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A Baby Changes Everything

Olaf — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 21:48:20 +0000

Remarkably, the biggest change at the Gradin household is simply in our perception. There are all sorts of things that change when a new child is born into your family. Your free time dries up, your bank account empties, you become more selfless. But when you already have an older child, the thing we noticed was that the older child stopped being a baby in our eyes. I never realized how big he was – how big his hands were. It’s harder to carry him sleeping into his bed at night. This new addition, so small and defenseless, makes us realize in ways you can’t truly convey to anyone that she’s the only baby in the house. Perhaps Balthazar became “our first child.” Even though he’s only five years old, I sense that he’s more in charge of his destiny and in self discovery now. Sorscha, on the other hand, seems to have so much more malleable potential tied up in her.

I’m doing my best to ensure that I don’t lose sight of the treasures still to come in our first-born while our attention is diverted to this little girl. It can be a struggle keeping up with everything at home while still making time for me and Balthazar to play the games we used to play. Easing that, he’s recently really gotten into board games. I can keep an eye (and ear) on Sorscha while we play board games without being too distracted to give him my attention. It’s also easier to allocate this time, as our outside time has been cut short for the coming winter.

This experience of having our second child – some 5 years apart from our first – has given us new wisdom that I feel one can only gain through life.

One cannot fully appreciate what happens to the being at the birth of your first child. You undergo a transformation unlike anything before or after that moment. I remember seeing a baby born vaginally when I was an adolescent, and the experience gave me some spine-tingling chills that hinted at this fact. When we had our first child, the internal shift from my awareness of self: man, husband, child, protector, supplier, etc., went spiraling around and may have momentarily just been forgotten. It didn’t matter anymore. The thing I remember most – and perhaps something that sums up a great deal of this feeling – is that I lost my sense of invulnerability. Perhaps it’s passed on to the next generation – much to a parent’s chagrin.

Now at the birth of our second child, we see the real development of our first. Less of the initial surge of fatherhood that fills you, though a new awareness of everything that can’t be ignored.

I really mean to say that there are some lessons in life that we’re taught, but can never be appreciated until experienced. You were told that you’d one day look back at your school days and realize you were having the time of your life. You’re told that a child will change you. I’ve heard that time flies as you get older. “One day you’ll understand…” All of these things go unheeded as our elders press them into our heads. Being at the crossroads of naivety and understanding, I want to impart a sort of enlightenment to those behind me on the path. But who am I kidding? I’m just saying the same thing…

Tastey Nuts

Olaf — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 14:19:59 +0000

I’m a fan of the seed and nut family, as many can attest. I maintain a supply of them at my desk at work for the occasion of snacking, which comes regularly. There are also infinite jokes to be told that never get old:

Hello everybody. I have brought my nuts for everybody to enjoy. They’re oddly shaped, but salty and satisfying. Don’t be shy, there’s more than enough for everyone to get their hands on.

That’s not crude, that’s generous. A 27oz. container of cashews will cost me $10.00-$12.00. Anyway, the cashew caught my interest this morning. From whence did it come? Were its travels arduous? Who were its parents? How has it come to be?

From the ~~Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy~~ all-knowing Wikipedia, we read:

The cashew (Anacardium occidentale) is a tree in the flowering plant family Anacardiaceae. The plant is native to northeastern Brazil. Its English name derives from the Portuguese name for the fruit of the cashew tree, caju, which in turn derives from the indigenous Tupi name, acajú. It is now widely grown in tropical climates for its cashew “nuts” and cashew apples.

Ann’s House of Nuts® may very well import theirs from India, which has the largest Kaju farms in the world. What interests me most if the variety of uses of the tree (especially those of a medicinal quality), as well as the parts of the fruit we do not see. The cashew apple is apparently used as a raw fruit in places where they grow, but because the skin is so fragile, it is not feasible to ship it. I had originally looked up the nut to see how it looked on the tree. I had imagined thousands of crooked, walnut-like shells dangling from a tree. The truth is even more bizarre! The cashew apple is actually a false-fruit, psuedofruit, that develops between the peduncle and the drupe. Unless you’re a botanist, there are a couple of new words for you. The cashew nut we all know actually dangles off the end of the pseudofruit, presumably until a creature eats the psuedofruit and drops the seed to ground where it can germinate. What’s even more bizarre is that the seed is actually encased within a shell containing urushiol. That’s the stuff that makes you break out in an itchy rash on poison ivy! Who in the world decided it was worthwhile to pick apart this shell to eat the small, fleshy nut inside? Why wouldn’t they have just stopped at the cashew apple and been done with it? Just another example of how one man’s pain is another man’s pleasure.

Dear Cashew Nut Harvester,
Though your spreading rash and insistent itch must be a grave burden to bear, the world appreciates the labor in your continued efforts. Like your father, and your father’s father, you pick at your nuts endlessly only to endure the torturing discomfort of its rash. I, for one, do not take these measures for granted and recognize the pain and suffering you must endure. From your hands you render great swollen nut sacks and feed salivating mouths everywhere. Thank you.

The Sins of Man

Olaf — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 15:47:01 +0000

We’ve returned home from Philadelphia, though home is not exactly as we left it. There is a gray storm cloud hovering above us; perhaps still building in power and ferocity, or lingering remnants of a thunderhead. I’m not talking about the weather, though the hurricane located near Corpus Christi does invoke a palpable invocation of the mood.

Two very dear friends were struck apart suddenly and violently by the squandering of trust and respect by one from the other. The consequences for such a thing are no mystery, though the act mystifies many of us. How is it that when a relationship is ended so suddenly that it is as if someone died? Did the offender die, or the offended? Does this change their lives forever, or can the shattered pieces coallesce back into solidarity. Perhaps the answer to that question is really the stuff that defines someone. Do you care enough to persist? The hardest thing in the world may well be the acknowledgment of fault; the recovery of abasement despite humiliation.

To the offender: I am not immune to my friends’ pain. I cannot abide such disrespect to any of my friends, especially not from another. However, I am also one of the best friends to have; even though my respect has been scarred by this event, I am willing to lend my support and help where it is appreciated. I’m not the best friend because I can forgive…I’m the best because I won’t settle for anything but an attitude for reparations. After that, you two can determine your own futures.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker’s 30th Year

webmaster — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 13:11:04 +0000

We attended the Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker’s 30th anniversary concert in Atlanta this past Friday. What a cool concert! The band put together some new renditions of some old songs – many from the Full Moon Fever album. My favorites included grandiose piano solos in place of some of the guitar solos we all know so well. As a bonus, Stevie Nicks came out at one point and continued to sing three or four songs with Tom Petty. They didn’t do “The Apartment Song,” but I never really thought they would. It’s my personal favorite with the two of them, but seemingly no one else’s. He also never does “Wildflowers,” though I would very much like to hear it live. We went to the concert with Isi and Missy, whom we also enjoyed dinner with in Atlanta. A good evening of music and friends, despite any threat of impending rain.

Standing on the Shoulder of Giants

Olaf — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 18:00:32 +0000

A List Apart asked for readers to post their professed love for the Internet on Valentine’s Day. I did so, and found a spot among many within their post of the same. It’s an interesting group of blurbs to read through. It made me recall a lot of things that I might take for granted today. Without any real correlation, I picked Scoble’s name out among the contributors. The marketing side of me says,’”Wow! What an ingenious way to get cooperation from masses when inserting their names among the stars.” As a contributor, I am truly honored to be in such light. I also noticed quite a jump towards the end of the month on my site as people clicked through from A List Apart. Surely this is good measure towards free tickets to the event. I must ask…

An Event Apart

Olaf — Mon, 06 Feb 2006 13:59:02 +0000

I’m really interested in going to “An Event Apart” in Atlanta this year. From what I hear, the conference is pivotal in anyone’s quest for web design excellence. Since it’s in Atlanta, I have a chance to get in this time around. The real problem is the money. Because I’m not primarily employed in the business of web design, I can’t pull together the listed $500.00 entrance fee. If anyone out there has access to free tickets, please let me know!

Coming Home

Olaf — Wed, 25 May 2005 14:13:00 +0000

My Internet access has been limited to my grandmother’s dial-up AOL account since I arrived in Pensacola Beach this past Saturday. I did make it out to a semi-local Taco Bell once for some high-speed wireless access. That was a good refresher, but my time was very limited. So limited, in fact, that I conducted my transaction from the parking lot. This morning, however, we begin our trek back to the homeland. It’s always a bummer to leave, but I’ll be glad to get back to Amy and normality. I’ve been coming here with my family since I was three or four years old, and I have only begun to see them on this trip. I think it took being apart from everything – having Balthazar to look . I can’t yet explain what I’ve learned, but I have certainly observed some characteristics that are unique to this bloodline. I don’t know whether I exhibit the same personality traits, but I’ll know to look out for them in the future. Perhaps I really *am* the milk man’s son. Maybe it’s just that my traits come from an older generation when the blood was…different. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but has soon as I have a good description of these differences, I’ll expose them here.

Don’t Drink the Water

Olaf — Tue, 24 May 2005 18:58:00 +0000

Well, we leave tomorrow and Balthazar finally broke through his shell yesterday evening. We ate dinner yesterday at Hemmingway’s, one of the better (and few open) restaurants on the Gulf. He did very well there with all of the family – though Stacey had already left – and even played with one of Orin and Abigail’s sons, Gus. He’s the oldest, and apt to chase Balthazar around the restaurant. He also got spaghetti, which is an easy favorite. Earlier in the day we had visited the bay where Balthazar had various fits and sat briefly in the lapping shoreline. He was only mildly wet, so I didn’t bother changing his water-diaper. At the restaurant he spent a fair amount of time sitting on my lap, which slowly became wetter and wetter. I found myself eventually pondering just how much bay water the water-diaper had soaked up. The diaper showed no sign of drying. The concern was fleeting and I forgot all about it until later in the dinner. By this time, Balthazar had finished eating and my legs were sufficiently covered in spaghetti sauce. He was done eating and we began walking around the place to keep him happy. As I scooped him up, thwarting his mischievous plans, I distinctly felt something dripping on my leg. Upon further investigation, I noticed striking patterns of wetness on my shirt, shorts, and leg. So the bay water was never actually bay water at all. It was little-boy piss. I’m fortunate that 2-year-old urine doesn’t smell like much, but there is a faint aroma evident. Me and Balthazar were covered in urine until we were both able to get back to the condo and bathe. It’s funnier knowing that this was the second time in the vacation this happened to me. The first was after playing in the beach. Balthazar filled his diaper with antibiotic-induced poop, the likes you never want to see. After picking him out of the water with this load waiting, he slowly oozed out onto me as we walked back to the apartment. I knew he was stinky, but I didn’t realize it was oozing out everywhere. Hard to spot a dad at the beach? Nah!