Of all the things Ashton Kutcher has received flack for—Punk’d, Dude, Where’s My Car? his portrayal of Steve Jobs—I found it ludicrous he got pushback after the birth of his daughter.
“And this will be, the one thing we remember.”
~ OK Go
My son is two-and-a-half years old. His favorite song is The One Moment, by OK Go. I have to sing it to him every night before bed, like a lullaby. If it comes on when we’re in the car, he shouts “Color Band!”—his name for them—and begins shouting out all the colors as they appear in the video.
(If you’re not familiar, you should check it out.)
He’s at a particularly loving stage in life; his current modus operandi regarding avoiding bedtime is to become particularly snuggly, demanding hugs and kisses. And not just any hugs and kisses, my son has specific ways of giving and receiving affection.
Several months ago, Mercer park in Iowa City, Iowa (duh), received the state’s largest play structure for children. It had multiple slides, a toddler climbing wall, swings aplenty, and the focus of this piece: a footbridge.
The footbridge was just over six feet off the ground—I could stand under it and almost touch it with the tippity-top of my head—and connected the climbing wall to the main structure. When I saw it, I immediately thought of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The ending, specifically, when Indy is trapped on a rope bridge far above a river, Thuggee members closing in on him menacingly.
I take my children to the library every Monday.
We return our stack of books from the previous week, and then my daughter—age four—runs around grabbing new tomes for me to soothe her to sleep with. Being four, she chooses according to what’s on the cover. When we head to check out, I carry a stack of princesses, baby animals, and other such items of note that tend to appeal to young girls.
(My son, for the record, heads straight to the computers. He is two-years-old, has his favorite reads at home, and is particular when it comes to adding new titles.)
Last Monday, my daughter threw a book titled I Am Jazz into the pile.
On Monday, my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter stayed home from daycare.
She wasn’t technically sick, but you can’t go in within 24-hours of having a fever over 101 degrees, and on Sunday she peaked at 102. She had actually carrying the fever for five days by then, so we made an appointment with her pediatrician to make sure we weren’t dealing with an infection or anything worse.
When it was time to start our family, my wife and I made a discovery: we couldn’t make babies the old fashioned way.
My wife wasn’t ovulating. Her eggs, though healthy, wouldn’t pop out of the ovary and into the fallopian tube for fertilization. My sperm, for that matter, couldn’t fertilize anything even if they found an egg. Sperm needs to be plentiful, and a specific shape. Great numbers, because so many don’t make the the entire journey to the egg. Pointed heads, because they need to pierce that egg in order to create an embryo. My swimmers had flat heads. They could bump up against an egg all they wanted, but had no way to enter.