As Christmas approaches, a few people have asked what to get me. Two easy rules!
We've also set up a Wish List for Liam.
And please, don't be afraid to surprise us. After all, that's part of the fun of the holiday!
Well, it's happening again. We put an offer down on a townhouse in Hillsborough. Barring unforeseen loan issues, we'll be moving there in October.
There are a few things I will miss about this house here on Williams Circle. As I write in the dining room, something that I do on a very rare occasion (sad to say), I think that the tinkling of the chandelier as the air conditioner blows... yes, this is one of those things that I will miss.
After about six weeks without their weekends, I've finally gotten a respite. Let's tally up, shall we?
So, waking up on Saturday without the fear and foreboding of obligation was a nice touch. Waking up this morning to Liam talking to the dog (mostly informing her of her own name: "Cawwee... Cawee!") was even better. I knew that my biggest responsibilities for the morning consisted of: make him a bottle, make him laugh a few times before he went back to sleep (kid sleeps 'til ten o'clock, some days), and then take the dog out for a poop. Not bad at all.
Hello. I'm Michael Harrison. How do you do?
I live in Hillsborough, North Carolina. I am (in this order) a husband, father, writer, developer, web analyst, gaming geek, sf geek, comic book geek, music geek, movie geek, beer geek... I guess I'm just an all-around geek.
My writing is featured on the ROI Revolution Unofficial Google Analytics blog (I work there), and most recently on the Geekdad blog, where other all-around geeks discuss how we can indoctrinate our children into the Cult of Geekdom.
At work, as a Google Authorized Consultant, I spend my time helping people set up Google Analytics and Google Website Optimizer.
At home, I chase after my toddler, Liam, and try to be as helpful as possible to my wonderful, stay-at/work-at-home/novelist wife, Natania, who is hard at work on a steampunk novel called The Aldersgate Cycle.
I guess I should start off by saying, yet again, that my negligence in contributing to this (hardly) self-enforced ritual of journal-writing is staggering, even to my sagging standards. I think that, given the events that have gone down since I was bemoaning the KeyArena's fate way back in August, I've been fully entitled to a nice break from any obligation other than surviving day-to-day life.
Liam was born and then came home, and then, suddenly, we were heading back to the hospital at 4am, he was crying—had been for nearly six straight hours—and running a fever of over 100. We took him to the emergency room, expecting a routine examination, maybe some Tylenol, but they intubated, and he was admitted.
I can barely think about it. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did later that day, as Natania and I tried to get some rest in the tiny sleeper room that the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was kind enough to provide. We dozed in and out, from waking nightmare to the normal kind, and it felt as if the entire thing couldn't possibly be happening.
Before, when they brought us to see our son, with the tubes and wires hooked up, it seemed like some sort of cruel joke, the kind of thing from which parents awaken and then smile down on their healthy children, happy and safe in warm beds, away from the cold and sterile airlessness of a hospital room.
Over the eight days that followed, I learned that it's cruel, but it's no joke. We spent our time first in the PICU and then on one of the pediatrics floors of the UNC Children's Hospital. I can't explain the dichotomy that exists in these places to which normal people do not visit, that sane, healthy men and women cannot contemplate, because if they did, they would be faced with that age-old quandary: why do the innocent suffer? Every day, the nurses and doctors of these wards are bombarded with that question, and they find a way around it somehow. They just treat the suffering and let the answers flit from room to room, just beyond their reach, just outside their narrowed visions. Because that question, once answered, doesn't really help the girl born without the use of her kidneys, or the boy whose heart was missing a chamber.
Our Liam had a viral infection that bombarded his newborn body. His circulatory system had been affected by the infection, to the point where he was having severe bradycardia whenever the room temperature was lower than eighty degrees. Natania and I slept on cots, sweaty and half-naked, in his hospital room, waking up from time to time to feed him. When, finally, he was well enough to feed at the breast, I think both of us knew that everything was on its way to better.
The past three months have been more than I can wrap my head around. There are depths of sorrow and joy that I'd never realized were even in me to feel.
Three months with a new human being will change anyone's life, mainly because it shows you how much can change with the child. Liam has gone from a wrinkled, squinty-eyed wriggle worm to an honest-to-God little boy. He smiles, laughs, studies his toys with an abundant curiosity. He cries and whines and tells us when he's pissed off. He mashes the keys of my Macbook and cackles when the shapes and sounds and colors perform to his every whim. He is growing, and growing on me, and I love him more and more every day.
It really is worth every worry, every tear, every sleepless night. Every frustrating moment with the bottle, or the times you can't put him down because he just wants to be held. When he looks up at you and flashes that crooked grin, all is well in my little corner of the world.
We were on the futon, watching "House" last Thursday, when our cat, Jolie, sprinted into the office. Natania noticed that she was chasing something largish, or rather something larger than her usual fare: mosquito hawks, beetles, etc. I believe my wife's exact question was, "Is she chasing a mouse?!" Interrobang added for emphasis.
Jolie was, in fact, chasing a mouse (‽), and because she's fairly inept at anything that doesn't include lounging around all day doing nothing, or whining for food, she let the mouse go. It darted off, under the desk, to hide beneath the heater coil. Not much we could do.
Then, a couple of days later, we finish up with a movie in the living room, and Natania spots Jolie prancing around the house, haughtier than usual. She's caught that mouse, damn it, and she wants us to notice.
We do, and in the ensuing excitement, Jolie drops the mouse yet again. It goes under the couch. We're wondering if our dumb cat will ever be able to put this poor, frightened rodent out of its misery.
Long story short, we lift the couch and the little bugger scampers off into the kitchen. I think Jolie damaged his leg, because he's not very fast. I grab a glass dessert bowl and an old watercolor sitting around and trap him. Slide the watercolor under the bowl, and lift him up to show Jolie how much more catlike I am than she. Then out goes our little friend, into the front yard where, no doubt, he'll somehow find his way back into the house. Or get eaten by a hawk due to his leg.
Domestic life is bliss.
Oh, we bought a camera yesterday. My conscious brain knows that it was a good investment, but there's this little sliver of grey matter deep inside my amygdala, I think, that quivers and secretes pure unadulterated guilt whenever I make a purchase of over $40. My excitement over the new toy barely overshadowed the queasiness I felt when the guy swiped my bank card in his little machine and my account was assaulted by a $900 debit. Along with the buzzing of the flies in my wallet, I could hear my checkbook whimpering: "You did this to me... for a camera?!"
I love the interrobang.
The weekend is here, and almost half gone. Today was a whirlwind of going to bed too late (yes, we went to bed late enough to consider it today), waking up too late, and then rushing off to Kinston for a cousin's wedding. It was a quick thing, but good to see the family. We were back in time to pick up some BBQ and a video at Visart, but when we settled down to actually watch the thing, the player kept skipping it over.
I have officially reached The End of the Internet.
Waiting to go pick up the wife, I've been browsing for what seems like ages. And I think it's time to go read a book.