. I knew, secretly, that messing with this stuff was going to get me into trouble, and it did. After sneaking off with the tube of goo and the straw, I snuck around the corner of a neighbor’s house, loaded the straw and blew away. Long story short, it didn’t go well. I must have loaded the straw incorrectly because I was never able to blow a proper bubble. Well, the goo was tenacious like wet boogers. When I couldn’t wipe it off of my fingers onto my clothes, I used the next best thing—the side of the neighbor’s house, lucky me, at exactly the moment when that neighbor walked around the corner of the house to find me wiping the toxic sludge all over his stucco.
It took me nearly all day with a toothbrush to scrub that stuff off his stucco. I swore off being bad forever—at least until the next day when I let all the air out of the tires of my mom’s car just before she was supposed to leave for work.
[Apparently, there’s a band named Super Elastic Bubble Plastic because when I Googled and YouTubed it, most of the information that popped up first was about the band. Just FYI. I don’t know if they suck or not, I didn’t listen.]
MAGIC 8 BALL— Everybody is familiar with this classic fortune telling device. To this day, I think people believe in the advice of the Magic 8 Ball more than that of Emily Post, Dear Abby or Dr. Phil. If a social dilemma can’t be solved with Rock-Paper-Scissors, it most definitely can be answered by the Eight Ball. I was never actually given a Magic 8 Ball, but I ‘acquired’ one at some point. I don’t even remember how. I used to keep it behind the washer and dryer at that house we rented in Hawthorne, CA. The laundry room of that house could only be accessed via the outside, so I used to sneak in there and lock the door whenever I needed Eight Ball consultation. I would turn out the light for the mystery factor. There was just enough light shining beneath the door that I could read the advice of the Eight Ball as it floated through the Tidy Bowl blue liquid toward the surface of the viewing window. [Apparently, I could read then also. This is a distinct memory, yet I know for a fact I was less than four].
I have no idea what kinds of questions I used to ask the Eight Ball, but I’m sure there were a little like this: Will I grow up to be famous like Elvis? – IT IS DECIDEDLY SO. Will I drive a car as fast as Speed Racer? –BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. Will I get a Hippity Hop for my birthday? – OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
That Eight Ball is still probably behind the washer and dryer of that rental house. I have never been able to maintain an Eight Ball in my possession. The always seem to disappear, kind of like Ouija boards.
[For a full description of the Magic 8 Ball, a list of all 20 standard responses, and an impressive list of movie and music references to the Eight Ball, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_8-ball or for a demonstration on how to dissect the Magic 8-Ball go to http://8ball.ofb.net/procedure.html then come back.]
HOT WHEELS CARS— The Holy Grail of boy’s toys. I used to watch the cartoon Speed Racer when I was a little, little kid at my grandma & grandpa’s house. It came on at 2:30 p.m. right after Felix the Cat. I remember it like it was my job. When Speed Racer’s car, the Mach 5, became available years later as a Hot Wheels car (or Matchbox car, the two were rivals, but really they were interchangeable) I was all over it. I think the car itself was in the family budget, but all the Hot Wheels accessories were not, so when I found a set of Hot Wheels track at a garage sale, I’m sure I begged my mom a thousand times for the $2 that I thought was the ultimate deal for a boxful of bright orange track, burgundy tongue-shaped connectors, and accessories. My brother and I used to clamp the tracks at the top of the fireplace mantel and string the tracks in as many combinations we could create: long straight-aways, single loops, double loops. Sometimes, one of us would hold up the end opposite the mantel and we would crash the cars in the center. We spent entire summer days playing with these things. Neighborhood and school kids traded cars like baseball cards. Hot Wheels were serious business.
Our fascination with Hot Wheels came to a screeching halt, however. As it turns out, these tracks are indestructible implements of pain. We got in trouble one time (and who can ever remember what for) and received the spanking of a lifetime with one of the pieces of bright orange track. The red marks on our asses made Linda Blair’s welts in The Exorcist look like a Noxzema commercial.
That day, my brother and I snuck the entire box of Hot Wheels tracks into the trash, and never spoke another word about them to our parents ever again.
SLIP-N-SLIDE— a.k.a White Trash Water Park. Nevada summers can get hot. Not Arizona hot, but hot. Sometimes reaching 100 degrees for long stretches of days. We literally begged and begged and begged for a Slip-N-Slide. The concept was simple: a 25-foot piece of durable vinyl that you would place in the yard, wet with a hose, take a running start and slide for your life. Hours and hours of fun, I tell you. Kids from all around the neighborhood would come to our house to Slip-N-Slide. We were like trailer park royalty. Kids would bring bits of food, drinks, coin, pets, bikes, anything… just to be able to beat the heat with a nice wet down and a laugh.
Ours came with another contraption (although I’m sure it was sold separately) that was like the top half of a person’s head, with Medusa-like hair-hoses that you would hook the garden hose into, and a chaotic fountain of water would squirt and squiggle its way out the end of the hair-hoses spraying water everywhere.
[I’m only including this last paragraph in the hopes somebody remembers the name of this thing. It escapes me and it’s driving me crazy. If any of you know, please email me]
ETCH-A-SKETCH— I think every kid in the world had or has an Etch-A-Sketch. When I was a wee lad, I remember always wanting to know how to draw (instinctively) but didn’t really have the technical skills to do so on my own. When I got my first Etch-A-Sketch, I thought I had been given the tool that would allow me to become the next Picasso. I quickly found out that there was a serious flaw with the Etch-A-Sketch… the rack & pinion mechanisms that drove the stylus through the silver pixie dust were only good for drawing straight lines. To draw anything with curves, you needed manual dexterity that is simply not available in the younger models of Homo sapiens. Drawing simple circles was cumbersome, and they always turned out looking like gruesomely misshapen dodecahedrons. I pretty well mastered Etch-A-Sketching the American flag (sans stars), but anything beyond that required patience I simply did not have. There was a company later on that created a model of the Etch-A-Sketch that utilized a joystick instead of the standard two knobs. I pulled a Veruca Salt on my mom and insisted on getting one. The pixie dust inside was gold instead of silver… must have been some patent issue… anyway, it worked no better, and ended up in the trash by the time I was 10. So much for being the next Picasso.
I guess the flipside of not becoming a graphic artist… this was around the time I started discovering I enjoyed WORDS and could manipulate them in fun and interesting ways. I was in the cub scouts at the time (baby version of the boy scouts). I begrudgingly entered a writing contest, urged by my pack leader. The topic was supposed to be why our mom was the best mom. After dragging my feet, I finally entered… and won. The prize was a crappy white porcelain vase filled with tacky silk flowers that my mom displayed proudly in her master bathroom until well into high school. Since then, pretty much everything I’ve ever written has received some type of recognition. I ended up being the editor of my high school literary ‘magazine’ called “The Verbatim.” In my early college years, I had a weekly column called Cadger’s Corner [which was actually kind like Corybantic Commentary, just a lot more juvenile— it paid $80 per week]. Another short story I wrote was published in one of the UNR young writer type collections. My story was one of 25 selected from over 200— there was an awards dinner and everything. I was practically famous.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, that when I win the Pulitzer, I will have to pay tribute, at least in some small way, to my failure with the Etch-A-Sketch.
[In researching this week, I also found an online Etch-A-Sketch that you can play with yourself (I don’t mean, “play with yourself,” I mean play with an online Etch-A-Sketch) at www.etchy.org ]
STRETCH ARMSTRONG— Around the time I failed Etch-A-Sketch 101, there was another toy on the market that was all the rage in the trailer park, Stretch Armstrong.
[Click on the thumbnail in the upper right hand corner of this page to see the original commercial. It starts off with a commercial for some electric company then leads into the Stretch Armstrong commercial for the last 40 seconds. Disclaimer: It’s really grainy and some of the words are inaudible, but is in fact the exact commercial I remember seeing as a kid that had me drooling for this toy.]
Having a Stretch Armstrong doll was like owning a comic book character (like a Ken doll meets The Blob). The original Stretch Armstrong (there has since been a re-vamp of the original, I’ll explain why later) was about 14 inches tall, and bulky. I bet he weighed 5 pounds. The whole point of the doll was that you could stretch him to unfathomable lengths and his body would recoil back to his original position once you let go of him. My brother, Trevor, and I really tested the limits of this doll. You could, in fact, stretch him from corner to corner of a standard-sized room… let’s just say 12 feet or so. But, like Superman and Kryptonite, Stretch Armstrong also had a downfall that would be the death of him- COLD. I discovered the undoing of Stretch Armstrong completely by accident. For those of you who don’t know the joys of living in a mobile home, the older ones are really freaking cold during winter, especially in the closets. One day, I went to get something out of my closet, and notice my Stretch Armstrong on the floor. I picked him up and discovered he was rock solid in the cold, like a brick. I tried to stretch his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t budge. So, instead of pulling on his arms, I decided to bend one, and it snapped off in my hand like a twig. I’m sure I let out the most horrified squeal, but I don’t think anybody heard me. With his cold, lifeless plastic arm stump in my palm, I noticed his insides were nothing more than a thick, red sludge that at some point had to have been a liquid. Since he was more or less frozen, I left him out in my room to thaw. When I returned several hours later to investigate, I was surprised that the red sludge was flowing like lava from his arm socket onto my desk. On further investigation, the sludge appeared to be some sort of Karo corn syrup type concoction, colored red with Red Dye #40, and tasted freakishly like raspberry [I was a boy. Of course I tasted it]. It was gummy and sweet and stuck to my teeth like cinnamon bears on asphalt. I didn’t eat much, because even then, I was sure it must have been carcinogenic.
And that was the end of Stretch Armstrong. His lifeless, rubber body, complete with amputated Karo syrup arm stump was the next of my toys to hit the garbage after the Joystick style Etch-A-Sketch.
[Coincidentally, it was years later that I discovered they had come out with a new version of the original. I just thought he got recalled and went to toy heaven. The new and improved Stretch Armstrong is much smaller and has much more distinct features—like a facial expression and fingers. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like a professional wrestler, only plastic. Personally, I think the original was much better. If he hadn’t been so easily dismembered, I would probably still have him.]
GREEN MACHINE— The Green Machine was the next step in the evolutionary process of the Big Wheel. What made the Green Machine special was the upgrade in design from its predecessor. The Big Wheel is an important part of any kid’s childhood. It was the first symbol of freedom, a mode of transportation other than walking or running. It turned front yards into things of the past and expanded a child’s universe beyond the sidewalk in front of the house. The Green Machine was like the bad-boy stepbrother to the Big Wheel. It had a larger front wheel, so it could go faster. It had an adjustable seat/rear-axle wheel combo so it could grow with its owner. It had a recumbent seat, so it was more comfortable. But perhaps best feature of all was that it had dual brake levers… one that stopped the right rear tire and one that stopped the left… or if you pulled them at the same time, stopped both. What this meant was (for those of you that sucked at physics) was that you could do SPINOUTS at HIGH SPEED!
My brother and I fought so much over our Green Machine that our parents had to buy us two of them.
We would literally spend all day cruising up and down the block in the middle of the street on our Green Machines. We had contests to see who could do the biggest or the most spinouts (left AND right). We had contests to see who could make the longest skid marks. We had contests to see who could go around the block the fastest. We were even fairly adept at jumping off curbs and homemade jumps. The Green Machine was easily the most captivating and entertaining toy I ever had. If we had ridden them any harder, we were going to need a replacement set of tires, a pit crew, and corporate sponsors just to get through summer.
Like all good things, though, the legacy of The Green Machine had to come to an end at the Freeman house. After about a week, somebody stole both of our Green Machines out of the front yard (no doubt during the middle of a much needed pit stop). We never saw them again. I think they were expensive in 1970s dollars, so we never got replacements either, at least not until we were ready for bicycles.
SIMON—This was my first electronic brain toy. Distinctively shaped like a flying saucer no doubt inspired by the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” was an electronic memory game. There were four colored buttons (red, yellow, green and blue) that would light up and beep in varying sequences. The point was to remember the sequences and press the buttons accordingly.
There is nothing socially significant about this game except for that I mastered it quickly and could beat anybody I challenged at it, therefore, I liked it. There were other knock-off type games like Merlin and electronic football, but none of those held my interest like Simon. I think I kept it until I was in college. I’d probably still have it if one of the buttons hadn’t started to stick. It was tough to get the sequences right with malfunctioning parts. Some might have considered this an additional challenge of the game. I saw it as a reason to pitch it in the garbage. [Picture of original Simon below]
ATARI (5600)— I never owned the original video game PONG. Even then, I knew PONG was overly simple and soon to be obsolete despite being all the rage. However, when the original Atari video game came out, I moved heaven and earth to get one.
I sold a bicycle to get this (more or less) original home video game system. I had gotten a bicycle for my birthday. It was a Huffy, so I though I was hot stuff. My mom bought it for me from a local store in Carson City called Sprouse Reitz (spelling from memory—this store later became a Long’s Drugs). I knew the bike cost my mom $79.99 because I remember seeing the price tag. I sold it to some kid in the neighborhood that summer for $100. I don’t know how that kid came across a hundred dollar bill, and I never asked. Anyway, I told my parents about it, gave them the C-note (which was the first one I had ever seen), and told them I wanted to put it toward an Atari game system. I told them I would spend the rest of the summer selling lemonade or body parts to come up with the rest of the money.
I remember (NEW) the cost of the unit was $179.99. Within a matter of a few days, our parents gave us the Atari as a present for “being so good.” I guess they had forgotten about the windows we had broken, pet frogs and lizards we had starved, and stuffed toys we had set on fire… and I wasn’t about to remind them.
Now I can’t even remember the name of most of the games we had. I know the one included with the game set allowed two opposing players to shoot at each other with boxy airplanes and square bullets. Eventually we had an entire collection of games from bowling to imitation’s of commercially available games i.e. Pac Man, Asteroids and the one that started it all, Space Invaders.
This definitely falls into the category of “If I had known then what I know now,” but if I had realized video games were going to remain so popular, I’d probably still be a gamer today. I’d be one of those 40-year old losers who became a multi-millionaire when Nintendo, Game Cube, Play Station and X Box took off along with the Internet. I would have made a killing during the Dot-Com boom in the 1990s probably only to lose it all and become a Sales Manager at Best Buy today. Oh well, bygones.
DAISY BB GUN— Some of my fondest memories of being a kid are of spending time with my grandpa. He used to have an old BB gun that we would spend hours playing with. We would line up old aluminum beer cans along the fence and take turns shooting them down. At the end of the day, grandpa’s fence would be embedded with hundreds of shiny BBs that he would eventually pry out with his pocketknife and re-use.
When I got my first (and last) BB gun, I was 12. I think I got it the Christmas before my parents got divorced. There was nothing fancy about the BB gun that I got except that it was a “Daisy” which was supposed to mean something. It was the successor of the “Red Ryder” BB gun that became popular around the 1940s.
[BTW- Rent the movie ‘A Christmas Story.’ All that kid in the movie wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun. His mom swore “he’d shoot his eye out” but it didn’t matter to him. It’s a pretty funny movie. You should check it out if you haven’t seen it already. It’s a classic.]
Let me just say, that when you’re 12 and unsupervised, you should not own your own BB gun.
Apparently, BB guns were popular in the neighborhood. I was not the only kid who had one. We used to occasionally team up and have BB gun wars. As far as I know, there were never any fatal injuries, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. My brother once got shot in the back at point-blank range with a BB gun that left a bruise the size of a baseball once the swelling went down. Another time, we were having a BB gun war in our yard and I literally almost shot some kid’s eye out when a BB I fired ricocheted off a dog dish and caught him straight between the eyes. His name was Christian. He was one of the tougher kids in the neighborhood, but the shot between the eyes sent him crying to his mom. When his mom called asking for mine, I pretended to be her so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I was 12. My voice hadn’t quite changed, so I got away with it. I pretended to be my mom and assured Christian’s mother that I would punish myself severely when I got home. I must have been convincing because it never came back to haunt me. I’m not even sure my mom knows the story to this day.
One thing is for sure though… it scared the shit out me and I never aimed that BB gun at another person again. To this day, I have never purchased another gun. I inherited an old .22 caliber rifle when my grandfather died, but for the most part, I am not a gun person. I certainly don’t want my son around any firearms. He will not have some of the same stories to tell when he is older that I have.
HONORABLE MENTIONS —That pretty much rounds out the Top 10 list. Here are some of the toys that didn’t quite make the cut for one reason or another:
SILLY PUTTY— I remember being highly impressed by Silly Putty’s ability to “lift” images from newspapers, but beyond that, it was pretty boring stuff. Plus, the image was always backwards.
SLIME— A slimy green boogery substance that I think all little boys found fascinating, especially when the manufacturer added worms and a Mad Scientist Laboratory spin to their advertising, but again, beyond the first five minutes, boring. Plus, it dried out and went bad.
PLAY-DOH— Now this moldable clay came in many colors and was actually lots of fun. I liked it because it allowed me to use my imagination. The drawback to it was that once you mixed any of the colors it basically turned brown and looked like poop. To this day, however, when some substance gets squeezed through something mechanical, it still makes me thing of the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop, which was a toy we played with in which Play Doh could be pressed to come out some plastic character’s head in the form of hair.
HIPPITY HOP— A child’s first mode of transportation. Basically, it was a giant rubber ball with a handle on it. There was even a variation where a horse head was substituted for the rubber handle. The problem was, even at 3, I realized the Hippity Hop was slower than walking.
JARTS— Jarts was actually a very cool toy. I remember playing with them every summer at my aunt and uncles house. If we weren’t in the pool, we were playing with Jarts. Essentially, Jarts were a metal-tipped lawn dart. Individuals stood at opposite ends of the yard trying to score points… 3 points for anything inside the circle (included) and one point for anything thrown within a Jart-length of the circle. It was a lot like horseshoes. I think Jarts were ultimately recalled. If you threw them high enough in the sky, they were definitely sharp enough to impale a kid’s head.
SHRINKY DINKS— If I remember correctly, these were little sheets or characters made of plastic that would shrink once you put them in the oven at 375 degrees. I remember thinking they were neat, but lost their appeal due to supply chain issues. Once you were out of the plastic figures, the game was over.
EASY BAKE OVEN— This was definitely a girl toy. I know my cousins Jennifer and Missy had one. It was amazing what kind of stuff you could cook solely with the heat from a light bulb. I remember that thing producing some very tasty cakes. Just like the Shrinky Dinks, though… once the dough was gone, there was nothing left to bake. Its popularity was short lived.
SIT-N-SPIN— A toddler’s version of the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland. You would literally “Sit” and “Spin” around in a circle. This thing really did make you dizzy, nauseous even. No points can be given to a toy that makes you sick.
LITE BRITE— I remember being quite enthralled with Lite Brite. It came with black paper that you placed over a light bulb in a box. Then you poked plastic pegs through the black paper to create a lighted image. You could create anything from a sailboat to Bozo the Clown. I remembered liking this toy a lot, but the pieces were easy to lose, and definitely a choking hazard.
And… just a tribute… some of the best toys we ever had were improvised. Cardboard boxes became secret hideaways. Bath towels became super hero capes. Sofa cushions became forts. Some of the best toys were actually things we came up with on our own.
My wife is crazy about wooden toys. Elliott’s collection of (great) wooden toys is already more extensive than anything I had as a kid. I think she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn out to be a rocket scientist or a doctor. With all the building blocks and Legos he has already accumulated, though, I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if he wants to be an architect when he grows up.
[I tried to include pictures of all these great toys, but the internet and or Blogger didn't cooperate or I just got bored trying to figure it out and gave up. I am also really curious to hear what your favorite toys were when you were a kid… especially girl toys. I remember being vaguely cognizant of Barbie dolls and Strawberry Shortcake etc., but really, I knew nothing of what girls liked or were interested in. Girls did have cooties after all.]
5.30.2007
One Parent's Universe...
All my life, I knew I wanted kids and a family of my own. The funny thing is, I have NEVER been interested in other peoples’ kids… at least not to any great degree. My paternal instincts just never kicked in. For the past few years, as I rounded the bend toward 40, I have wondered if they ever would.
I’ve been surrounded my entire adult life by great people with (mostly) fantastic kids. None of that “family feeling” ever rubbed off on me. I have always been happy to hold a baby or spend time reading with a toddler or playing games with older kids, but in the same breath, I must admit I was just as happy to hand them back to their parents.
Some of you reading this are undoubtedly the best examples of parenting I have ever seen. Your families make other people jealous.
My friend, Susan, in Seattle, is the most shining example of how to be a successful single parent. Her daughter is the most mature, curious and precocious kid I have ever met, despite the long hours Susan puts into an average workweek. And, Jesus is she cute.
My cousin, Jennifer, in Reno, has four boys (the last two, twins) and handles a household like a rock star [and I don’t mean Ozzy Osbourne-style]. There isn’t a situation that comes up that she doesn’t handle with style, grace, and fairness. Her influence is clear, and her kids are the benefactors of her efforts. Her boys are some of the best-behaved, nicest, and kindest kids I have ever known.
My friends Kathy and Stephen, in Seattle, round out the list. Kathy is a successful physician and Stephen is a multi-talented stay-at-home dad. I think they were the first of my friends to have kids, and I must say, I was always jealous of their lifestyle reversal. Their three boys are SO beautiful and SO bright I can barely stand it. I will be shocked if one of them doesn’t grow up to become president (of some huge company, if not the country).
With examples like these, I always wondered what kind of parent I would be.
I will say, that since Elliott was born, I have surprised even myself at how easily being a parent has come to me. From the very first day, I have felt connected to him in a way I didn’t realize was possible. Additionally, I have felt pretty “in tune” with all of his subtle nuances and needs. For the most part, I have been pretty at ease with being a dad [to the truly most beautiful and perfect son anybody could ever wish for… and I know people always say that, but in our case, it’s the truth]. I cannot explain the bond I feel, but I will try:
In my life, I thought I have experienced all the love I had ever thought possible …until I held my son. Words simply are not enough to describe the surge of love that fills you on the day your first child is born. It’s like that sense of calm that comes over you when you know you just nailed a job interview. It’s the serenity one must feel when crossing over to their version of heaven. It’s a chemical feeling that saturates all your pores and cells with elation. It’s a peace in your heart that restores your faith in humanity. It is most definitely overwhelming, but in a good way. The responsibilities and possibilities are vast, but you find it easy in your heart to take the challenges on with confidence, pride and enthusiasm. In an instant, the life you knew is over and a new one begins. Ideas you used to hold precious and profound no longer matter and no longer seem to make sense. Parenthood is a complete and utter shakedown of everything you’ve known life to be as a person. Priorities shift. Previous unknowns are elevated to “urgent” status, and “we” takes over where “I” used to exist.
This must be what “happy” is supposed to feel like.
I can admit now, that after knowing Kathy and Stephen, I always fantasized about a life where I could stay at home with the kids while my Uber-Successful wife brought home the bacon. I would have happily fried it up in a pan. Now that I am a parent, though, I know one thing: I couldn’t handle it. As I am learning, there are just times when all Elliott wants is his MOM, and I am ill-equipped to provide that for him [except when I am able to place him solidly in her arms].
Luckily, Stephanie and I have made decisions and set up or lives in such a way that she is able to stay at home with Elliott, at least for the most formative years. Our own anecdotal evidence has proven true to us that kids turn out best (better at a minimum) when at least one parent stays at home. Thanks to smart planning, and a couple of real estate booms, we are able to provide that for our son.
I picked the perfect woman for the job.
I can also admit now, that I knew I was going to marry Stephanie within 24-hours of having met her. That same calm, confident, elated feeling that I described above also came over me when I met my wife. I knew she was “the one” almost immediately.
“They” say, “When it happens, you will know.” I guess that’s true, but I never believed in things like that until it happened to me.
One of the last things I asked Stephanie on our 24-hour first date was, “Do you want to be a mom?” – Notice I didn’t ask her, “Do you want to have kids?” To me, the two questions are as different as speed bumps and sweet potato pie. Anybody can say they want kids, but answering yes to the other question implies a commitment to all that being a parent entails, which to me, was much more important. I think so many people have kids for the wrong reasons. I just wanted to make sure she would be in it for the right ones. And she was.
I asked Stephanie to write last week’s blog as a lead-in to this one.
My poor wife endured the nastiest pregnancy possible. And now, three short months later, is already talking about having more kids. I know that women experience a sort of “birth amnesia” at some point after pregnancy, but MY wife spent nine months with her head in a toilet. I cleaned more barf off the floor than a janitor at a Dave Matthews concert, and she’s already talking about doing it all again despite the possibility her next pregnancy could be just as complicated. That’s a tough woman. My mom worked 10-20 hour days at times when we were growing up just to make ends meet. I used to think she was tough until Stephanie reset the gold standard for all mothers. Until you can say you spent every day, from the time you peed on the stick until the day your doctor says, ‘OK, Push’, throwing up 3-4 times a day, you haven’t seen tough. Then, to say you’re ready to do it all again after only 3 months… I mean, holy crap, that’s a MOM!
Stephanie has patience like I have never seen. Elliott loves to listen to her read stories. Her “theme song” for him is forever expanding. She sees changing his diapers, not as a chore, but as a privilege. Elliott loves bath time with Mommy more than anything [For some reason, when she gets water in his eyes or mouth, he likes it. When I do, he thinks I’m drowning him]. She is able to console him when he is sad. She manages to figure him out when I feel stuck. Clearly, she’s the mom for a reason. Sometimes I feel lucky just to be able to sit back and enjoy the show, participating when necessary for the interactive portions of the program, but clearly, it’s all about MOM for Elliott.
No feelings of inferiority here… I LOVE that!
I enjoy waking up every day next to my wife and son. Elliott is at the point now where he starts off the night sleeping in his crib, but when I wake up in the morning, he has somehow magically levitated out of it and landed between Stephanie and me in our bed. That makes me happy. When I wake to find her sleeping peacefully, and him staring at the ceiling fan [his favorite thing, I swear] with a smile on his face, all is right with the world.
I take over the morning duties on my days off so she can recapture the sleep I know she lost during the previous night. It’s my pleasure, really. Elliott is bright, smiling, talking and singing in his own language, and for brief moments, I am the only person that matters. That is, until he wants his mom.
I sit here, with the sage knowledge of a 3-month parental veteran, and I confess I don’t have all the answers. Not even close. But, I know this: I am along for the ride. I look forward to waking up every day and being the “dad” of my “family,” and I feel secure knowing that Stephanie is my son’s “mom.”
“Family” means something different to all of us. As I face the challenges of parenthood, my hope is to not just do “the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time” like our parents did, but rather to fully engage as a husband and a dad and to lock horns with life every day so that my son can evolve into a happy, healthy, kind, caring, contributing human being in a world I feel has lost its way. I don’t expect to be the perfect parent. I don’t think any of us can. I just hope to be the best parent I can be, like my wife does every day.
I cannot imagine a Universe where I couldn’t call Stephanie my wife and Elliott, my son. For these things, I am truly grateful.
[Thanks, babe. I love you—for all that you are, and for all you are to me and to Elliott every single day.]
I’ve been surrounded my entire adult life by great people with (mostly) fantastic kids. None of that “family feeling” ever rubbed off on me. I have always been happy to hold a baby or spend time reading with a toddler or playing games with older kids, but in the same breath, I must admit I was just as happy to hand them back to their parents.
Some of you reading this are undoubtedly the best examples of parenting I have ever seen. Your families make other people jealous.
My friend, Susan, in Seattle, is the most shining example of how to be a successful single parent. Her daughter is the most mature, curious and precocious kid I have ever met, despite the long hours Susan puts into an average workweek. And, Jesus is she cute.
My cousin, Jennifer, in Reno, has four boys (the last two, twins) and handles a household like a rock star [and I don’t mean Ozzy Osbourne-style]. There isn’t a situation that comes up that she doesn’t handle with style, grace, and fairness. Her influence is clear, and her kids are the benefactors of her efforts. Her boys are some of the best-behaved, nicest, and kindest kids I have ever known.
My friends Kathy and Stephen, in Seattle, round out the list. Kathy is a successful physician and Stephen is a multi-talented stay-at-home dad. I think they were the first of my friends to have kids, and I must say, I was always jealous of their lifestyle reversal. Their three boys are SO beautiful and SO bright I can barely stand it. I will be shocked if one of them doesn’t grow up to become president (of some huge company, if not the country).
With examples like these, I always wondered what kind of parent I would be.
I will say, that since Elliott was born, I have surprised even myself at how easily being a parent has come to me. From the very first day, I have felt connected to him in a way I didn’t realize was possible. Additionally, I have felt pretty “in tune” with all of his subtle nuances and needs. For the most part, I have been pretty at ease with being a dad [to the truly most beautiful and perfect son anybody could ever wish for… and I know people always say that, but in our case, it’s the truth]. I cannot explain the bond I feel, but I will try:
In my life, I thought I have experienced all the love I had ever thought possible …until I held my son. Words simply are not enough to describe the surge of love that fills you on the day your first child is born. It’s like that sense of calm that comes over you when you know you just nailed a job interview. It’s the serenity one must feel when crossing over to their version of heaven. It’s a chemical feeling that saturates all your pores and cells with elation. It’s a peace in your heart that restores your faith in humanity. It is most definitely overwhelming, but in a good way. The responsibilities and possibilities are vast, but you find it easy in your heart to take the challenges on with confidence, pride and enthusiasm. In an instant, the life you knew is over and a new one begins. Ideas you used to hold precious and profound no longer matter and no longer seem to make sense. Parenthood is a complete and utter shakedown of everything you’ve known life to be as a person. Priorities shift. Previous unknowns are elevated to “urgent” status, and “we” takes over where “I” used to exist.
This must be what “happy” is supposed to feel like.
I can admit now, that after knowing Kathy and Stephen, I always fantasized about a life where I could stay at home with the kids while my Uber-Successful wife brought home the bacon. I would have happily fried it up in a pan. Now that I am a parent, though, I know one thing: I couldn’t handle it. As I am learning, there are just times when all Elliott wants is his MOM, and I am ill-equipped to provide that for him [except when I am able to place him solidly in her arms].
Luckily, Stephanie and I have made decisions and set up or lives in such a way that she is able to stay at home with Elliott, at least for the most formative years. Our own anecdotal evidence has proven true to us that kids turn out best (better at a minimum) when at least one parent stays at home. Thanks to smart planning, and a couple of real estate booms, we are able to provide that for our son.
I picked the perfect woman for the job.
I can also admit now, that I knew I was going to marry Stephanie within 24-hours of having met her. That same calm, confident, elated feeling that I described above also came over me when I met my wife. I knew she was “the one” almost immediately.
“They” say, “When it happens, you will know.” I guess that’s true, but I never believed in things like that until it happened to me.
One of the last things I asked Stephanie on our 24-hour first date was, “Do you want to be a mom?” – Notice I didn’t ask her, “Do you want to have kids?” To me, the two questions are as different as speed bumps and sweet potato pie. Anybody can say they want kids, but answering yes to the other question implies a commitment to all that being a parent entails, which to me, was much more important. I think so many people have kids for the wrong reasons. I just wanted to make sure she would be in it for the right ones. And she was.
I asked Stephanie to write last week’s blog as a lead-in to this one.
My poor wife endured the nastiest pregnancy possible. And now, three short months later, is already talking about having more kids. I know that women experience a sort of “birth amnesia” at some point after pregnancy, but MY wife spent nine months with her head in a toilet. I cleaned more barf off the floor than a janitor at a Dave Matthews concert, and she’s already talking about doing it all again despite the possibility her next pregnancy could be just as complicated. That’s a tough woman. My mom worked 10-20 hour days at times when we were growing up just to make ends meet. I used to think she was tough until Stephanie reset the gold standard for all mothers. Until you can say you spent every day, from the time you peed on the stick until the day your doctor says, ‘OK, Push’, throwing up 3-4 times a day, you haven’t seen tough. Then, to say you’re ready to do it all again after only 3 months… I mean, holy crap, that’s a MOM!
Stephanie has patience like I have never seen. Elliott loves to listen to her read stories. Her “theme song” for him is forever expanding. She sees changing his diapers, not as a chore, but as a privilege. Elliott loves bath time with Mommy more than anything [For some reason, when she gets water in his eyes or mouth, he likes it. When I do, he thinks I’m drowning him]. She is able to console him when he is sad. She manages to figure him out when I feel stuck. Clearly, she’s the mom for a reason. Sometimes I feel lucky just to be able to sit back and enjoy the show, participating when necessary for the interactive portions of the program, but clearly, it’s all about MOM for Elliott.
No feelings of inferiority here… I LOVE that!
I enjoy waking up every day next to my wife and son. Elliott is at the point now where he starts off the night sleeping in his crib, but when I wake up in the morning, he has somehow magically levitated out of it and landed between Stephanie and me in our bed. That makes me happy. When I wake to find her sleeping peacefully, and him staring at the ceiling fan [his favorite thing, I swear] with a smile on his face, all is right with the world.
I take over the morning duties on my days off so she can recapture the sleep I know she lost during the previous night. It’s my pleasure, really. Elliott is bright, smiling, talking and singing in his own language, and for brief moments, I am the only person that matters. That is, until he wants his mom.
I sit here, with the sage knowledge of a 3-month parental veteran, and I confess I don’t have all the answers. Not even close. But, I know this: I am along for the ride. I look forward to waking up every day and being the “dad” of my “family,” and I feel secure knowing that Stephanie is my son’s “mom.”
“Family” means something different to all of us. As I face the challenges of parenthood, my hope is to not just do “the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time” like our parents did, but rather to fully engage as a husband and a dad and to lock horns with life every day so that my son can evolve into a happy, healthy, kind, caring, contributing human being in a world I feel has lost its way. I don’t expect to be the perfect parent. I don’t think any of us can. I just hope to be the best parent I can be, like my wife does every day.
I cannot imagine a Universe where I couldn’t call Stephanie my wife and Elliott, my son. For these things, I am truly grateful.
[Thanks, babe. I love you—for all that you are, and for all you are to me and to Elliott every single day.]
5.24.2007
Guest Blogger: Stephanie Freeman
Cory asked me to write about my pregnancy experience. The bottom line is that it was so awful it’s indescribable. One of the hardest things while going through the experience was communicating how depleted, tired, and sick I was. Everyone understands feeling sick for a few days or weeks, but for an entire pregnancy, the longevity factor was brutal.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG or hyperemesis) literally translates into “Pregnant Woman who Vomits Excessively.” It affects about 1% of the pregnant population, and I had never heard of it before. Vomiting excessively doesn’t even begin to describe the horror of my pregnancy. Yes, the vomiting was uncomfortable, constant and messy, but the debilitating 24-hour nausea was worse. Vomiting usually relieves nausea from the flu or crazy evenings. I can write these words and intellectually conceive of the nausea horror, but living with it for 10 months is indescribable. Remember your college day hangovers? Have you ever had a horrible flu? What about seasickness? Have you ever experienced them all at once for 38 weeks?
As many of you know, Cory and I wanted to have children right away. I had a miscarriage two months after we were married. It was the most devastating experience of my life. I experienced all that you would expect during a pregnancy: nausea, exhaustion, a little vomiting. I didn’t get far enough along to experience hyperemesis. After that loss, I was terrified that we wouldn’t be able to have children. When we conceived a few months later, I thought, “You won’t hear me complaining about a little morning sickness.” I was definitely not feeling well, but thought I could tough out the first three months, because everyone knows, women are only sick for the first couple of months of pregnancy. I had just moved to Portland after teaching 1st and 2nd grade and was off for the summer, so fortunately, I thought, I didn’t have any work obligations. In retrospect, that contributed to me not seeking help sooner. I absolutely could not have worked. I was exhausted; the kind of exhaustion where you feel like someone poured concrete into your veins.
I told my doctor I was pretty sick, and I had lost a few pounds, but it’s not unusual for women to experience morning sickness. She actually said it was a good sign that my HCG levels were rising and the baby was healthy. The initial sonograms showed a heartbeat and other healthy indicators. She mentioned not taking prenatal vitamins for a while, and I heard, “Stop taking them,” so, I did. Because I didn’t have any obligations, I was able to rest. If I had to work, I would have had to seek help sooner, and I may have had an earlier diagnosis and treatment. I wanted to be a relaxed “Zen yoga” mom, but the two times I went, the yoga teacher kept reiterating how terrible I looked. After I vomited during class, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to go back again. My deteriorated state also led to Cory and me missing part of our birth classes.
At the four-month point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I scheduled an appointment and tried again to Google morning sickness remedies. Maybe there was something that I missed. There was. I found a site www.hyperemesis.org, which compared morning sickness with HG.
MORNING SICKNESS
You lose little if any weight.
Nausea and vomiting do not interfere with your ability to eat or drink enough each day.
You vomit infrequently and the nausea is episodic but not severe. It may cause discomfort and misery.
Dietary and/or lifestyle changes are enough to help you feel better most of the time.
You typically will improve gradually after the first trimester, but may be a little queasy at times during the remainder of your pregnancy.
You will be able to work most days and care for your family.
HYPEREMESIS GRAVIDARUM
You lose 5-20 pounds or more. (> 5% of pre-pregnancy weight)
Nausea and vomiting cause you to eat very little and get dehydrated from vomiting if not treated.
You vomit often and may vomit bile or blood if not treated. Nausea is usually moderate to severe and constant.
You will probably require fluid hydration through a vein and/or medications to stop the vomiting.
You usually feel somewhat better by mid-pregnancy, but you may continue to be nauseous and/or vomit until late pregnancy.
You will likely be unable to work for weeks or months, and may need help caring for yourself.
I read the above chart [mangled in translation from Word to Blogger] and knew I clearly had HG. I had lost 12 pounds, couldn’t eat, had constant nausea and needed help caring for myself. I couldn’t give a urine sample because I was so dehydrated. My doctor personally walked me to a hospital room where I received the first of many IVs and began the first of many medicines. I stayed overnight and needed three bags of IV fluid before I could give a urine sample. I received IV Phenergan that gave me hours of blissful sleep. Sleep was my only reprieve from HG Hell. The IVs brought me back from an almost delirious state. I almost felt drunk because my thoughts were blurred, my body wouldn’t do what I asked it to do, and of course, I was vomiting. I was sent home with Zofran, which is an antiemetic drug given to chemo patients to help with the nausea. It helped on the mornings where I didn’t vomit it back up.
There were days I was too tired to change the channel with the remote. Moving my arm was too strenuous. Cory would come home from work and I would ask him to help me off the couch (which was a good day since I moved from the bed to the couch at some point during the day, proving I could walk a little) to the bathroom to vomit. I would lay in bed and think, “If only I could make it to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, I think I would feel much better.” Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night when it’s cold and you think, “I should get another blanket,” but you’re too tired and sleepy to get up and do anything about it? That’s how I felt about getting orange juice.
My personal hygiene became non-existent. I went days without brushing my teeth because toothpaste made me nauseous and a toothbrush in my mouth activated my gag reflex. I was too tired to lift my arms over my head, so Cory had to wash my hair. The steam from the shower caused me to vomit also. At least it was a quick clean up.
Well-wishers offered sage, old-wives-tale advice: Eat crackers; try vitamin B-6, drink 7-Up. I was so dehydrated, the thought of eating crackers sounded like pouring sand into my mouth. Any kind of advice that included swallowing any kind of substance was out.
I feel like I’m writing information and still am not able to convey the awesome devastation of this disease. The sure but steady decline is hard to describe.
I went from washing the barf splatters on my shirts, to wearing the barf splatters, to just hanging out naked. Cory surprised me with maternity clothes early in my pregnancy, and they’re hanging in my closet in pristine condition. My aunt, Maggie gave me a bathrobe that I lived in for many months. It was all I could manage.
As my body deteriorated, so did my good cheer. Remember, I was thrilled to be pregnant and planned so that I could stay home with my children as a stay-at-home mom. My patience was non-existent. I asked Cory not to eat in front of me. If I smelled him making toast, I mentally stabbed him with sharp knives, but tried to muster enough kindness to simply ask he “open the doors.”
I definitely felt isolated. I had just moved, so didn’t have any local friends and couldn’t have gone out with them even if I wanted to. Even when I felt lonely, it was a huge chore to talk on the phone. Engaging in conversation was exhausting. My grandma and aunt came to visit and it was wonderful, but tiring. After they left, my grandma offered to pay for a cleaning lady. Did I mention how gross the house became? The bedroom floor was littered with Popsicle sticks because for a time, that was all I could try to eat. On one good day when I managed to make my garbage into a can, Cory commented that I must have been feeling better.
Any kind of smell made me sick. Cory was offended that I told him his breath stunk. I even tried to mitigate the comment with a “It’s not even bad breath, it’s just breath.” The musty smell of the basement made me gag. I could tell if the basement door was open from any room the house.
I am officially an expert on vomit. I know how many seconds I have to reach the toilet from the onset of nausea. I know how food will taste going down and coming up. I ate food depending on how it would taste and feel when I vomited. After the food would come up, the battery acid bile taste would follow. Worse than that was the time I vomited up blood. It was very scary for me. How much else could go wrong?
Some of the details are such a blur, and from a delirious mind, I can’t put the sequence of events in order, but at some point I also got a permanent IV line. The motion of the car made me vomit also. I couldn’t stand to drive myself to the hospital for IVs any more. My mid-line IV came with a home health care nurse who came to change my bandages. Cory was a big help with the IVs. I was tied to my IV pole most days and evenings. Dehydration is awful. There is a reason people can only live a few days without water. I felt very close to death most days. I fantasized about it even, but was too tired to act upon my suicidal thoughts.
I wanted to believe people when they told me the morning sickness would go away soon. The problem was that I didn’t have morning sickness. I had HG. During my fifth month, my doctor put me on steroids. This is usually only offered as a last resort for the severely sick. I had a two-week reprieve from vomiting, but as I tapered my dose, it worsened again. The rest of my pregnancy, I only vomited about three times a day. My doctor and I thought that was a great success.
Needless to say, I missed out on a lot. Because I rarely left the house, no one asked me how far along I was, if I was having a boy or a girl, or if I had picked out names. Only one person, a real-estate agent a few doors down giving an open house noticed my pregnancy a few days before I delivered. I barely noticed it either. I didn’t feel pregnant, I felt like a cancer victim. I ended up gaining only about ten pounds and didn’t really have a belly. I was too sick to have a baby shower. I didn’t bond at all with the fetus, and actually had negative feelings. It’s hard to imagine now because I love Elliott so much, but at the time, I blamed him for making me so sick.
My doctor had mercy on me and induced me two weeks early. I had to wean completely off the steroids the last week, and it was miserable. I didn’t care if I had the teeniest preemie in the history of the planet. I wanted him out. I told Cory that the doctors had ventilators and medicine to keep the baby alive outside the womb, but that my body couldn’t do anything more. Elliott was only 5 pounds 10 ounces when he was born. My doctor said it was common to have small placentas and babies with hyperemesis. I was starving the poor thing. Elliott is healthy, big and thriving now. He is also loved more than I could have ever imagined.
Re-reading this makes me want to cry. I feel like I had a year of my life taken away from me. Any fantasy I had about being pregnant was destroyed. What should have been one of the happiest experiences of my life was the worst experience of my life, usurping my miscarriage.
Fortunately, three months later, I have some pregnancy amnesia. Like I tried to describe before, I know this all happened, but it seems like a nightmare. I’m somehow strangely detached from it. Loving Elliott definitely helps. He’s the mellowest, easiest baby. He’s beautiful and interesting and fascinating to watch grow. Elliott is the most wonderful present ever after surviving the misery of HG. I definitely want more kids. I just don’t want to have to go through another pregnancy.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG or hyperemesis) literally translates into “Pregnant Woman who Vomits Excessively.” It affects about 1% of the pregnant population, and I had never heard of it before. Vomiting excessively doesn’t even begin to describe the horror of my pregnancy. Yes, the vomiting was uncomfortable, constant and messy, but the debilitating 24-hour nausea was worse. Vomiting usually relieves nausea from the flu or crazy evenings. I can write these words and intellectually conceive of the nausea horror, but living with it for 10 months is indescribable. Remember your college day hangovers? Have you ever had a horrible flu? What about seasickness? Have you ever experienced them all at once for 38 weeks?
As many of you know, Cory and I wanted to have children right away. I had a miscarriage two months after we were married. It was the most devastating experience of my life. I experienced all that you would expect during a pregnancy: nausea, exhaustion, a little vomiting. I didn’t get far enough along to experience hyperemesis. After that loss, I was terrified that we wouldn’t be able to have children. When we conceived a few months later, I thought, “You won’t hear me complaining about a little morning sickness.” I was definitely not feeling well, but thought I could tough out the first three months, because everyone knows, women are only sick for the first couple of months of pregnancy. I had just moved to Portland after teaching 1st and 2nd grade and was off for the summer, so fortunately, I thought, I didn’t have any work obligations. In retrospect, that contributed to me not seeking help sooner. I absolutely could not have worked. I was exhausted; the kind of exhaustion where you feel like someone poured concrete into your veins.
I told my doctor I was pretty sick, and I had lost a few pounds, but it’s not unusual for women to experience morning sickness. She actually said it was a good sign that my HCG levels were rising and the baby was healthy. The initial sonograms showed a heartbeat and other healthy indicators. She mentioned not taking prenatal vitamins for a while, and I heard, “Stop taking them,” so, I did. Because I didn’t have any obligations, I was able to rest. If I had to work, I would have had to seek help sooner, and I may have had an earlier diagnosis and treatment. I wanted to be a relaxed “Zen yoga” mom, but the two times I went, the yoga teacher kept reiterating how terrible I looked. After I vomited during class, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to go back again. My deteriorated state also led to Cory and me missing part of our birth classes.
At the four-month point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I scheduled an appointment and tried again to Google morning sickness remedies. Maybe there was something that I missed. There was. I found a site www.hyperemesis.org, which compared morning sickness with HG.
MORNING SICKNESS
You lose little if any weight.
Nausea and vomiting do not interfere with your ability to eat or drink enough each day.
You vomit infrequently and the nausea is episodic but not severe. It may cause discomfort and misery.
Dietary and/or lifestyle changes are enough to help you feel better most of the time.
You typically will improve gradually after the first trimester, but may be a little queasy at times during the remainder of your pregnancy.
You will be able to work most days and care for your family.
HYPEREMESIS GRAVIDARUM
You lose 5-20 pounds or more. (> 5% of pre-pregnancy weight)
Nausea and vomiting cause you to eat very little and get dehydrated from vomiting if not treated.
You vomit often and may vomit bile or blood if not treated. Nausea is usually moderate to severe and constant.
You will probably require fluid hydration through a vein and/or medications to stop the vomiting.
You usually feel somewhat better by mid-pregnancy, but you may continue to be nauseous and/or vomit until late pregnancy.
You will likely be unable to work for weeks or months, and may need help caring for yourself.
I read the above chart [mangled in translation from Word to Blogger] and knew I clearly had HG. I had lost 12 pounds, couldn’t eat, had constant nausea and needed help caring for myself. I couldn’t give a urine sample because I was so dehydrated. My doctor personally walked me to a hospital room where I received the first of many IVs and began the first of many medicines. I stayed overnight and needed three bags of IV fluid before I could give a urine sample. I received IV Phenergan that gave me hours of blissful sleep. Sleep was my only reprieve from HG Hell. The IVs brought me back from an almost delirious state. I almost felt drunk because my thoughts were blurred, my body wouldn’t do what I asked it to do, and of course, I was vomiting. I was sent home with Zofran, which is an antiemetic drug given to chemo patients to help with the nausea. It helped on the mornings where I didn’t vomit it back up.
There were days I was too tired to change the channel with the remote. Moving my arm was too strenuous. Cory would come home from work and I would ask him to help me off the couch (which was a good day since I moved from the bed to the couch at some point during the day, proving I could walk a little) to the bathroom to vomit. I would lay in bed and think, “If only I could make it to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, I think I would feel much better.” Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night when it’s cold and you think, “I should get another blanket,” but you’re too tired and sleepy to get up and do anything about it? That’s how I felt about getting orange juice.
My personal hygiene became non-existent. I went days without brushing my teeth because toothpaste made me nauseous and a toothbrush in my mouth activated my gag reflex. I was too tired to lift my arms over my head, so Cory had to wash my hair. The steam from the shower caused me to vomit also. At least it was a quick clean up.
Well-wishers offered sage, old-wives-tale advice: Eat crackers; try vitamin B-6, drink 7-Up. I was so dehydrated, the thought of eating crackers sounded like pouring sand into my mouth. Any kind of advice that included swallowing any kind of substance was out.
I feel like I’m writing information and still am not able to convey the awesome devastation of this disease. The sure but steady decline is hard to describe.
I went from washing the barf splatters on my shirts, to wearing the barf splatters, to just hanging out naked. Cory surprised me with maternity clothes early in my pregnancy, and they’re hanging in my closet in pristine condition. My aunt, Maggie gave me a bathrobe that I lived in for many months. It was all I could manage.
As my body deteriorated, so did my good cheer. Remember, I was thrilled to be pregnant and planned so that I could stay home with my children as a stay-at-home mom. My patience was non-existent. I asked Cory not to eat in front of me. If I smelled him making toast, I mentally stabbed him with sharp knives, but tried to muster enough kindness to simply ask he “open the doors.”
I definitely felt isolated. I had just moved, so didn’t have any local friends and couldn’t have gone out with them even if I wanted to. Even when I felt lonely, it was a huge chore to talk on the phone. Engaging in conversation was exhausting. My grandma and aunt came to visit and it was wonderful, but tiring. After they left, my grandma offered to pay for a cleaning lady. Did I mention how gross the house became? The bedroom floor was littered with Popsicle sticks because for a time, that was all I could try to eat. On one good day when I managed to make my garbage into a can, Cory commented that I must have been feeling better.
Any kind of smell made me sick. Cory was offended that I told him his breath stunk. I even tried to mitigate the comment with a “It’s not even bad breath, it’s just breath.” The musty smell of the basement made me gag. I could tell if the basement door was open from any room the house.
I am officially an expert on vomit. I know how many seconds I have to reach the toilet from the onset of nausea. I know how food will taste going down and coming up. I ate food depending on how it would taste and feel when I vomited. After the food would come up, the battery acid bile taste would follow. Worse than that was the time I vomited up blood. It was very scary for me. How much else could go wrong?
Some of the details are such a blur, and from a delirious mind, I can’t put the sequence of events in order, but at some point I also got a permanent IV line. The motion of the car made me vomit also. I couldn’t stand to drive myself to the hospital for IVs any more. My mid-line IV came with a home health care nurse who came to change my bandages. Cory was a big help with the IVs. I was tied to my IV pole most days and evenings. Dehydration is awful. There is a reason people can only live a few days without water. I felt very close to death most days. I fantasized about it even, but was too tired to act upon my suicidal thoughts.
I wanted to believe people when they told me the morning sickness would go away soon. The problem was that I didn’t have morning sickness. I had HG. During my fifth month, my doctor put me on steroids. This is usually only offered as a last resort for the severely sick. I had a two-week reprieve from vomiting, but as I tapered my dose, it worsened again. The rest of my pregnancy, I only vomited about three times a day. My doctor and I thought that was a great success.
Needless to say, I missed out on a lot. Because I rarely left the house, no one asked me how far along I was, if I was having a boy or a girl, or if I had picked out names. Only one person, a real-estate agent a few doors down giving an open house noticed my pregnancy a few days before I delivered. I barely noticed it either. I didn’t feel pregnant, I felt like a cancer victim. I ended up gaining only about ten pounds and didn’t really have a belly. I was too sick to have a baby shower. I didn’t bond at all with the fetus, and actually had negative feelings. It’s hard to imagine now because I love Elliott so much, but at the time, I blamed him for making me so sick.
My doctor had mercy on me and induced me two weeks early. I had to wean completely off the steroids the last week, and it was miserable. I didn’t care if I had the teeniest preemie in the history of the planet. I wanted him out. I told Cory that the doctors had ventilators and medicine to keep the baby alive outside the womb, but that my body couldn’t do anything more. Elliott was only 5 pounds 10 ounces when he was born. My doctor said it was common to have small placentas and babies with hyperemesis. I was starving the poor thing. Elliott is healthy, big and thriving now. He is also loved more than I could have ever imagined.
Re-reading this makes me want to cry. I feel like I had a year of my life taken away from me. Any fantasy I had about being pregnant was destroyed. What should have been one of the happiest experiences of my life was the worst experience of my life, usurping my miscarriage.
Fortunately, three months later, I have some pregnancy amnesia. Like I tried to describe before, I know this all happened, but it seems like a nightmare. I’m somehow strangely detached from it. Loving Elliott definitely helps. He’s the mellowest, easiest baby. He’s beautiful and interesting and fascinating to watch grow. Elliott is the most wonderful present ever after surviving the misery of HG. I definitely want more kids. I just don’t want to have to go through another pregnancy.
5.17.2007
This week is INTERACTIVE...
Apologies for the double mailer.
This weeks blog is completely interactive. I have outlined my most current ideas for projects to work on, and it is my hope you will provide feedback in order to help me choose a direction for upcoming weeks. I am interested in knowing if any of these projects appeal to or repulse you in any way. Please make your comments public, so that others may join in on the commentary.
Browse, bite, banter!
-C
This weeks blog is completely interactive. I have outlined my most current ideas for projects to work on, and it is my hope you will provide feedback in order to help me choose a direction for upcoming weeks. I am interested in knowing if any of these projects appeal to or repulse you in any way. Please make your comments public, so that others may join in on the commentary.
Browse, bite, banter!
-C
On Novels...
‘Jump’
I got the idea for ‘Jump,’ oddly enough, while watching the movie ‘Parenthood’. The movie’s opening scene depicts a young boy going to a baseball game with his father for his birthday, only to be pawned off on some usher who the father pays to watch him. As the scene unfolds, the audience realizes the boy is actually a flashback to the main (Steve Martin) character’s childhood and that the usher is merely an amalgam of all the other ushers his father had paid to watch him over the years.
This led me to having flashbacks of my own childhood. I started thinking about taking it one step further for the sake of a story and came up with the idea for what I have tentatively called ‘Jump.’
I envision ‘Jump’ being a story of a man living on the edge, literally, as in the form of standing on a ledge getting ready to jump. As he does, he experiences “life flashing before his eyes”… and that becomes the story; his life and the events that led to the point of him taking his suicidal leap.
‘ONE’ [and subsequently ‘TWO’, ‘THREE’, etc.]
I don’t know where I got the idea for this series… probably from J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter marketing machine, although this is completely unrelated from a storyline standpoint.
The allure of this entire project centers on great serial characters, like James Bond, Mike Hammer, etc. I am interested in writing a story of a serial killer that is much less flamboyant than, say, a Hannibal Lecter type, and more like the guy who lives next door to you or sits in the cubicle next to you… which ultimately [to me] makes him that much scarier because he could be anybody. I think it would be a neat idea for the title of the book equal the number of victims in that volumes title. So, as his killing skills become more refined, he has to figure out a way to kill more and more victims at a time without getting caught. Perhaps each spree could take place in a different state until he hits all 50.
This project is still in the infancy stages, obviously. Like I said, I am drawn to the ongoing paycheck potential on this one. With so many CSI type shows around nowadays, I think there is avid interest in true-to-life crime stories.
‘Code Blue Killer’ or ‘Munchausen By Murder’
Beginning to think I’m obsessed with murder crimes? Perhaps. I definitely have a degree of fascination with the underbelly of life.
The idea is this: An adrenaline junkie nurse type gets off on inducing death on patients, and subsequently being seen as a hero for resuscitating them back from the dead.
Part of the appeal in this project comes from being in a nurse for so long. In the spirit of ‘write what you know’, I think writing about hospital scenarios would come as second nature. I also like the irony of somebody who works in a helping profession going completely cuckoo.
The funny part about this story is that there are actual cases similar to this. After sitting on this idea for quite some time, I was watching some true-crime show that told a story of a Reno up-and-comer politician type and her RN husband who, as it turns out, plotted the murder of her ex-husband. Then he ends up killing her. In both crimes, he uses Succinylcholine [a paralytic used mostly for intubating patients—known in the biz as simply “Sux”] to paralyze his victims, rendering their muscles useless, thereby taking away their ability to breath, speak, flee etc. Supposedly it’s hardly traceable on autopsy also. How he got caught was particularly interesting also. A co-worker put 2 and 2 together after hearing him tell stories of “perfect “murder drugs and seeing the story on the news some years later about the death of his wife and her ex-husband’s demise. The drag about Sux if you’re the unfortunate one to receive it without a sedative, is that you are still completely aware and able to experience pain, you just can’t do anything about it. I just took care of a patient a couple days ago who had been intubated using Sux before being sedated. He remembered everything. He said it was like somebody poured concrete in his veins. He was unable to move, speak, close his eyes and that he was terrified. That SUCKS.
‘F. Dupp’
I don’t know where I come up with this stuff. The story of “F. Dupp” is a sad one, about a boy whose parents are killed tragically when he is a little boy. He ends up in the home of his Southern Baptist alcoholic, abusive grandmother who locks him up in a storm cellar for 20 years. Police discover him when his grandmother passes away. Needless to say, having been held captive for 20 years has taken a toll on him. When a foster family tries to help him assimilate back into society problems ensue. He gets his name from un-educated hillbilly town folk who, upon seeing him, say, “Man, that boy is F’d Up.” Not understanding the difference, our main character takes on the identity F. Dupp.
I’m not sure about the details on how this one will unfold, but I can’t help but think it would have a happy ending.
I got the idea for ‘Jump,’ oddly enough, while watching the movie ‘Parenthood’. The movie’s opening scene depicts a young boy going to a baseball game with his father for his birthday, only to be pawned off on some usher who the father pays to watch him. As the scene unfolds, the audience realizes the boy is actually a flashback to the main (Steve Martin) character’s childhood and that the usher is merely an amalgam of all the other ushers his father had paid to watch him over the years.
This led me to having flashbacks of my own childhood. I started thinking about taking it one step further for the sake of a story and came up with the idea for what I have tentatively called ‘Jump.’
I envision ‘Jump’ being a story of a man living on the edge, literally, as in the form of standing on a ledge getting ready to jump. As he does, he experiences “life flashing before his eyes”… and that becomes the story; his life and the events that led to the point of him taking his suicidal leap.
‘ONE’ [and subsequently ‘TWO’, ‘THREE’, etc.]
I don’t know where I got the idea for this series… probably from J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter marketing machine, although this is completely unrelated from a storyline standpoint.
The allure of this entire project centers on great serial characters, like James Bond, Mike Hammer, etc. I am interested in writing a story of a serial killer that is much less flamboyant than, say, a Hannibal Lecter type, and more like the guy who lives next door to you or sits in the cubicle next to you… which ultimately [to me] makes him that much scarier because he could be anybody. I think it would be a neat idea for the title of the book equal the number of victims in that volumes title. So, as his killing skills become more refined, he has to figure out a way to kill more and more victims at a time without getting caught. Perhaps each spree could take place in a different state until he hits all 50.
This project is still in the infancy stages, obviously. Like I said, I am drawn to the ongoing paycheck potential on this one. With so many CSI type shows around nowadays, I think there is avid interest in true-to-life crime stories.
‘Code Blue Killer’ or ‘Munchausen By Murder’
Beginning to think I’m obsessed with murder crimes? Perhaps. I definitely have a degree of fascination with the underbelly of life.
The idea is this: An adrenaline junkie nurse type gets off on inducing death on patients, and subsequently being seen as a hero for resuscitating them back from the dead.
Part of the appeal in this project comes from being in a nurse for so long. In the spirit of ‘write what you know’, I think writing about hospital scenarios would come as second nature. I also like the irony of somebody who works in a helping profession going completely cuckoo.
The funny part about this story is that there are actual cases similar to this. After sitting on this idea for quite some time, I was watching some true-crime show that told a story of a Reno up-and-comer politician type and her RN husband who, as it turns out, plotted the murder of her ex-husband. Then he ends up killing her. In both crimes, he uses Succinylcholine [a paralytic used mostly for intubating patients—known in the biz as simply “Sux”] to paralyze his victims, rendering their muscles useless, thereby taking away their ability to breath, speak, flee etc. Supposedly it’s hardly traceable on autopsy also. How he got caught was particularly interesting also. A co-worker put 2 and 2 together after hearing him tell stories of “perfect “murder drugs and seeing the story on the news some years later about the death of his wife and her ex-husband’s demise. The drag about Sux if you’re the unfortunate one to receive it without a sedative, is that you are still completely aware and able to experience pain, you just can’t do anything about it. I just took care of a patient a couple days ago who had been intubated using Sux before being sedated. He remembered everything. He said it was like somebody poured concrete in his veins. He was unable to move, speak, close his eyes and that he was terrified. That SUCKS.
‘F. Dupp’
I don’t know where I come up with this stuff. The story of “F. Dupp” is a sad one, about a boy whose parents are killed tragically when he is a little boy. He ends up in the home of his Southern Baptist alcoholic, abusive grandmother who locks him up in a storm cellar for 20 years. Police discover him when his grandmother passes away. Needless to say, having been held captive for 20 years has taken a toll on him. When a foster family tries to help him assimilate back into society problems ensue. He gets his name from un-educated hillbilly town folk who, upon seeing him, say, “Man, that boy is F’d Up.” Not understanding the difference, our main character takes on the identity F. Dupp.
I’m not sure about the details on how this one will unfold, but I can’t help but think it would have a happy ending.
On Screenplays...
“Battle of the Blue Hairs”
I got this idea while driving down S.E. 39th Avenue in Portland last summer. I saw a Goth-type teenager with her hair dyed blue, waiting at a bus stop. I started thinking about the clients of my mother’s wig shop growing up. They would come in to have their grey hair dyed, and it always seemed to turn out blue.
I started thinking it would be funny to see a movie with Youngster Punkster types in a battle with the older jet set in some kind of turf war. I have been tumbling this story around in my head for a while now, trying to figure out what would give the story enough purpose to produce it. Here’s what I came up with. Initially, the punksters and the oldsters would be at odds [like a granny running over a skateboarder]. As the story unfolds, a real estate developer wants to build some heinous condo conversion building that would destroy the park where the punksters hang out and the oldsters feed the ducks. The punksters and oldsters would unite forces against the evil developers empire. I have hysterical visions of the oldsters riding skateboards and scooters and punksters learning walking cane Tae Kwon Do and souping up the oldsters’ golf carts in a Pimp My Ride style.
I think this would make a great summer feel-good comedy and perhaps unite grandparents with teenagers.
See, I’m not always dark.
[This is funny: My spellchecker doesn’t like the word “punkster,” but it is letting “oldster” slide]
I got this idea while driving down S.E. 39th Avenue in Portland last summer. I saw a Goth-type teenager with her hair dyed blue, waiting at a bus stop. I started thinking about the clients of my mother’s wig shop growing up. They would come in to have their grey hair dyed, and it always seemed to turn out blue.
I started thinking it would be funny to see a movie with Youngster Punkster types in a battle with the older jet set in some kind of turf war. I have been tumbling this story around in my head for a while now, trying to figure out what would give the story enough purpose to produce it. Here’s what I came up with. Initially, the punksters and the oldsters would be at odds [like a granny running over a skateboarder]. As the story unfolds, a real estate developer wants to build some heinous condo conversion building that would destroy the park where the punksters hang out and the oldsters feed the ducks. The punksters and oldsters would unite forces against the evil developers empire. I have hysterical visions of the oldsters riding skateboards and scooters and punksters learning walking cane Tae Kwon Do and souping up the oldsters’ golf carts in a Pimp My Ride style.
I think this would make a great summer feel-good comedy and perhaps unite grandparents with teenagers.
See, I’m not always dark.
[This is funny: My spellchecker doesn’t like the word “punkster,” but it is letting “oldster” slide]
On Children's Books...
“O Little Elliott”
I am currently writing a book for my son. It is called “O Little Elliott” because the two are anagrams. If we had only used one ‘L’ in Elliott, the anagram would have been ‘TOILET’ (Thanks, Uncle Ron). Here’s an excerpt:
On the day he was born
The doctors and nurses all said,
“Oh, He’s so very little…
From his toes to his head.”
Mom and dad also said,
“He’s really quite small…
He may be the smallest,
The smallest of ALL!”
Even grandmas and grandpas
Agreed he was little.
He was small in his arms and his legs,
And all through his middle!
[That’s it so far. I just see it being a cute picture book that he can enjoy later on. In the story, he will of course go on to accomplish great and wonderful goals]
“Maggie and the Magpie”
I actually started writing this story years ago when I was living in Virginia City. It’s a story about a little girl with a small physical flaw [a white streak in her black hair] that her siblings and schoolmates ridicule her for. It upsets her so much she decides to run away. On her journey, she befriends a Magpie [chosen because a Magpie’s markings are similar to Maggie’s flaw. The bird eventually teaches her that she is unique and special-- the beauty of kids lit—something that could never actually take place becomes perfectly plausible] and eventually returns home and lives happily ever after.
“Not All Bad Things Happen In Basements”
This is a sleepover story. Two boys spend the night in the basement (on their insistence) and are scared by the noises a house makes (confabulating ghosts and goblins and scary creatures when they hear the noises). Scared, they wake up the dad of the house, who ends up spending the night with them in the basement and is able to assuage their fears by explaining all of the noises. All is happy in the morning.
I am currently writing a book for my son. It is called “O Little Elliott” because the two are anagrams. If we had only used one ‘L’ in Elliott, the anagram would have been ‘TOILET’ (Thanks, Uncle Ron). Here’s an excerpt:
On the day he was born
The doctors and nurses all said,
“Oh, He’s so very little…
From his toes to his head.”
Mom and dad also said,
“He’s really quite small…
He may be the smallest,
The smallest of ALL!”
Even grandmas and grandpas
Agreed he was little.
He was small in his arms and his legs,
And all through his middle!
[That’s it so far. I just see it being a cute picture book that he can enjoy later on. In the story, he will of course go on to accomplish great and wonderful goals]
“Maggie and the Magpie”
I actually started writing this story years ago when I was living in Virginia City. It’s a story about a little girl with a small physical flaw [a white streak in her black hair] that her siblings and schoolmates ridicule her for. It upsets her so much she decides to run away. On her journey, she befriends a Magpie [chosen because a Magpie’s markings are similar to Maggie’s flaw. The bird eventually teaches her that she is unique and special-- the beauty of kids lit—something that could never actually take place becomes perfectly plausible] and eventually returns home and lives happily ever after.
“Not All Bad Things Happen In Basements”
This is a sleepover story. Two boys spend the night in the basement (on their insistence) and are scared by the noises a house makes (confabulating ghosts and goblins and scary creatures when they hear the noises). Scared, they wake up the dad of the house, who ends up spending the night with them in the basement and is able to assuage their fears by explaining all of the noises. All is happy in the morning.
On Young Adult Fiction...
“Fire Bug”
I started writing this story as the result of taking an online Children’s Writing class through The Gotham Writers Workshop [ www.writingclasses.com ] in NYC last summer. It is loosely autobiographical. I received enough praise on my submissions that I feel like the story is marketable. Here are some excerpts:
Simon is nine, pushing ten, and has a fascination with fire. Ever since he was five and found a book of matches on the floor of an am/pm store, he has been attracted to all things that flicker, like a fish to a shiny lure. At first, he experimented with single matches, holding them tightly to see how long he could last before the flame burned his fingers. Then, he advanced to burning entire books of matches and small household items. His fascination has escalated to the point where he knows he’ll get caught someday, and that fact alone provides most of the thrill. No object is off limits. Experiments with burning matches, twigs, and string have become passé to Simon. Even burning his sister Samantha’s stuffed toys and making hair spray torches has lost its appeal. Simon knows his next quest involves gasoline and a fire pit. He just needs the right opportunity. He keeps waiting for a time when both his parents will be gone at the same time, but ever since they announced their impending divorce, they never leave the house together. Waiting for that precious moment burns his belly in every waking moment.
Simon’s build is slight, lanky even. For nearly ten, he is tall. The magic height line never stood in the way of him getting on any carnival rides, but that didn’t matter much because he always sought out the flame jugglers anyway. Simon has a dress code. Shorts. Striped t-shirt. Slip-On shoes. It doesn’t matter if it is winter either. The uniform remains the same. His hair is blonde, white really, but his Fremont Elementary School student I.D. says blonde. Once, his mother had said, “People would think he was albino if he didn’t have such a great tan.” Simon toted a red L.L. Bean backpack, complete with the essentials: two books of matches, a lighter for special occasions, flints, lighter fluid… and, oh yeah, textbooks, pencils, and a 3-ring binder that held his math homework and the rest of his college-lined kindling. His only scar, a BB-sized blemish on his left thumb, the result of burning a plastic Q-tip swab and not moving in time before the flaming drops began to fall. At the time, it burned like the devil, but Simon now saw the scar as a badge of strength.
“What on Earth do you think you are doing, Simon?” asked Karen Culpepper, next-door neighbor, second grade teacher, snoop.
“Burning weeds,” Simon replied emphatically. “What are you doing? Letting your dog deliver a present to us in person?” Knowing he had been busted, he tried to throw her off his trail.
“Never mind what I’m doing,” she said. “Do your parents know that you’re out here playing with fire so close to the house?”
“Of course they do,” Simon replied. “They asked me to do it. This was on my list of chores to do today.”
“You mean to tell me your parents gave you the green light to burn plant material directly adjacent to your home?” she queried.
“Yep. You can ask ‘em if you want to, but you’ll have to wait until my mom wakes up. She worked the night shift at the hospital last night. She’s sleeping right now.” Simon could sense her tone of voice easing up.
“What about your father, then. Is he available for me to ask?”
“Nope. He’s at work.” Simon said, thinking she was about to back down.
“Do you have the number?” Ms. Culpepper asked.
Simon had always wondered why “Ms.” Culpepper never became a “Mrs.” Culpepper. Now he knew. She asks too many questions. “I think the number is listed in the phone book,” he answered. “He works for the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham and Howe. You could look it up.”
“Listen, Smarty McSmartypants, I think you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. Let me see your chore list, this instant,” she demanded.
“Just a minute,” he said.
Dejected, Simon ran inside. He scrambled to find a piece of paper and pencil. In his best handwriting, he wrote down a quick list of chores to show Ms. Culpepper. He began sweating bullets, but tried to remain calm, determined not to let her call his bluff. His hand trembled, as he scribbled. “Think. Think. Think,” he chanted as he wrote.
Out of breath upon his return, Simon handed Ms. Culpepper the list, thinking he had her beaten.
“This is some list,” said Ms. Culpepper. “One: Let mom sleep. Two: Be nice to your sister. Three: Take care of ‘weedz’, W-E-E-D-Z in the side yard? Four: Let mom sleep. I mean it. –Dad,” read Ms. Culpepper.
“See, I was taking care of the weeds in the side yard when you showed up,” said Simon. “Just like the list says.”
“Tell your mother I would like to speak with her the instant she is awake, do you understand me, young man?” Ms Culpepper scorned. “And, when your father gets home, tell him I want to talk to him about YOUR spelling.”
“Please don’t tell on me Ms. Culpepper,” Simon begged. “I’ll never do it again. I promise. Just don’t tell my parents.”
“I can’t do that, Simon. It’s not the right thing to do. We’ll talk about it together with your parents,” she replied.
“I’ll pull the weeds in your yard if you don’t tell,” Simon pleaded.
“Nothing doing, young man. You’re not going to talk your way out of this one,” she stated and walked hastily away.
Simon spent the afternoon destroying all possible evidence and pulling every weed in the yard. If he was finally going to get caught, he would have a bargaining chip against his impending punishment, which no doubt would entail being grounded for the remainder of his youth. By the time he was finished, four hours had passed, and he had picked 127 dandelions and 422 weeds he didn’t know the names for. He didn’t even mind picking up the dog poop that Ms. Culpepper’s dog left behind. He decided he would try to convince his parents the clean yard was merely a gesture of good will and he acted out of boredom, nothing more. He would claim he had seen, but never spoken to Ms. Culpepper. “Besides,” he would say, “What kind of person would let her dog go #2 in front of you and not pick up after it. Clearly, she’s crazy.” Simon kept the poop in a plastic bag marked “Exhibit A”, just in case he was forced to make a case proving her mental ineptitude.
[Here are the parts that are true: I did, in fact, set the ear of my cousin’s toy fox on fire when I was a kid. I think at the time I denied doing it and got away with it. (Sorry, Jen—I don’t remember if the toy was yours or Missy’s, but I’m the guilty party). I also used hair spray as a blowtorch. It’s a wonder I didn’t burn a house down. I also went to Fremont Elementary School in Carson City, NV. Beyond that, the rest is fiction. I used the name Simon because that’s what Stephanie and I called Elliott when he was still in utero. As the story goes, my wife had hyperemesis when she was pregnant (barfed incessantly). We called him Simon because Stephanie was not in control of her body at the time like a game of ‘Simon Says’: Simon says, “Barf.” or Simon says, “Eat watermelon, then barf.” It’s funny now, after the fact, but at the time it wasn’t funny at all. Actually, it’s still not funny, at least not the barfing she endured.]
I started writing this story as the result of taking an online Children’s Writing class through The Gotham Writers Workshop [ www.writingclasses.com ] in NYC last summer. It is loosely autobiographical. I received enough praise on my submissions that I feel like the story is marketable. Here are some excerpts:
Simon is nine, pushing ten, and has a fascination with fire. Ever since he was five and found a book of matches on the floor of an am/pm store, he has been attracted to all things that flicker, like a fish to a shiny lure. At first, he experimented with single matches, holding them tightly to see how long he could last before the flame burned his fingers. Then, he advanced to burning entire books of matches and small household items. His fascination has escalated to the point where he knows he’ll get caught someday, and that fact alone provides most of the thrill. No object is off limits. Experiments with burning matches, twigs, and string have become passé to Simon. Even burning his sister Samantha’s stuffed toys and making hair spray torches has lost its appeal. Simon knows his next quest involves gasoline and a fire pit. He just needs the right opportunity. He keeps waiting for a time when both his parents will be gone at the same time, but ever since they announced their impending divorce, they never leave the house together. Waiting for that precious moment burns his belly in every waking moment.
Simon’s build is slight, lanky even. For nearly ten, he is tall. The magic height line never stood in the way of him getting on any carnival rides, but that didn’t matter much because he always sought out the flame jugglers anyway. Simon has a dress code. Shorts. Striped t-shirt. Slip-On shoes. It doesn’t matter if it is winter either. The uniform remains the same. His hair is blonde, white really, but his Fremont Elementary School student I.D. says blonde. Once, his mother had said, “People would think he was albino if he didn’t have such a great tan.” Simon toted a red L.L. Bean backpack, complete with the essentials: two books of matches, a lighter for special occasions, flints, lighter fluid… and, oh yeah, textbooks, pencils, and a 3-ring binder that held his math homework and the rest of his college-lined kindling. His only scar, a BB-sized blemish on his left thumb, the result of burning a plastic Q-tip swab and not moving in time before the flaming drops began to fall. At the time, it burned like the devil, but Simon now saw the scar as a badge of strength.
“What on Earth do you think you are doing, Simon?” asked Karen Culpepper, next-door neighbor, second grade teacher, snoop.
“Burning weeds,” Simon replied emphatically. “What are you doing? Letting your dog deliver a present to us in person?” Knowing he had been busted, he tried to throw her off his trail.
“Never mind what I’m doing,” she said. “Do your parents know that you’re out here playing with fire so close to the house?”
“Of course they do,” Simon replied. “They asked me to do it. This was on my list of chores to do today.”
“You mean to tell me your parents gave you the green light to burn plant material directly adjacent to your home?” she queried.
“Yep. You can ask ‘em if you want to, but you’ll have to wait until my mom wakes up. She worked the night shift at the hospital last night. She’s sleeping right now.” Simon could sense her tone of voice easing up.
“What about your father, then. Is he available for me to ask?”
“Nope. He’s at work.” Simon said, thinking she was about to back down.
“Do you have the number?” Ms. Culpepper asked.
Simon had always wondered why “Ms.” Culpepper never became a “Mrs.” Culpepper. Now he knew. She asks too many questions. “I think the number is listed in the phone book,” he answered. “He works for the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham and Howe. You could look it up.”
“Listen, Smarty McSmartypants, I think you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. Let me see your chore list, this instant,” she demanded.
“Just a minute,” he said.
Dejected, Simon ran inside. He scrambled to find a piece of paper and pencil. In his best handwriting, he wrote down a quick list of chores to show Ms. Culpepper. He began sweating bullets, but tried to remain calm, determined not to let her call his bluff. His hand trembled, as he scribbled. “Think. Think. Think,” he chanted as he wrote.
Out of breath upon his return, Simon handed Ms. Culpepper the list, thinking he had her beaten.
“This is some list,” said Ms. Culpepper. “One: Let mom sleep. Two: Be nice to your sister. Three: Take care of ‘weedz’, W-E-E-D-Z in the side yard? Four: Let mom sleep. I mean it. –Dad,” read Ms. Culpepper.
“See, I was taking care of the weeds in the side yard when you showed up,” said Simon. “Just like the list says.”
“Tell your mother I would like to speak with her the instant she is awake, do you understand me, young man?” Ms Culpepper scorned. “And, when your father gets home, tell him I want to talk to him about YOUR spelling.”
“Please don’t tell on me Ms. Culpepper,” Simon begged. “I’ll never do it again. I promise. Just don’t tell my parents.”
“I can’t do that, Simon. It’s not the right thing to do. We’ll talk about it together with your parents,” she replied.
“I’ll pull the weeds in your yard if you don’t tell,” Simon pleaded.
“Nothing doing, young man. You’re not going to talk your way out of this one,” she stated and walked hastily away.
Simon spent the afternoon destroying all possible evidence and pulling every weed in the yard. If he was finally going to get caught, he would have a bargaining chip against his impending punishment, which no doubt would entail being grounded for the remainder of his youth. By the time he was finished, four hours had passed, and he had picked 127 dandelions and 422 weeds he didn’t know the names for. He didn’t even mind picking up the dog poop that Ms. Culpepper’s dog left behind. He decided he would try to convince his parents the clean yard was merely a gesture of good will and he acted out of boredom, nothing more. He would claim he had seen, but never spoken to Ms. Culpepper. “Besides,” he would say, “What kind of person would let her dog go #2 in front of you and not pick up after it. Clearly, she’s crazy.” Simon kept the poop in a plastic bag marked “Exhibit A”, just in case he was forced to make a case proving her mental ineptitude.
[Here are the parts that are true: I did, in fact, set the ear of my cousin’s toy fox on fire when I was a kid. I think at the time I denied doing it and got away with it. (Sorry, Jen—I don’t remember if the toy was yours or Missy’s, but I’m the guilty party). I also used hair spray as a blowtorch. It’s a wonder I didn’t burn a house down. I also went to Fremont Elementary School in Carson City, NV. Beyond that, the rest is fiction. I used the name Simon because that’s what Stephanie and I called Elliott when he was still in utero. As the story goes, my wife had hyperemesis when she was pregnant (barfed incessantly). We called him Simon because Stephanie was not in control of her body at the time like a game of ‘Simon Says’: Simon says, “Barf.” or Simon says, “Eat watermelon, then barf.” It’s funny now, after the fact, but at the time it wasn’t funny at all. Actually, it’s still not funny, at least not the barfing she endured.]
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