maybe he'd like debating?

Today and tomorrow I'll be starting my day by judging college debates held on campus. About 200 two-person teams are in town for the annual event. Though I never debated on an official team, organized debate, or "The Activity," as it is sometimes called within the group, is quite a spectacle to behold, and one that I would be proud to see PC take up.

When I arrived this morning for the 8 am round, I noticed a couple things that make The Activity seem different. First off, the smokers. Elite debaters work hard, really hard, which sometimes requires not sleeping much, hence, nicotine addictions are abundant. The same can be said for caffeine and taurine-laced speed drinks, which are so popular that Red Bull sometimes sets up camp at tournaments and gives out free samples. No doubt, this is a compliment to college debaters, on the logic that if they drink Red Bull, so will other kids on university campuses. Why? Because so many debaters are such good students. Nike has been known to give free shoes to the best playground basketball players, too. The second thing I noticed was groups of three and four huddled together, discussing .... well, I don't know. These were coaches with their teams and gigantic tubs of evidence, doing last second preparation. I quickly realized that I should act like I wasn't paying attention to these huddles because I could have easily been an opposing coach eavesdropping for a competitive advantage. Which I wasn't.

Obviously smoking cigarettes and chugging energy drinks are not good reasons for any kid to debate. Nor do they typify the whole group. What does is caring about major public issues, and the willingness to devote serious amounts of time to researching those issues and to travel to as many as fifteen tournaments a year for the debates. Each debate lasts about two hours, and each team is in eight debates per tournament. Do the math. It's downright demanding to debate at the university level, just as demanding as any Division I sport is. These kids defy all your stereotypes that college students are lazy and apathetic, if ever that was true. The debates have to be tightly organized and the best teams are usually those who have not only the evidence to win, but the ability to speak convincingly, clearly, and with passion. It's not easy.

This year the national topic is a timely one: namely, should the United States step up constructive engagement in the Middle East? The possible angles for arguing either side are almost endless, and the good that can come out of researching and participating in The Activity equally infinite. PC could do so much worse than spend his weekends as these 400 students are.

At the end of two hours this morning I had learned a little about Iran (less than I'd have liked) and a little more about something called "critical cartography." My head was spinning but my decision was made: it was Fordham over George Mason by a hair.

daddy just needs to be daddy

You know how annoying it is when people talk about themselves in the third person. My favorite practitioner of the fine art of Third Person Speak is probably the NBA's Allen Iverson, who often refers to himself as AI, as when defending himself he'd say "AI just has to be AI." According to the Internets, the former baseball player Rickey Henderson was also really fond of the third person, as was the Presidential candidate Bob Dole.

Referring to oneself in the third person also happens to be hilarious, when done properly. Tonight I conducted an experiment and referred to myself only as Paul Achter for about two hours, which went on until C wanted to shoot me. The text messages I sent referring to myself in the third person went unreturned, and when I used it on the phone with my friend about seven times he never once called attention to what I was doing--no doubt to get me to stop. As it turns out that there's actually research about the psychological benefits of referring to yourself in the third person, which has something to do with creating distance between oneself and one's actions.

Parents and grandparents use the third person all of the time. We like calling ourselves mommy and daddy and so on, partly because it reminds us (especially as new parents) that we actually are parents now. As I type, C is reassuring the fussy boy: "momma is here." Earlier tonight we were at Sam's Club and as we turned the corner to face the massive floor-to-ceiling snack section I shouted, "Daddy's favorite aisle!"

I challenge you to refer to yourself only in the third person for as long as you can today. If you have the same experience I did, you'll notice that it's a lot more annoying to others if you use your full name than it is if you use a role.

Then again, if you want to call yourself "daddy" for awhile today, that could be pretty funny, too.

eating out

This picture (pardon my index finger, ahem....) was taken during one of the shortest trips to a restaurant we've had in recent memory. It was short not just because Mexico Restaurant serves your food incredibly fast, but because PC is in a weird stage when it comes to seating options. He's too big for a clip-out car seat anymore, which is too bad, because when he was tiny and fit in that thing, we could just unclip him, bring him in, and set him beside us as we ate. And he's still too small for a high chair proper, which has to do with general squirminess and an inability to hold himself upright for long periods of time without kickin' out the jams. Even though his neck muscles are more awesome than ever.

So, when we go out now, he has to sit in someone's lap for the duration. And it's usually C's, because she is much more practiced at eating-with-boy than his dad and because she seems to have more patience with it. I held him during part of this meal, but that ended when he grabbed the ground beef and cheese out of my taco and deposited it on the table.

Going out is still great, though, because total strangers come up to you and tell you how perfect your baby is.

all systems go

We met with Dr. P., MD yesterday for Stanley's four month visit. It was a pretty mundane, and very fast visit. And highly productive: he got four shots, there were measurements, and a conversation that addressed the measurements, his eating habits, and what to expect in terms of motor skills over the next few months. Though the boy will always be perfect in every way in our hearts, it's always nice to hear confirmation from someone with a fancy title.

He remains a tall boy--in the 97th percentile--and generally a proportioned one, with weight in the 80th or 85th percentile. Dr. P. again tantalized me with speculation that Stan would be 6'2" if he kept this up, which I love hearing, but which I also greeted with a good deal of skepticism. One of my friends was told his kid would be 6'4", and he ended up 5'11". So whatever. The important thing is that he and his mom are in a good groove. We had no assumptions that breast feeding would work out, but it has, and brilliantly.

We've posted a few more pics at PC's Flickr Site --- check them out!

why PC should play soccer

I love golf and I have since I was about five years old. I like to watch golf, I like to play golf, and I understand golf. Sometimes I can even inspire other people to like golf, though the TV version of the game is admittedly difficult for the first-timer to appreciate. As I type, I'm watching the final matches of the President's Cup, a USA versus the "International" competition. It has Tiger and Ernie Els and all the great players and it's going to be on all afternoon. Love it.

Still, I'm not sure if PC should play golf. Though I may not have a lot of control over this, I want him to play soccer, or basketball, or something other than golf as he grows up. Why? One of the odd things I've experienced when I self-identify as a golf nut is the many many stereotypes of golfers--rich, snobby, elitist, and even racist. Some of these are true. The game has not been the most socially progressive sport. In fact, it's been a socially regressive sport. The PGA Tour, for example, had a "Caucasians Only" clause until 1962. Since Tiger Woods, of course, golf (and Nike) has been on one gigantic public relations campaign designed to do away with this "whites only" image, and perhaps it's worked a little. When you look at galleries of TV golf tournaments there are more brown and black faces, but if you look around your local course (esp. if you live in the South) you will probably notice that the housekeeping staff and the pro shop staff are racially homogeneous. The whites are in the positions of power and the blacks clean up, by and large. The vestiges of the "whites only" clause are still visible in 2007.

But it's the cost of playing golf that keeps so many people out of golf, not overt racism. When people assume this golfer is the rich/elitist/white snob they associate with the game, I often find myself talking about where I grew up playing, a nine-hole municipal course that allowed kids to play for about $100 a summer. That course, and the Minnesota town around it, was lily-white and not all that elitist. Bus drivers, school teachers, salesmen of many kinds, and the few practicing attorneys all played there. My dad was a cop and we could afford my membership---it was the Christmas gift I looked forward to most. Sure, there are class divisions in small town Minnesota, but the golf course never seemed to emphasize those. The more prominent hierarchy there was based on skill, which is why so many kids like me were allowed to play there from an early age. We'd become good junior players and could stand up to adult restrictions on us because we could beat many of them.

The cost: on average, it's close to $40 to play eighteen holes here and there's no guarantee that PC will be able to afford that, or that we'll be able to afford it for him. Moreover, there are very few municipal courses where you can actually buy a membership for a reasonable price, and therefore save on the per-round cost, which is a problem because the only way to get good at golf is to play a LOT. The private courses have steep initiation fees in addition to ongoing costs, not to mention the fact that in many cases you have to know someone and rely on that someone to invite you to become a member. It's a "club," after all.

I'm trying not to write a bitter entry here. It's just that sports like soccer or basketball, which have low equipment costs and fewer social restrictions, are beginning to look far more attractive to me. If you play soccer as a kid, you'll get an unbelievable cardiovascular workout and you'll be able to play almost wherever you go and for many, many years. There are pickup games all over the place in most towns, there are leagues to join, and all it really takes is the willingness to put your spikes on and find the soccer nuts. They are out there.

I don't play soccer and I'm not particularly well built for it. I don't understand the rules that well. But if PC wants to play it, I'm going to buy him some Umbro shorts, drive him to the field, and probably yell my head off. And if he wants to golf, we'll try that, too, but it will not be our first choice.

stranger danger

There's a first time for everything, and this past weekend was the first time that I left PC for a weekend. (a privilege of fatherhood, to be able to do this.) It was a long weekend spent very enjoyably with Athens, GA's finest, and a needed break from the work routine.

But you know what? The boy gave me a little stranger treatment when I got home. He fussed when I held him the first couple of times, and very obviously preferred others for about 24 hours. Awful! The kid can't speak, but he can already be angry with me? I know, I know, this is common......

Here's the other thing: in addition to being the topic of many bragging conversations I had with old friends, he also crept into a surprising number of my daydreams. I just missed him. I wanted to smell his stale milk breath, just once! Or touch some of that perfect skin. Even change a diaper. One night as I lay in bed I began to think about him, and worried that I might miss a major development like a tooth or rolling over. It was one of those thoughts that loops back repeatedly unless you consciously try to change the topic....a nagging, aching thought.

Of course, everything was fine when I returned. And now I can see a little better how completely smitten I am with him.

hands, feet and mouth

One of our favorite websites this past year has been babycenter.com. Baby Center is an all-purpose website for new and expecting parents, a sort of doctor/nurse + mother/encyclopedia sort of thing that adds the many delights of the Internets, like being able to ignore it. It's hard to ignore actual people who have advice for you about your baby.

BC sends a weekly email, if you want it, that is specific to the age of the child--you enter in your due date, and from then on they send along an update about mom and baby's development. When the baby is born, you enter in the birthday, and then you receive a weekly  update about mom, baby, and family developments general to that age.

Subscribing to weekly emails, in my experience, is usually not a good thing, but with babycenter you can control the dose. Another advantage of the Internet: read their headline/teaser and stop, or click for more, or head off to the margins for any number of related hyperlinks when you're feeling really curious. During the pregnancy, the updates were especially helpful at making tangible the fact that a baby was actually cooking (his mother did not need any extra evidence). For several months, they compared the size of the fetus to an everyday object--from a lime to a sack of sugar and a couple gourds in between. Niece Anna really enjoyed that.

This week BabyCenter is talking about things the Prince has already mastered--sleeping through the night and interacting with smiles and laughs, for example. Pssssshhhh! We're already onto bigger things. Namely our hands, feet and mouth--the mouth is the primary sense organ, apparently. The Pooh Bear, your shoulder, your chin, you name it, he will suck on your knuckle if you give it to him (stay clean people). This morning when we were still lying down in bed we took turns holding him at a 45 degree angle on our knees--a position he loves because he can look at us, suck on his hands, and catch a glimpse of the ceiling fan, all at the same time. But this morning, he didn't want to look around, he wanted to bend over far enough so that he could try to suck on his feet. I heard the baby next door already does that.

backslash

C raises a good question related to the last post: if Fourth of July milk is Freedom, then what is 9/11 milk?

Shiver me timbers.

the susu makes us free

This is freedom milk. It's been in our freezer with other lesser tubes of breast milk, labeled with the date it was pumped, and here it is sitting in a warm cup of water to prepare it for the Prince's consumption. Preparing breast milk like this is a more frequent ritual now that school has started. Going back was a little more traumatic this time, but we are happy to report a relatively smooth transition to day time at grandpa and lola's place, and his mom has a reasonable way to pump during her work day and keep the supply up. PC's awake time is a bounty to the senses: walks around the garden, flashcards, Tagalog Talk Time, and hugs. On the all-important milk-front, we've discovered that in this new arrangement he will eat from a bottle but has a definite preference for the susu, the real receptacle. Sometimes we think he holds off on finishing bottles because he knows his mommy will be home soon ... clever boy.

I'm sure the July 5 milk is good and all (it is John and Liddy's anniversary), and I've heard nice things about the early-August vintage in the freezer, but this Fourth of July milk is probably the reason the transition back to school is going so well. The whole setting was right that day: not only did we have the aforementioned Achters in town that weekend, which is always good karma, we also made a hike (with a dog) to the river for swimming and we ate hamburgers and hot dogs in a big barbecue cookout that was scrumptious. If memory serves, we even ended the day with a couple scoops of Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream. Folks, is this not the stuff of Family Fourths everywhere?!? All we're missing is some red, white and blue bunting on our windows.

If ever there are more McCarthy hearings, and they round up academics to grill them about being communists, I plan to testify next to a four-by-six foot print of this image to demonstrate my family's commitment to the American way.

Patriotism? Loyalty? My family drinks it with their milk, sir.