What's a girl to do?

Get fab-glamulous! Do your papa's nails and have him return the favor.

My father is a very handy guy (built a barn by himself, donchaknow), and he brought down his special tools of destruction- a long metal pry bar, some shovels, and a sledgehammer. We dug around the concrete slab that anchored the hoop's pole, pried at it a little, yanked on the pole a little, and with a lusty shout of "Timber!" the hoop came gently down, revealing a 3 x 3 x 3 foot concrete slab. Undaunted, I put on my old goggles from chemistry class and started whacking at the slab with the sledge. Pointy shards of concrete flew everywhere, accompanied by small puffs of dust. I whacked for about fifteen minutes and then paused to assess my progress. The slab lay there in the sun, barely altered by my sledging.

Time for Plan B. We didn't actually have a Plan B, but fairly quickly decided on renting a jackhammer. It is a little surprising what one can rent. Diamond-toothed circular saws for thirty bucks an hour, small front-loaders for forty, and one of those Ditch Witch thingies (they have what looks like a ten-foot chainsaw on one end, a scoop on the other, and perfectly resemble my idea of a post-apocalyptic gladiatorial robot) for sixty. You can just walk in there, sign a form, receive no instruction, and take home a really dangerous power tool. Our jackhammer was a comparative steal at 30 bucks for four hours. (plus gas).

I'd often dreamed of jackhammering as a young boy. It just looked like fun, plus it enabled one to access the secret hidden world that lay beneath the streets and sidewalks. My favorite G.I. Joe villain was Ripper, who was armed only with a chainsaw and jackhammer specially modified for combat.

The grown-up reality, like owning a portable phone or voting, fell far short of the boyhood dream. The jackhammer was painfully loud, heavy, and difficult to employ against the odd angles of the concrete slab. The chisel frequently became stuck, and, for two of the four hours that I had paid for, seemed merely to make decorative holes in the otherwise smugly impervious slab.

Suddenly, however, the dozens of holes I'd hammered reached a critical vacuum, and the slab was suddenly two smaller slabs.

I was leaning heavily on the jackhammer when this happened, and my triumph was fleeting as I suddenly pitched forward into the hole. This became the pattern as I made progress and became increasingly exhausted- I used my back and legs more and more to put weight on the chisel, and therefore fell more frequently into the hole.

And then it was over, with twenty minutes to spare. We buried some of the concrete pieces and Doug, Molly, Mar, and Aimee hauled the rest of the debris, the pole, the hoop, and the backboard out to the landfill. I had fulfilled my fantasy of destroying something with a jackhammer, and the next day limped gratefully back to the office to think about microbes.

Have no fear, I'm not deflated that my boyhood dream turned out to be painful and tedious. And, actually, those brief moments when the slab suddenly gave way were delicious. It's just unfortunate that they were punctuated by sudden, terror-filled flops into a hole full of jagged concrete. No, sometimes it feels good to take a fantasy, hold it up to the light of day, and then toss it over your shoulder.

Also, as a non sequitur, Adelaide really likes to ride in the tire swing, and is happy to share the joy with a somewhat-more-anxious boy.

So, you may remember that flooding that happened here in Iowa City in May and June of this year ... The waters have now mostly receeded and we were able to take in the delights of the Devonian Fossil Gorge that was recently whitewater. Early Saturday morning, Adelaide deftly moved up and down the long, flat limestone steppes, spotting "old animals" captured in the rock. We walked the length of the gorge, from the spillway to the Iowa River, about a 1/2 mile.

On Sunday morning, after causing a mild interruption of an ongoing Triathalon in getting to the trailhead, we found ourselves in a quiet wood. We could see signs of Autumn: leaves are turning yellow, acorns are falling, and a young fawn's spots are fading. But the real highlight of this morning's walk was the plethora of mushrooms along our trail. We saw fancy red-capped ones with spikes, pumpkin-colored orange shelf ones, strange, curly white ones, and tiny little brown families of mushrooms peering out of hollow trees. We had great fun pointing them out, and Adelaide quickly learned the custom of the trail compliment, saying "Good eye, Mama!" when I pointed out a new sight.

Kelli, Cha-Cha, and Fred visited us in our new home last weekend ... We had a blast strolling through Amana, playing board games, making and eating elaborate meals, and generally having a lot of laughs.

When I accepted my present job back in Spring of this year, I knew that I’d be working a combination of day shifts and night shifts ... And last week, I got more than a taste of overnights. I worked forty-eight hours of overnights. In celebration of my achievement, I’ll offer a brief list of insights, should you ever find yourself working overnight on a Mother-Baby unit.

1) You can deliver safe, effective patient care without caffeine. Yes, Friends, it’s possible! I drank my last carbonated, caffeinated beverage one week ago today! I was concerned about the amount of caffeine I’d been taking in since starting work back in July - my daily average was at least three cups of coffee and two cans of Diet Coke with Lime. So, what better way to nip a bad habit in the bud than on the night shift when everything is weird to your body anyway? (For the record, I have been enjoying one modest cup of coffee on my days off ...)

2) You can sleep successfully during the daytime ... If the lights are off. And if Adelaide’s voice isn’t ringing through the house. And if the fan is on. And if Nine is in the basement. And if the air conditioning is on. And if our next-door neighbor isn’t working on his lawn, his motorcycle, or his roof.

3) You can subsist on two meals per day. I found that eating a big supper with Joel and Adelaide and then having a big breakfast in the morning (before trudging off to bed) was the best for me ... Eating a giant “lunch” at 2:30 in the morning is bizarre. Perhaps I’m in denial about my job or working the night shift, I refuse to have “lunch” in the middle of the night. I do think “midnight snack” is a more appropriate moniker and way-of-life for me - I will not forget the fact that I am not a nocturnal creature, and so lunch is a daytime thing.

4) You will not find time to sleep on your shift. Before I’d attempted a night shift, I foolishly believed that I might be able catch a cat-nap working overnight. I was wrong. In fact, it’s a bustling, busy place with babies coming into the world at any time of day or night. And, what’s more, new Moms and Families will send their babies to be cared for in the nursery more overnight than during the daytime. Moms seem to need that precious shut-eye to handle the barrage of doctors, residents, paperwork, and visitors that show up during the daytime, so nighttime is the best time to be that nurse who coos, cuddles, feeds, and rocks new babies. But, that’s typically not me so far ... Nope, there’s been too much charting, too many antibiotics, too many fundal checks, and too many admissions for that sort of soothing work.

5) You will not be able to do this kind of work without a Joel. If you ever find yourself in my position, will not be able to work your scheduled hours and then sleep your sleep without help from a Joel. He will help you by getting your kid dressed and to daycare in the morning, working hard for his own paycheck (and personal sense of accomplishment, of course), getting supper on the table at night, taking care of your kid’s cries through the night, getting up the next morning to do it all over again and giving you a bouquet of flowers to keep you going ... Yes, you must have a Joel.

So, we’ve got three more night shifts this week before I’ll be back on days for more than a month ... Being a night owl isn’t so bad, but I am a little sleepy ...

As a coda to an already long entry, a few words about professionalism. I struggled writing this entry because I am, subtly, criticizing one of my colleagues at my institution. While I haven't mentioned them by name (or indicated gender), and on this page I don't identify where we're living, someone with access to Adelaide's electronic record could figure out who I'm talking about. It would, of course, be unethical (and grounds for termination) for them to do so, but it's still possible.

Doctors are like office workers anywhere: they occasionally indulge in bashing each other. I've often felt that doctor-on-doctor bashing is an unprofessional habit, especially when it's done publicly (it's in all of our best interests that patients trust doctors, isn't it?), so let me emphasize (and get myself off the hook) that I'm criticizing my colleague as a patient reacting to their poor interpersonal skills. My colleague was perfectly appropriate as a clinician conducting a well-child exam. Kind of a pinhead, though, if you know what I mean.

Some Saturday afternoons, when the sunlight is just so, you realize that there will be plenty of time for updates about the things you've done and seen the first month in your new home.

Sometimes you realize that the most important thing on the day's agenda is just to enjoy fresh spray of water, the angle of the light, the song of the birds, and the laughter of your family.

I'll leave it to her to report on the actual goings-on of her job, because this entry is actually a self-centered lament. Aimee has moved out of the clinic and into the Mother-Baby Unit, which means that she has moved out of the public sphere of medical care and into the highest-security branch of the whole apparatus. There are vials of potential bio-warfare agents across the hall from me that are less well-guarded than Aimee's workspace. Which is appropriate, and good, but it also means that, as a pathology resident and husband, I'll never see Aimee work.

I can attest that Aimee still looks terrific at work, because when I came by the unit to drop off a can of caffeine the other day she came out and took it from me. She's always a blur of baby blue, now, as all the nurses wear the same color every day. I would expect that she still smiles, but I'm not certain that she laughs. My fancy resident badge has no effect on the door, and I can't get past the front desk (staffed by a duo that I instantly recognized as Woe and Despair). Maybe, if I turn out my pockets and ask very meekly, they'll let me stand in front of their desk for a while and listen.

Also, doing my best to keep my crotch underneath a desk and not standing up. When forced to stand, keeping a hand in front of my crotch at all times can work, but can be difficult when I have to use both hands to do something. Plus, I'm not sure, but it may look weirder to have a hand floating in a masking/protective manner in front of my crotch all the time than to just have people see the stain. I have also, following the example of the suddenly-and-embarassingly-adolescent-male main character in "Then Again, Maybe I Won't" kept an appropriately-sized book to hand with which to shield the crotch of my pants. I think that looks less weird than just using my hand. To my recollection, I've never spilled on my crotch and then gone home. This surprises me, because I've ditched out on school and work for some pretty flimsy reasons, but after spilling on the crotch of my pants, I just soldier on with my day, legs tightly crossed and hands/props strategically placed.

Interestingly, prevention is not part of my plan. I'm not about to stop eating and drinking while doing other things, it just wouldn't be worth it, even to spare myself the humiliation of having stained pants. And, now that I'm a real doctor, I have even less incentive to change my ways, for now I am entitled to wear a full-length white coat. Medical students are forced to wear waist-length white coats, which actually tended to accentuate any stains on my pants, as the stark white top contrasted glaringly with the large discolored spot on the crotch. The white coat (which I take off or at least unbutton or open when eating or drinking), however, can be buttoned and furled to cover the evidence of any unfortunate accidents. This is the latest and greatest benefit of earning my medical degree.

As the bus rumbled around the corner, Kinnick Stadium came into view. Emblazoned on the gargantuan scoreboard is an image of the University of Iowa mascot, the tiger hawk.

Adelaide caught sight of the hawk and said, at the top of her little 2 year-old voice, "Go Hawkeyes!"

All of the riders within range (i.e., 1/3rd of the bus, including the bus driver) laughed.

Don't get me wrong, moving and starting new careers and "school" (in Adelaide's case) has been hard work. Add together all of the humidity, eight-to-ten hour workdays, and still-packed boxes, and you'll find a perfect recipe for three crabby, sweaty, tired people. Still, we're managing to stay friends. When I asked Adelaide today on our way home if she liked living in Iowa City she replied, "Pretty well."

Nine, however, is another case altogether ... Robbed from the beautiful, full-of-nestlings backyard she owned in Vermillion, Nine is learning the ways of an Indoor Life. Not natural for cats, you say? Shocking, you say? Welcome to Iowa City, Nine, where all, yes all, animals are required to be on a leash when out-of-doors. Whoever has heard of a cat on a leash?!? When Nine turned in her Match List, the University of Iowa was NOT on the list, perhaps we ought to have reconsidered our rank list ...

Hmmm ...

Naaaaah!

Go Hawkeyes!

Despite the fact that I've only been gone for four days, and despite the fact that it is nice to take a break from parenting, it's hard to be absent from my family. Adelaide is just starting to really converse on the phone, and during my frequent calls she'll tell me about her life and we'll sing songs together, and I'll have difficulty deciding between laughing and crying.

But this time is a nice reminder of how lucky we are not to be separated regularly or for long periods of time. And in celebration of our long period of togetherness, here are some previously unseen pictures of our adventures.

Here's one from our Bemidji trip that I really like. The statue of Paul Bunyan is about three times my height, and Adelaide is a little more than 1/3 my height.

And here we are at Animal Land, the largest private family zoo in the nation (using, I'm pretty sure, a very specific and narrow definition of "private family zoo").

Sartell had its summer festival a few weeks ago, complete with parade. Adelaide quickly caught on to the idea of scurrying out into traffic in chase of thrown candy, and collected quite a bag of barely edible sugary delights. We're now trying to divert her frequent requests for her bag of candy into discussions of potty training and the kinds of sugary delights that are given to girls who use the potty. It's slow going.

My solitude ends tomorrow, as Aimee tells me the moving truck has been expertly packed up, the poopship has been loaded onto a tow dolly, and they are all set to haul our earthly possessions down I-35 and across I-80 for six-to-seven hours and then unload 'em all again. On my end, all the papers are signed, I'm in possession of a key, and no one seems to have thought better about lending us hundreds of thousands of dollars, so very soon we'll all be together again in our new home.

Since our departure from Vermillion, we've been kickin' it in Minnesota with our families.

Early on, after the U-Haul was returned and our possessions safely stowed in a 10x15 square foot storage cube, we ventured north and visited Molly and Doug in Bemidji. We introduced Adelaide to the Mighty Mississip at Itasca's headwaters; we took a glorious 12-mile bike ride up hill and down at Itasca; we shook hands with Paul and Babe on Lake Bemidji; we met the tigers, lemurs, camels, and deer of Animal Land; we took a strolling tour of the farm, picked countless woodticks off of one another, happened upon an Indigo Bunting and a Grosbeek at Molly's feeders, and patted Numa and Breezy (the horses) often. We enjoyed a relaxing, memorable time at Molly and Doug's, and left the camera at home ... Growl.

Beginning with Golf ... We have been golfing a lot. And by we, I mean Joel. Joel can be found out on The Links every other day, shaving points off his score and trying to improve his drives. Adelaide and I are mostly along for the ride.

One beautiful Saturday, we took in the sounds and smells of the animals of the Minnesota Zoo ... Adelaide had a blast at the petting zoo and successfully rattles off the names of the animals she chanced to see: "Goat, Chicken, Bunny, Cow ... Shark." It was a good day.

Today we took advantage of the family children's museum membership we purchased in Iowa City and played for nearly three hours at the St. Paul Children's Museum; our membership in Iowa allows us free access to other cool museums in the US. Adelaide and I pretended to munch plastic corn cobs, oranges, tarts, and chicken legs at a mock feast.

We have encountered many turtles in our short Minnesota stay, including a timid painted turtle at a park/wetland behind my parents' home, so when Adelaide had a chance today to "try on" a turtle's vestments she dove right in!

All day long Adelaide played and pretended, but to Joel and I said only the necessary words, like "Me need 'nack" (translation: I would like a little something to eat, please) and "Me go 'dere" (translation: I would like to explore that exhibit, please). The exception was an animated conversation she had with Joel via a beaver puppet.

Scorched Earth allows its players to re-enact the eastern front of World War II, the great land battle between Nazi Germany and Stalinist Soviet Union. With a rule book stretching to 87 pages, and each two-week game turn taking Nate and me a little longer than two weeks, Scorched Earth is for serious war game geeks only. Shown here are the German 61st infantry division and the 108th engineer regiment (with an Australian dollar for scale), both of which came to grief at the gates of Leningrad.

Nate moved to Brookings in the eighth grade and, because my friend Chris was his peer natural helper (whatever that was), and we had the same home room, and we quickly recognized each other as members of the same social class (Geeks, But Not Totally Irredeemable*), we agreed to hang out. During our very first afternoon of hanging out, Nate introduced me to wargaming. I’d played the odd game of Risk before then, but The Battle of Krynn was far more complex, confusing, and wonderful.

In my memory, we graduated from wargames that could be played in an afternoon to Scorched Earth in a matter of months. I remember Nate selling me on it (it cost something like $150), by emphasizing its hugeness (3000 game pieces and an eight-food wide playing space), and then for the rest of our school days we spent a lot of our time searching for a place to put it, setting it up, putting it away, and then looking for another place to put it. At one time or another it resided on a ping-pong table in Nate’s basement, on the floor in my basement, and on the floor of Nate’s bedroom, necessitating a tricky double jump to get from his bed to the door.

We play it via email now, so there’s no need to bargain for playing space and, I suppose, no need to treasure a few cardboard counters. But one look at the 61st and I’m carried away by a sense-memory of basement murk and dust, my fingers cramp into the uncomfortable claw necessary to organize and move with precision a stack of eight little cardboard squares, and my mind slips into thoughts of diversion and counterthrust, the search for a weakness in the defense, and the decisive maneuver that will, for the smallest and most personal stakes imaginable, bring triumph.

*The male social strata of Brookings Middle School, from least to greatest:
Total Geeks
Geeks, But Not Totally Irredeemable
Violent Criminal Lunatics
Jocular Suckerfish
Wrestlers
Rich Kids
Those Who, Because of Their Aptitude For Football and Basketball, Are As Gods

Last summer, Joel's grandmother Mar gave us a set of lichen-encrusted adirondack lawn chairs. Mar's chairs had happily weathered Nebraska prairie summers beneath a fruit-bearing tree for the last decade. The chairs were uprooted from their cozy spot on Mar's little farm to our front lawn in Vermillion after she decided to move. When we moved last week, the adirondacks made the long trip from South Dakota to Minnesota. They've found a temporary home ringing my parents' backyard fire pit and a revived look under my dad's power washer and Joel's steady hand.

During our courtship, Joel refurbished an ancient picnic table for me one summer when we lived in Minneapolis. The picnic table had been salvaged from the dump by Molly during Brookings annual Clean-Up Days in the early 1980s and sat for years in the Mirons' backyard enjoying many outdoor feasts, its peeling paint and warped boards often hidden by a tablecloth. Joel and I saved the table from another curbside sale and hauled it to my apartment in Minneapolis. After Joel refurbished the table, using tools loaned from a traveling theatre company (Joel performed the part of Sebastian in Shakespeare's The Tempest that summer), the Mirons' old picnic table was transformed into my dining room table. And until recently, it was our primary table, seeing scores of meals, birthdays, dinner parties, batches of cookies, craft projects, and homework in its 10-year lifespan. I have many memories in which that table serves as a centerpiece to all the action of my young life.

It seems to be our thing - recycling old, worn furniture, stabilizing it for another 10 or 20 years use. It's kind of fun to take a scabbed-over, wobbly thing, add a little elbow grease, and make a little heirloom out of it.

I wonder what fun times the new-used adirondacks will afford us?