gamingwithbaby.com | all your diapers are belong to us

Rough year for Charger hockey...

2009-11-20T21:46:00.000-06:00

But at least our fans are into it.

Because hospital baby pictures suck

2009-11-06T13:20:00.004-06:00

Dot, one month old.

My children. Their songs.

2009-10-07T21:54:00.000-05:00

There is a power in music. It moves us. Inspires us. Empowers us. I lack the talent to express myself musically, as much as I want to. For no other reason than music can express feeling that mere words often lack.

With Mac, the song came after the end:

Butters, the song was settled early on (I even made a lousy video with it):

And now, with Dot, the song I keep coming back to:

These words and melodies are from people far more talented than I, but what they express is but the tiniest sampling of the love I have for my children. These songs, they belong to them.

September

2009-09-30T18:58:00.002-05:00

Just something to pass along on this last day of the month. Enjoy.

History repeats itself

2009-09-18T23:53:00.001-05:00

In the final days of September 1976, a Californian (by way of Colorado) found herself traveling fifteen miles of blacktop to a hospital in north central Alabama. All the signs were there, the pain, the pressure, and that sixth sense that women develop in the waning days of pregnancy was screaming, "this is it." Confidently she told the mother of her husband, who at that very moment was thousands of miles away from his still new bride, that it was time to go.

And so they raced to that pillar of hope, anxious and excited at what the coming moments would welcome. Together the woman from California and the mother of her husband entered into the disinfected corridors of the same hospital system that had bore the father of the approaching child, both eager to see the life that was trying to force it's way into an unsuspecting world.

Just as today, paperwork had to be filled out, questions needed to be answered. There were checks, and tests, and the usual assortment of activities that hover somewhere between necessary and obscene that the pregnant must go through. But through it all the woman from California was confident that her child was coming. How could she not be? Hundreds upon thousands of years of evolution and instinct told her so. The woman that accompanied her, the mother of her husband, a woman who had bore numerous children herself, told her so. It was time.

Medical expertise, on the other hand, said otherwise.

In short, the woman from California and the mother of her husband were both told it wasn't time and that they need to go home and return when it was. Rather unceremoniously they were shuffled off, all the while the woman from California launched questions and colorful statements at the staff that so callously told her she was wrong. The mother of her husband, meanwhile, burned with a fire and intensity that matched the red hair that topped her head. She smoldered inside, but through a strength forged by a life filled with immeasurable hardships, she took the wife of her son back to her home.

Less than twenty-four hours later these women found themselves back at that building that had told them to leave only hours earlier. In that period staff changes were made as they do in any structure that provides around the clock medical care. Again she went through the same checks, answered the same questions, signed the same forms. Same pain, same discomfort, same feelings. But the doctore and the staff were now different. The doctor that now examined her said confidently that she was right all along and that she should never had been sent home.

So, in the early morning hours of October the 1st, in 1976, a baby boy was brought into this world by a native of California (by way of Colorado) who was, in a word, furious. But also elated. But a whole lot of furious.

Everyone has endured tales from their parents that have been recited so many times that recollection of them comes only as a result of the repetition one was subjected to. Hardly a thought goes into recitation of them, and more often than not one can easily parrot the tale when it is thrust upon an unsuspecting guest. These accounts of the past are but footnotes in the span of our lives, but every so often, they can take on a greater meaning. They can provide comfort in trying times, or advice courtesy of lessons learned. Or, as was the case yesterday, they can remind you that indeed what goes around, comes around.

Caulk it up to the great cosmic irony that is life, but as an anonymous doctor entered into my wife's room this morning and told her that it wasn't time for our daughter to enter into the world and that we were to go home, I couldn't help but think back to the tale my Mom has told so many times. Granted, a little artistic license may have been taken with a detail or two, but the incongruity of the entire situation was not lost on me.

Suddenly we were in that same situation, facing those same fears and same feelings of rage that my mother had no doubt had all those years before. How could my wife, this amazing woman who bore me my only son not two and a half years before, possibly be wrong? In short, she wasn't. She was in labor. But apparently "not in enough labor that we can really do anything about it but try and prevent it." Apparently, throwing drugs at her through the night we spent there was the prudent course of action. Drugs that did nothing to stop the contractions that she felt, or to lessen the pain she was in.

A few hours later we were shuffled off, sent packing with the caveat that "we'll see you real soon." So, here I sit, putting these words on your screen. Telling you a tale that was told to me. And even now, as my wife tries to sleep through the pain, and the contractions, and the discomfort that she has been feeling for weeks, that tired old cliche, "history is doomed to repeat itself," keeps running through my head. The question I keep coming back to, and the one I leave you with, is who knew that history had such a wicked sense of timing?

Much adieu about... nothing?

2009-09-17T21:19:00.000-05:00

Or so it would seem.

At 11am she called and said if these things don't get better then I'll get someone to bring me home so we can go to the hospital. Things didn't get better, but she stayed at work anyway.

At 2:30pm she said she was on her way home.

At 3:00pm she called the doctor.

At 3:30pm she was admitted.

And that is where we are now.

Still.

She was at 3cm and 70% and still is. The procardia has done nothing to stop her contractions, but she hasn't progress either. They have since taken us out of L&D and put us in antepartum for the night.

It's now a game of hurry up and wait, a game I sadly know far too well. If this goes forward as we both seem to think it will, then Dot will be a NICU baby too.

Fuck.

Argh.

2009-08-17T15:13:00.002-05:00

I ain't dead.
Though sometimes it does feel as if that would be easier.
Bad baby news.
Bad hockey news.
Bad toddler news.
Just generally a bad time these last few months for everyone's favorite manatee.

I'm still around though. And I actually have a game review I need to put out, so that's something at least.

Busy, busy, busy.

I'm...

2009-07-30T22:58:00.002-05:00

Coming to the end.

lost hope

2009-07-14T21:48:00.001-05:00

I really like that I found this shot. I'm not entirely pleased with it, but I plan to revisit the location this weekend and hope for better.

The cycle continues anew

2009-07-13T21:52:00.001-05:00

It's quiet. The air barely rustles as I crack the door. Strewn about the carpet are various bits of plastic and paper. In the corner, a pink lamp sits unlit by a blue laptop, it's lid festoon with stickers and professions of love for some thick eyebrow pop star.

Beneath the window a scooter sits neatly folded waiting a rider that is not expected anytime soon. The bed has only sheets, it's comforter folded neatly and placed beneath. In a corner stands flashes, an umbrella, and other signs that the occupant of this silent room shares a passion with another.

It's going to be a while before I can collect myself enough to put into words all that was for the one month where I wasn't the miserable, sullen bastard that I usually am. Sadly, now, it's back to the status quo.

A Letter To My New Best Friend

2009-07-01T15:27:00.001-05:00

Dear Hoochie,

Please forgive me while I preface these words with what some would consider a derogatory title. In your delightful exchange earlier I didn't get a chance to find out your name, but you didn't try to find out mine either, so we'll just call it even for now, OK? However, as much I would've liked to have known your name so we could become fast friends, it's just too hard not to use such a descriptor because you certainly presented yourself as such in public.

As anyone who has ever frequented a grocery store can tell you, there is an unwritten set of rules that is expected on entering the premises. Don't reach around others to retrieve things you need. Don't squeeze loaves of bread and put them back. Don't let your kid open a box of Kix and start devouring it as you push them among the aisles. Don't take the can of soup from the bottom of the pyramid. Simple things. Easy things. Common sense things.

These things are nuisances that your fellow patrons can simply do without. After all, some of us actually enjoy grocery shopping, you know? But, as much as the aforementioned things can irk even the most saintly of people, there is one thing above all of these that could cause even Mother Teresa to fly off in a murderous rage... flow of traffic.

As a nation our appetites have grown and broadened over the years. Twenty years ago you would be hard pressed to find an ethnic aisle in the average grocery store, much less a bakery, or wine department, but today they are there. Nestled in with the Cheerios and Campbell's Soup is prepared sushi, kimchi, and an olive bar. With these added items floor space becomes a premium, because in the capitalist society in which we dwell every inch of wasted space is seen as a missed opportunity to increase one's profits. So as a result, aisles become smaller, and even the largest stretches of open real estate become dotted with islands of condensed milk and baby powder. Not a millimeter of space more is given to passing carts than is absolutely necessary.

So it was as Butters sat half asleep in the cart while I pushed him along the back of Publix towards the cheese and meat necessary to prepare a coming lasagna. Behind me, Ren and Mac giggled and plotted and schemed and whatever else a nine and ten year old set of cousins do when they get together. But then, like an octogenarian behind the wheel of Crown Vic you burst into the walkway, dear Hoochie.

With your hair pulled tightly into a pony tail and your three inch heeled sandals clicking across the tiles, you strutted down the aisle. The conversation you loudly carried into your teeny, tiny cell phone wasn't for everyone else in earshot, it was yours, and to hell with anyone that could hear you. You were young and self-important and you didn't care about anyone else.

Which explains why you paid no heed to the father and three children walking behind you as you stopped dead in your tracks beside the fish counter. I can only guess that the what the person on the other end of your teeny, tiny cell phone said was such a revelation that you simply had to stop. It can't be easy to hear news of such magnitude and walk in three inch heels, can it?

I'm obviously an insensitive jerk for not realizing that the world turned based on your will alone and I should have simple waited for you to resume walking. Silly, silly me for saying “excuse me” in a voice I thought you could hear over your conversation and then thanking you as I pushed my buggy and youngest child past. Apparently I shouldn't “get so fucking close to other people” and that I am in fact an “asshole.”

I'll grant you that, I am an asshole. Why on most days people with multi-unnatural-colored weaves and skirts that conveniently move out of the way as they're bent over the hood of a drop-top '65 Impala don't know how much of an asshole I actually am. Especially now with my propensity to just snap what with the fact that in three days I lose Mac once again to her mother and 2,311 miles. So you probably should count yourself lucky that all I did was to tell you quietly to kiss my ass, because papa bear was fully prepared to get all Englewood Jack on you.

Kudos to you though for calling me a “fat, fucking redneck” with a family that is “nothing but fat, fucking rednecks.” Class like that can only come from years of refinement and education. But being the oft polite man I try to be, I did nothing more than say “thank you,” as I rounded the corner of aisle 13 and away from you while you continued your diatribe. My daughter and niece thank you as well for they found your words hilarious.

In closing, my dearest Hoochie, I offer you these simple words of advice and an apology. Your weave, while obviously very involved, isn't impressive when one considers the amount of money you spent on it you probably could have spent doing something about your grotesquely receding hairline. Just a suggestion. And, my dear, sweet Hoochie, I apologize for saying you were a $2 extra from a Sisqo video on Twitter. While you may or may not have had the proper undergarments on at the time, it was uncalled for. Because in reality your complete lack of any junk in the trunk would have left you booted from the casting call. Sorry.

I hope that this will bury the hatchet between you and I and I hope we are on our way to becoming the bestest of friends.

Sincerely yours,
The Fat Fucking Redneck in Aisle 13

happy father's day

2009-06-21T23:23:00.002-05:00

A hand-made card.

Simple.

Colorful.

Beautiful.

Great attention given to every exacting letter of “Happy Father's Day” and “Dad.”

But the card is not mine.

Those beautiful shapes, letters, and words are for someone else.

Someone who doesn't know the pain of losing their child to another.

One who doesn't know what it's like to stare into an empty room for months wishing that the perfectly intact mess strewn about it's floor showed some sign of movement by it's purposed occupant.

One whose only connection to author of those words stems from marriage to her mother.

Not once have I ever tried to make her refer to her step-mom by any title afforded her mother. She has but one mom. But somehow, someway, I'm not so fortunate. Not even today.

No markers met paper for me... her dad.

The Black Nerd Strikes Again

2009-06-05T12:36:00.001-05:00

The cute explody ones

2009-05-26T09:14:00.002-05:00

The lil Manatee

2009-05-20T20:51:00.001-05:00

GwB Presents: Excitebots Trick Racing

2009-05-04T20:15:00.000-05:00

Or- “How Nintendo is slowly killing me.”

Invoking happy memories of overheated, pixelated motorbikes through the cleaver use of the word “excite,” Excitebots Trick Racing is yet another in the stable of Wii based racing games. As with (sadly) so many other it relies on the motion controls to drive your animal-looking bots around the smattering of tracks throughout the game.

And that's it. Really, there isn't much more to say, and that's indicative of a much larger problem.

You see, I am a Nintendo die hard. A fanboy if you will. From the launch of the NES I have been loyal to that company that has been in the gaming market for more than 100 years. (Nintendo started as a playing card manufacturer in Japan around 1889.) They've been making games for a very long time. And when they got into the home video game system racket they made many a child of the eighties extremely happy. Throughout the years that followed there had been others, but Nintendo had me first and always.

But during that time I found myself defending my lover. Nintendo wasn't perfect, and they often lagged well behind their competition. Their games weren't as pretty as everyone else, but they usually more than made up for that shortcoming in sheer quality of their games.

The Wii however has been such a mixed bag. Have there been good titles? Certainly. But I honestly believe there have been more absolute failures with this system than any other in Nintendo's history. For every Metroid Prime 3: Corruption we have to suffer through dozens of titles like Excitebots. It saddens me immensly to say this, but it seems like Nintendo's business model is to throw a pot of noodles at the wall and see what sticks.

And that's what Excitebots ultimately is, another noodle on the wall. Not remarkable in any way, something to be played and ultimately forgotten as quickly as it was acquired. It's plain and ordinary. I had wanted so much more of this game. I want so much more from Nintendo. And that kills me.

WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!?!

2009-04-21T19:16:00.000-05:00

A legitimate question, and an easy answer... not here.

Honestly, do I need to explain it? Take a look, I'll wait. Yeah, things suck. Really, really suck. It's gotten really, really bad. I just can't function anymore. It's all I can do most days just to make it out of bed. And I've got Butters to deal with.

The sad fact is that no matter how I try to kid myself I can't believe that this is getting any easier. Being away from my first born like this is a constant knife in the heart. The pain never subsides, and every day the blade twists a little more.

And joyous news only makes it worse.

Come October you can expect me to start getting fatter and more gray. We're having another kid. Abandon all hope ye who read these words.

Am I excited? Absolutely, how could I not be? But Mac won't be here. She'll be 2,311 miles away, and that is just another blade twisting in my chest. Can't say how I'll handle it when the day comes, probably not at all well, but I'll get through it. Because as much as each day is a struggle, with the help of rotormommy, Butters, and a few of you, I get by. And sometimes all it takes is getting by.

I'll be back more now, for what it's worth.

22:47

2009-04-20T22:05:00.000-05:00

2,311 miles away and a river of tears.

I can't take it.

Fraking Leprechaun

2009-03-25T19:45:00.000-05:00

It's all Lucky's fault that you were born early and today marks the second anniversary of your birth, son. He sent you into a fit and as a result you decided to make your entrance into this world earlier than any of us had planned for. To your credit, you did keep your end of the bargain and waited until the hockey season was over before leaping from mommy's loins.

So to you, on your day, all I wish and can give you is happiness, because you've given mommy, sissy, and I more than we deserve.

Happy birthday Butters.

Thirty-two

2009-03-06T23:47:00.000-06:00

Thirty-two hours, that's what I had. Twice what I first got. No where near enough.

For those thirty-two hours, I could pretend that everything was normal. For thirty-two hours all the pain was gone.

She wanted things to be as they should, as they would've been had circumstance been different. So that's how it was. That is what I did.

She had a sleep over, we made pizzas.

She chased her baby brother around like she'd done it every single day since the day we brought him home.

He's never been that happy. He shines in her presence in such a way that I've never seen before or since.

He excitedly rushes into her room if the door is open, expecting her to be there to play. Disappointment is something I never expected my son to learn so soon.

When he fell, she tried to catch him, but he slipped from her grasp and they both cried.

And everywhere we went things just worked better.

There were two faces staring back at me in the rear-view mirror.

There were four sets of arms to hug me.

There were two foreheads to kiss goodnight.

But it was fleeting. Now it is but memory. Nothing more than a fragile recollection of a happier moment. A wisp of thought.

Distance

2009-02-11T21:33:00.005-06:00

2,311 miles is what normally separates me from the spitting image of myself that resides in California.

It's been 225 days since I last had curly, golden locks brush across my face.

But right now, she's 15.2 miles away.

Tonight she sleeps not that far away.

I will get to see her. On Valentine's Day.

But only for 24 hours.

225 days and 2,311 miles worth of separation and all I get is 24 hours.

On the occasion of our first meeting

2009-02-08T20:19:00.015-06:00

It started easily enough. Just one line in a direct tweet. Certainly the kind of thing easily dismissed as well outside the realm of possibility, but an exciting prospect none the less. Should the words in that innocent and excited tweet actually pan out, it would mean a change would forever rock my world. Never again would I wonder what the bearer of that good news would be like to meet in person. Never again would they be but a distant connection at the other end of “teh interwebs.”

As the weeks passed, and confirmation was sent that the ~~object of my desire~~ person in question would indeed be traveling deep into the heart of the south, (although the accuracy of Nashville being part of the south anymore is questionable) the plan about how I would go about making the journey began. Finances were finagled, a willing grandparent was found to pass Butters off on, and the wait began.

Like a child watching the days tick slowly off the calendar as Christmas approached, every day seemed longer than the day before. Time passed and tweets continued back and forth as they always have, e-mails were exchanged, and life continued. But somewhere in the midst of all the excitement that built on those seemingly endless days, dread crept along in the background.

“She isn't going to like you,” was the echo that rattled around the deep recesses of my psyche. That old familiar companion from the torture of my teen years was back to hang around like a vulture awaiting death. Fear and doubt were back to do their worst. “She's way out of your league,” they hissed.

But I'd learned a trick or two from the long gone days of D&D and G'n'R. For starters, I was no longer the quiet loner that sat in the hallways during lunch or hid in the library using MS Paint to create fantastic scenes. In the years that passed those bygone days, I'd discovered my confidence, knew my voice. Fear and doubt could try to undermine all that was to come, but I was past allowing them the luxury of controlling my being.

What the hell did I care if she liked me or not? What the hell did I care if she saw me as the hideously obese, fucking chud that I am? What the hell did I care if she were the fair maiden of blogs and I were merely a lowly stable boy? I didn't. I didn't care one damn bit about any of it.

Or so I kept telling myself.

In reality I couldn't help but let fear and doubt have a little run through the minefields of my mind. I had every reason to be apprehensive and nervous at this pending meeting. What the fuck was I thinking? I can't do this, I can't meet her! Oh shit, I have to get out of this! RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!

Panic attacks are always such funny things. Every last one is unique and, if you're anything like me, after they are but a memory you're left looking at it, shaking your head, and questioning why it ever happened in the first place. Such is the fun of being a likely undiagnosed paranoid-schizophrenic. (No you aren't. Yes we are.)

Miles of Alabama and Tennessee asphalt slid beneath the tires of our beater as the wife and I raced to the inevitable conclusion to this tale. The sun was only just marching into the sky as I slipped the car into park outside the Hotel Preston. Calm washed over me. I was without doubt, without fear. Focused, I marched into the hotel, sat facing the elevators, and sent a message to one I'd never had the pleasure of meeting face-to-face letting her know that the manatee and his wife were in the building.

Moments later, the silver doors parted and from it's faux red cowhide interior emerged my friend. With a warm smile and equally warm embrace we met for the first time in the lobby of a hotel seemingly decorated with hip furniture found off Craigslist. Things didn't even go downhill when she proclaimed that she thought I was taller than I actually am. At least I could say that I stood eye-to-eye with her.

The hours of the next day and a half were both too short and over too soon. Before being able to even process the moments that had happened, it was time to part. While left with a sense of overwhelming happiness at finally seeing and speaking to she whom I count among my friends, now there is also the ail of things being back to what has been for so long now.

How many of us ever get the chance to meet the person on the other end of a comment, or tweet, or e-mail these days? How many fewer even form a friendship with that person? I'm fortunate that I have had the honor of doing both those things.

Thank you, Tanis, for the chance to hold open a few doors, shoot a few photos, and to tell you in person to kiss my fat, white Alabama ass. Much love.

What to know how I'm going to be arrested?

2009-02-03T21:58:00.006-06:00

Probably something like this:

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Nailed 'Em - Amtrak Photographer

Colbert Report Full Episodes
Paul McCartney Appearance

Funny Political Videos
More Funny Videos

A letter to my children

2009-01-20T00:03:00.003-06:00

Good morning my loves. Today, this moment seemingly like so many others, will no doubt appear to you like all the days that have come before. You will wake and go about your day. You may laugh or you may cry. The sun may shine and rain may fall. But know that no matter how mundane, or how boring it may have seemed to you, today my sweets is a truly remarkable day.

When I was young, the events of days like today passed with little interest. I was far more concerned with how I would score my next Star Wars figure or what it would take to rescue a woman from a barrel throwing ape. As you are young, I imagine that today will be for you what it was for me in my bygone days of youth, just another day.

A man of amazing caliber, one that grew from meager and humble beginnings, will raise his hand and take an oath this day. This symbolic gesture is one that is partook upon entering office always associated with giving of oneself. Many years ago I too raised my hand and took an oath. This oath was the same one your grandfather and great-grandfather took before me. We each swore that we would protect and defend you and all those that you know, even though the joy of having you was not yet realized. But, this incredible man will take an oath that neither his father nor grandfather ever did, for he is the first to do so.

Your great-grandparents lived in a nation divided. Simple people, many with the same dreams, hopes, and desires, were forced to coexist not as equals, but as separates. Policies were dictated that prevented children not unlike you from playing with one another only because the color of their skin was different. Your grandparents were born during what would become the waning days of those egregious mandates. They lived to see civil rights born, but as you are now they saw it's birth through child's eyes.

I doubt that your great-grandparents had the foresight to look upon those moments of history and speak to their children as I do to you now. For them it was the status quo, what had always been. And as is often the case in periods of great transition, your grandparents lived as children in a world struggling to cast off the old and embrace the new. Try as many would, times were turbulent. The transformation from a world of separation to one of equality was difficult, and sadly for many it still is.

It can not be said that things are perfect now. There will always be those that disagree with what is. But your mother and I were fortunate to grow up in a time when the best amongst us believed that content of character meant far more than color of skin. Through the actions and deeds of those before us, this is what we were taught to believe and we hold that belief dearly. As does the man taking an oath on the Capitol steps.

Like many others, your mother and I did what we could to help to put him on those steps. While your grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would say we were wrong or misguided in casting our faith in this man, we did so because we believed in him. We believed in his message, his words, thoughts and ideals. We believed that in him lay the best chance for our future and our nation's future. But, more importantly, we believed that in him lay the best chance for your future.

You see, my dearest children, today isn't just another day. This day, these fleeting moments, are of such a scope that it's ramifications will be felt throughout the world. Today you live in a world that is forever changed. Despite all the chaos and all the turmoil that takes place elsewhere even as I write these words, today is a better day.

But, as remarkable as it all is, as wonderful as today shall be, for you it will be little different. This is the world you will forever know. You will grow and dwell in a time when we the people finally saw past the folly of race. You will prosper in a world made better by this moment.

So, trouble yourself not with what goes on this day. Instead, laugh, smile, run, play, and learn. But know that the fact that you will likely look upon this day as if it were no different than the innumerable that will pass following it, that act brings me immeasurable joy.

yours truly

2009-01-19T08:50:00.002-06:00

Too fat.

Too tired.

Too mean.

Too cynical.

Too hopeless.

Too opinionated.

That's me in a nutshell. And it's a bloody big nutshell.