It Feels This Good

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End of Meal

I was bummed to see Callahan reference the Chinese New Year… while away from all computer access for a couple of days, I decided I was going to make a Chinese New Year’s Resolution. Everyone has New Year’s Resolutions. I was going to be the Oriental original… Now I just look like a copycat for referencing this a couple days after him…

While on the retreat, I decided to make a concerted effort to return home and do what I’ve known I needed to do for quite some time now: be more disciplined in all aspects of life. I seem to have an addictive personality. There have been so many things that I’ve struggled with (or continue to struggle with) over the years: selfishness, vengeance, honesty, pornography, prayer, “Coke vs Pepsi”, Bible study, lust, work ethic at work, work ethic at home, work ethic at ministry, food, exercise. I’m sure there are more, but these are off the top of my head. All of these things boil down to discipline.

Then I look at my potential… I’m booksmart, I have common sense, I have decent people skills (I hope), I have tons of untapped musical abilities… and all of a sudden I feel like a big failure. All these talents, all these wasted opportunities. All these blessings from God, all these instances of turning away and being a chach.

A very good friend of mine has been encouraging me lately as if I were a drug addict or an alcoholic, because that’s what my symptoms are. He knows that my standards for myself are so high that I will never reach them if I look at them from a macro level. He keeps telling me to try to win the small battles. I feel like such a loser! I know I can not overeat in the next 10 minutes… just don’t ask me whether or not I can refrain from eating the fridge between now and next week. Sure, I can bear down and do the dishes now so Robyn won’t have to later, but I have no confidence that I’ll ever take care of the list of things I’ve been wanting to do for months. So I need to stop focusing on the longterm and start winning the 10 minute battles… easier said than done…

Last night, I made some pasta with grilled chicken for dinner. (OK, so it was chicken on the Foreman…) I was 3/4 through my serving when I thought “ya know, fatso, what you’ve eaten thus far is probably sufficient for tonight…” But then I looked at the bowl and saw too much to throw away but not enough to warrant putting in Gladware. So I went to finish the pasta…

But first, Toby needs his diaper changed. And as could be predicted, he pooed on everything. While cleaning him, he peed on everything, including his own face. (You’d think I’d have learned this by now…) Robyn said not to bother cleaning him up too much, as this would be a perfect opportunity to give him the bath he needed. So, I wiped up just enough nastiness to keep me from getting too dirty while carrying his naked self up to the bathroom. By the time I handed him to Robyn 3 minutes later, he had peed all over myself. Hilarious. I changed clothes. By now, the Tobe’s bath was almost over, so I waited until the end so that I could be Towel Boy, dry off the kid, and get him dressed while Robyn took a shower of her own. I placed the pristine baby goat in his crib, and went down the steps to finish my dinner that had been sitting there waiting for me for 20 minutes…

…to find the cat eating the chicken. Maybe this was God’s way of helping me in my first victory in discipline in this Oriental New Year? Or maybe the cat just wanted something other than the typical Chow. Either way, I’m counting this as victory #1 of the Year of the Dog.

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Retreat!

Winter Youth Retreat this weekend. Me, Robyn, and Toby will be gone for a few days. I’m pumped. One problem is that Jason Bast has set a minimum age requirement of 9th grade for students. So, officially, Toby is not old enough for this youth retreat. However, I’m overriding Jason’s rule and instituing a special rule for babies:

All Tobys on the retreat must weigh at least 12-and-a-half pounds.

I recently mentioned that my son is gaining weight like a champ. His 4-week visit to the pediatrician was this morning. He left the hospital at 9 pounds 5 ounces. Doctors are happy as long as babies gain an ounce per week. Two weeks later, he weighed 10 pounds 4 ounces. Huge gain. Toby has gotten noticably bigger in the last couple weeks. I went on record and predicted today’s weight to be 11 pounds 5 ounces, well more than the minimum suggested ounce per week. I was way off.

12 pounds 9 ounces. He was asked to gain an ounce per week. He gained more than a pound per week. He’s in the 90th percentile of all 4-week-olds in length (22-and-a-half inches), and the 12 lb 9 oz puts him in the 97% percentile in weight.

Brian Callahan, how old was Aly before she reached 12 lb 9 oz? Any other parents out there? This kid is huge… Grandpa Bob might have a linebacker for a grandson.

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Another Public Restroom Story

Last weekend, I wrote about a strange experience changing a diaper in a public restroom. I’m now beginning to thing that crazy dirty-diaper-changing stories are the norm.

We got a meal at Uno’s up in West Chester. While we were still eating, it was obvious the Tobe needed to be changed. My turn. I took him into the men’s room, where there thankfully was a changing table. Unthankfully, the kid’s poop was not fully contained by the diaper. This changing experience required 6 wipes instead of my usual 1. A new record. Also, a new outfit was needed. After last weekend’s experience, I must say that men’s room changing tables are key.

(Unsolicited advice: Pampers. Only use Pampers. Accept nothing less. Huggies are not good enough to hold my son’s poop. And I mean that in every way you can imagine.)

On the way home, Robyn wanted to pick up a few things at a major retailer based in Bentonville, Arkansas. You may know it as Wal*Mart. Toby had just eaten and been changed, so we figured he’d be good for awhile. I encouraged her to go in by herself, because it’s a challenge to get the kid in and out of the car. Besides, he was asleep. And also, it would give her a chance to get more than 20 feet away from her son for the first time since his conception.

The first 10 minutes went pretty smoothly, as he was asleep. Then, it was clear once more that he needed to be changed. We were still a 15 minute drive away from home, plus however long Robyn was still going to be in the store. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to sit in my own feces for more than a couple minutes… so I decided I’d go in and take advantage of the changing table that a big family friendly company like Wal*Mart would surely have.

Right.

I went into the men’s room, waited for the handicapped stall to become available, entered said stall… no changing table. By now, Toby was getting pretty upset at the fact that he was chilling in his own shtuff. I walked out of the restroom, asked one of the 185-year-old women at the information booth where I was supposed to change my son, and, without hesitation, with a smile, she said, “Just go in the women’s room.”

Right. Stupid old lady.

But as I’ve said before, desperate times call for desperate measures. The old woman said, again, “Just go on in there,” this time with the waving hand motion.

Oh yeah. I went in there. 4 stalls had closed doors. I heard peeing in the potties. Should I alert them that there was a man in the room, or just wait until one of them finished? Questions like these make my head explode. I decided to try to change him quick and get out of there unnoticed.

Not a prayer. This was a 4-wiper. Not only did all 4 of those women get to meet me and my son, but so did the next 2 women that walked in while I was mid-change. 2 of the women seemed quite upset that I was in there. 2 of the women wanted to be my friend and hold my son. The other 2 ignored my existence.

It was awesome. Parenthood, in the immortal word of Greg McDaniel, is “fantastic.”

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But I wanna do what I wanna do

In response to being asked why GM Dan O’Brien was fired just 4 days after the change in ownership:

“I want someone in this job who is my choice.”

–Robert Castellini, new owner of the Cincinnati Reds

Brilliant. This guy is the man. I do not expect them to win this year, but Castellini has a free pass for the next couple years as far as I’m concerned.

And a prediction… Adam Dunn will be traded for a stud pitcher by the end of spring training. One of my first thoughts after hearing that Obie got canned was that Castellini was frustrated that no big deals got done this offseason. Expect one soon. Or maybe not, I’m just a schlepp.

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Ryan Cabrera Hypothesis (revisited)

A couple months ago, I wrote about reality TV and the culture we live in today, where someone can be a celebrity for no apparent reason whatsoever. I called it the Ryan Cabrera Hypothesis.

Our friends, Nick and Melissa, came over tonight for dinner and to meet the Tobe. Melissa confessed that she has a slightly unhealthy interest in celebrity gossip, specifically in regard to Mr and Mrs Lachey. I found this to be a great opportunity to share my most extraordinary of hypotheses.

A brief overview of The Hypothesis, here is documentation of Ryan Cabrera’s rise to stardom, for the unfamiliar to my twisted way of thinking:
–Jessica Simpson is famous largely because of her boobs.
–Ashlee Simpson is famous largely because of her sister Jessica, who is famous largely because of her boobs.
–Ryan Cabrera is famous largely because he dated Ashlee Simpson, who is famous largely because of her sister Jessica, who is famous largely because of her boobs.

This is where the light bulb went on over Nick’s head, and he took The Hypothesis to the next level. He started to say something to the effect of “Oh, I get it, it keeps going on and on… Ashlee Simpson does charity work to feed the poor in some third world country, and that gets attributed back to Jessica’s boobs…”

Brilliant! We can now officially proclaim that Jessica’s boobs are feeding the world! (OK, maybe this is a tad bit inappropriate, but my wife is currently breastfeeding my son, and I’m a little tired, so this all makes complete sense to me right now.)

**Once again, a disclaimer: I know nothing about Cabrera. He may be very worthy of a record contract. He may be a great guy. Nothing personal here… I’m sure I could choose hundreds of other celebrities for my hypothesis.

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The Love of the Game

I am passionately in love with the game of baseball, and more specifically, the Cincinnati Reds. I love the game. I loved learning about the game growing up, I loved listening to Marty and Joe until I fell asleep at night in elementary school (including west-coast games, of course), I loved learning about statistics, I loved reading the box scores every morning, I loved trying (very poorly) to play the game as a kid, I love following the game today.

I was so excited when Carl Lindner bought the Reds a few years ago. I figured, like many other fans in this fine city, that he would bankroll the team and make it a winner. He’d buy a great coaching staff, buy the necessary free agents, and the team would be great again.

At first, things looked to be going just that way. He authorized the contract extension of team captain and hometown hero, Barry Larkin. A few months later, he approved the acquisition and huge contract extension of Player of the Decade and member of the All-Century Team, Junior Griffey.

A few years later, I wanted him to sell the team. It was clear that his signing of Larkin was just a p.r. move. It was clear that he didn’t care whether or not the team won as long as the team was profitable. Griffey wasn’t brought in to help the team win, Griffey was brought in to put butts in seats. Last year, I was so excited to hear that he was selling.

I watched the new ownership press conference on webcast at reds.com on Friday afternoon. I cried. Yep. I cried. I heard an owner talk about winning, and anything other than winning being unacceptable. I heard an owner being candid with the fans. I heard an owner identifying himself as the team’s biggest fan.

Lindner may have many many millions of dollars in the bank, but I guaran-dang-tee that I am a much bigger fan of the Cincinnati Reds than he could ever be. Castellini, on the other hand, sounds like a much bigger fan of the Cincinnati Reds than I am. Which would you rather have as the owner of your favorite team? The guy with more cash in the bank? Or the guy who says that anything other than winning is unacceptable?

The full transcript is here, but please allow me to share the two parts that still get me a little choked up, more than 48 hours later:

We’re buying the Reds to win. Anything else is unacceptable. We will not rest until we are putting a contender on the field … year in and year out.

My wife, Susie, has a pillow in our living room. Stitched right into that pillow is the phrase, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” In our Reds organization, if our fans ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. That is going to be our driving force. We will create a winning team worthy of the
unwavering loyalty of our fans. We are America’s first professional baseball team. We believe that once again we will be the best. We’ve seen (in St Louis) how a winning organization shines a national spotlight on our community and our region. That’s what this community deserves. We look forward to bringing championship baseball home for all of us.

–Robert Castellini, new owner of the Cincinnati Reds

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Toby, the Weekend, and Football

I feel like the day is coming soon when I will look at him and think when the heck did you turn 18? Seems like just yesterday I was holding your 10-pound self in my arms…

Sorry. Not trying to be all sentimental or sappy. But he’s 3-and-a-half weeks old now, and he’s changed so much already. He’s growing so much, so fast.

I think he’s starting to respond to Robyn and me. Up until a couple days ago, we could talk to him or cuddle with him or make his little baby limbs dance, but he’d just be off in his own little world. All of a sudden, it seems like he’s paying attention when we do the aforementioned things. A little while ago, I was across the room and suddenly (and somewhat loudly) starting talking about something. Tobe turned his head towards me and stared in the direction of my voice until I finished my statement. Then he looked back at Robyn. Was he really turning towards Daddy because he heard Daddy? Or was this just a coincidence? I try not to read into stuff like that too much, but it seemed possible to me at the time. I know he can’t see that far right now, but he can definitely hear, and he seems to already at least somewhat recognize Mommy and Daddy. Pretty crazy stuff.

Also, Robyn thinks he’s been awake a whole lot more. I haven’t noticed this as much… although I would say that he’s had alert times for longer periods of time. Currently, he’s been awake for 2 hours and 15 minutes, and he looks like he may drift off at any time now, but that’s a long time for a little dude to be awake.

I’ve always like weekends, even though my weekends have always been busier than weekdays. Working for the church, I’ve always felt like I can’t stay out too late on Saturday night since I have to be “at work” by 7:30 Sunday morning. Regardless, it’s fun to not have to go to my accounting job for a couple days. But now… I’m loving weekends. It is just so nice to be home. I’m spending so much more time with Robyn lately, and it has been so much fun. I could really get used to this. Unfortunately, my Monday morning workday begins in about 13 hours, and there are many loads of laundry, many diapers, and hopefully at least a few hours of sleep before then. I’m going to wrap this post up in a minute, then get back to enjoying being home with the wife and the baby goat.

But I might as well comment on football while I’m here… the Steelers look awful good. And as I’ve said before, I know I should hate them simply because they are Pittsburgh, but I find little to hate about them. I feel kinda happy for them. Which makes me feel dirty. I need to take a shower. I’m not a Steeler fan… I promise… I’m a Bengal fan… I’m just finding it difficult to work up any ill feelings about their success, other than I’d prefer it to be the Bengals in Super Bowl Extra Large.

The nightcap… I think I’m rooting for Carolina, and not just because I don’t want to see the Seahawks’ horrendous unis in the big game. Steve Smith is an inspiration… anybody 5’9″ that can take over a game like he does is worth rooting for, especially with Delhomme slinging it to him. Although I appreciate the very bald Hasselbeck having success, too. But I think that regardless of who wins this game, Pittsburgh will be very difficult to beat in Detroit.

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My First Harlequin Novel

My lovely bride and I quickly walked toward the restrooms… looked around… snuck into the men’s room together… locked the door… emerged 5 minutes later. May I say that it was just about the most exciting 5 minutes of my life!? Certainly, some curious patrons wondered, while chowing down on their spicy noodles, what happened behind those closed doors…

Interested yet? With an intro like that, could any sinner stop reading here? Maybe I should write one of them harlequin novels…

Well, faithful readers, lucky for you, I’m here right now to fully disclose what did in fact occur in that fateful restroom earlier tonight.

The kid was dirty. No doubt about it. I changed his diaper when we left Jeff & Jessica’s in Maineville at 4:30. But after some car time, a Crossroads service, some social time, meeting the always entertaining Cousin Laura, and more car time to the restaurant, he’d have to have a bladder the size of a birthing ball to still be clean.

Many dining establishments have changing tables in both the men’s and women’s restrooms to be family-friendly. But the Bangkok Bistro is a neighborhood place… the men’s restroom has one toilet, the women’s restroom has one toilet. Um… that is… according to Robyn… I wouldn’t know… yeah… The Tobe was dirty, he was starting to fuss because he was dirty, and there was no place to change him unless we were to walk all the way back to the car to use the backseat. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So, we turned the men’s restroom into the family restroom.

With no changing table, we needed a plan, and we needed one quick. Robyn says “I’ll hold him… you change him.” Deal. I stripped the kid below the waist… and immediately he starts to pee. Never fails. Pure comedy. We laughed hysterically. I cleaned him up, re-dressed him, we all washed up, and we walked out of the tiny restroom that had probably never seen anything quite like the Duebber fam.

By the way, that place has absolutely fantastic food. Bangkok Bistro. Erie Avenue. Hyde Park. Pork paad-thai. You won’t regret it. And if you use the men’s restroom, remember that it was where the magic happened.

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The Fuzz… The Po-Po… The ____

Please post a comment with your favorite slang word for “cop” to help complete the title of this post. Steve Carr posted about the cops recently, and I’ve been meaning to write something about my ‘Nati police experiences, so here goes…

I’m a huge advocate of the police. When I see a cop on the side of the road running radar, I think go get ’em, officer… My wife and I don’t always agree on this. She usually mutters frustration and says why don’t they spend their time on real criminals? I can see her point. Regardless, I believe that the overwhelming majority of officers chose their profession for better reasons than wanting to have a siren and to ruin folks’ day with parking tickets. I’d find an I (heart) The Police bumper sticker for the Pimp Boat, except I wouldn’t want officers to think I’m a sarcastic punk–although, I do (heart) “every little thing she does is magic…”

There are two categories of people I will always go out of my way to thank even if I do not know them: (1) Military folks, active or retired, and (2) Police officers. They could die on the job at any point in time. They risk their lives for us every time they put on the uniform. Get it, people? I (heart) the police.

That being said, I’ve had quite a few less-than-wonderful encounters with Cincinnati Police in my 31 months within city limits.

Not long after Robyn and I got the house, one of my best friends, Brooke, and girlfriend-at-the-time-now-wife, Andrea, got rear-ended while turning into my driveway. These things happen everywhere, certainly not just the city. Unfortunately, the pimpmobile that did the rear-ending didn’t stop and was never found again. I called 911 within 30 seconds of the hit & run. I got a recorded message informing me that there is no one available to answer 911 calls at this time of the day in College Hill, and was advised to hang up and call some specific 7-digit number. (Brooke, feel free to post anything I may have missed here.) I thought to myself, sweet… a recorded message on 911… what happens if there’s an intruder in my house? Will I have time to call directory assistance to get said 7-digit number? Seriously, people, “911” is easy to remember, I’d prefer to be able to use it in an emergency… Estimated police response time: 45 minutes. Unacceptable.

A couple weeks later, our neighbors’ car was totalled–totalled is an insurance word… this car was absolutely destroyed–by a driver who, likewise, didn’t bother to stop and apologize or offer any sort of insurance information. Estimated police response time: 45 minutes. Unacceptable.

The next time police assistance was required was mercifully a couple months later. The aforementioned neighbors’ car was replaced at the expense of their own insurance company. Predictably, it was slammed into by a passing vehicle as well. This time, I heard the contact. It woke me up around 6am one weekday morning right after I hit snooze. Quickly, I ran out front to see if it was another hit & run… it wasn’t… although this time the reason was both cars were totalled. The man had no license, no insurance, and quite honestly no clue what was going on. Estimated police response time: no idea, I left for work an hour and a half later and the police were yet to arrive. Unacceptable.

Fast forward to last summer (2005). Robyn was 3 months pregnant. She was in a minor traffic accident on wet pavement less than 5 minutes from home. Estimated police response time: 2 minutes. The difference? She was still in Colerain township. Unacceptable.

Fast forward 30 minutes later. She was shaken up from the accident, but felt fine enough to drive the car home. She pulls in the driveway and walks up the front steps to see that the front window is open and the screen has been slashed. She’s thinking it highly likely an intruder is in our house. She runs away from the house. Neighbors aren’t home. The car is in the driveway, she can’t go back to the house, so she can’t really go anywhere. From behind a tree up the street, she calls me at work. I call 911. I leave work, drive 20 minutes home, no police yet. I call 911 again, remind them that we can’t go inside our house because we think somebody’s inside. Finally, after 50 minutes, I see a Hamilton County Sherriff–Thank God, at least somebody shows up even though Cincy Police is apparently too busy–and the Sherriff drives right past our house. I run into the street to flag down the Sherriff. Sherriff had no idea we were waiting on help, he was just in the neighborhood to serve a warrant. He agrees to go through our house, gun drawn the whole time, and tells us we’re safe… the intruder went out the back door. Still no Cincy officer to be found. Estimated Cincinnati police response time: 1 hour. Absolutely freaking unacceptable.

And one more… mid-October (2005), I wrecked my Honda on the way home from a pastors’ meeting. The minivan with 45 passengers that I struck had a driver with “injuries“. I call 911. 10 minutes later, I call 911 again. 10 minutes later, I call 911 again. 10 minutes later, I call 911 again, this time I’m absolutely furious/irate/spitting-hellfire-and-rage at the 911 operator, which is really not my style, if you know me. After the 4th 911 call, 2 firetrucks, a fire chief SUV, and an ambulance rush to the scene. Still no police. Estimated police response time: 45 minutes. Unacceptable.

I’m a believer in living in the city. I’d like for you to come, too. I’ve very much enjoyed these last 31 months living in the city of Cincinnati. I am very thankful that we’ve never truly been in an emergency where we’ve desperately needed the police. I’d probably sleep a little better at night if I felt confident the police would be here to help us if we did desperately need them.

And the city wonders why people flock to the ‘burbs?

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