Posted on November 10, 2024
The Caca Campaign: A Potty Training War Journal
Potty training. Two words that stoke the fear of parents more than any others. And yet, it is inevitable. Thus were the thoughts of my wife and I as we entered this most trying of times.
Where others dread, however, we prepared. Both of us have experience with operational planning, and we leveraged that to the maximum extent. We studied the art of potty training and our adversary. We read books by experts and learned the shape of the campaign to come. Most importantly, we fortified ourselves both mentally and spiritually.
The night before we began our campaign, we looked at each other. I saw fear in my wife’s eyes, but also hope. Courage, even. We have fought in wars and led others through adversity. This might be hard, but it was doable.
What fools we were.
Day 1
Our plan called for a four-day campaign. I spent the majority of day one at work, receiving updates via text as the battle commenced. The initial phase called for scorched earth tactics—have the toddler get rid of his diapers, then run around sans pants to let him know he ain’t in Kansas anymore.
He approached the situation warily, like a tiger smelling something on the wind that bodes ill. My wife texted with confidence that the situation was well in hand. Then, radio silence.
My dread grew as time passed with no update. Had the adversary counterattacked? Was the plan still in effect? I could do nothing but wait and hope.
Finally, a message arrived: “He had an accident, had to clean it up.” The battle took its first casualty, but there would be more to come.
Several hours later, I returned home to the battlefield. The first thing I saw was my half-naked toddler running to the door to greet me, joy on his face. The second thing I saw was my wife, though I barely recognized her. I had left a green recruit that morning, eager for combat and the promise of glory. I returned home to a grizzled veteran, one who has seen the other side and knows glory for the false idol that it is.
I quickly hopped into the fight, eyes locked onto my son for any twitch or dribble that might signal an oncoming firefight. Despite our best efforts, he had a second accident. But hope remained, because we finished out the remainder of the evening with only those two incidents. We could do this, we though to ourselves. We had the initiative.
But the power of the toddler could not be denied.
Day 2
The second day started with rage. From the moment we opened his bedroom door, our toddler ensured we knew his intense displeasure with the situation. Tears were shed as the battle began, and what hopes we had gained the previous day evaporated under the onslaught.
Accident after accident assailed us, the blows raining down on us in unending sequence. Time stretched, the minutes passing like hours. We debated giving up, either by going back to diapers or pouring kitty litter all over the house.
But then, the tide shifted once again. Somehow, we convinced our child to sit on his little toilet, and he unleashed two days of pent of poop in a single blow. Simultaneously, his attitude shifted remarkably for the positive. I am no biologist, but the timing makes the two events seem linked.
This was our D-Day moment. We had taken the beach, and the adversary was in full retreat. All we had to do now was press home our advantage, and victory would be ours.
Day 3
Momentum is funny thing. When you have it, it seems inevitable that it will continue. Small hiccups along the way are waved away, even as their friction slows your progress. Then you look up and find yourself stationary, with only a brief moment of denial flaring as momentum turns against you.
Day two may have ended with the Allies taking the beaches of Normandy, but day three consisted of trench warfare on the Somme. Massive casualties were sustained on both sides for minor gains, soon to be wiped out from adversary’s the next salvo. Shell shock and thousand-yard stares became the norm as both sides settled in for a protracted conflict.
What our child did not know is that we had reinforcements coming. An aunt and uncle were coming to dinner that evening, and we prayed they would be enough to break the stalemate. They did. Unfortunately, it broke in our toddler’s favor.
Where we hoped that his excitement at seeing them would translate into a desire to impress them with his newfound potty skills, our toddler took a different path. He chose to demonstrate his excitement by peeing all over himself multiple times, smiling and laughing as he did. The sound haunts me still.
I don’t know if the aunt and uncle will ever come back.
Day 4
While the first day’s battle was my wife’s to fight, the last day’s would be mine. She kissed me as she left the battlefield for work, and I felt in it that she worried it would be our last. I swore then and there that I would do whatever it took to get back to her.
My toddler and I locked eyes, and battle was joined.
What I soon realized is that his attempted breakout the night before was his Battle of the Bulge: a list ditch effort meant to break through our resolve, but one that could not be followed up on if it failed. His will met ours, and found itself wanting.
Time after time, my son told me that he needed to potty and went cooperatively to his toilet. No accidents occurred, no meltdowns, no moments of panic or drippage. It was as if he had surrendered completely, a post-WW2 Germany more inclined towards making amends than taking revenge. Victory, it seemed, was ours.
My wife came home in shock. We had endured the trial and the flame and emerged. Battered and bruised, yes, but emerged all the same. She came and took our toddler in her arms, looking up at me with pride. I had finally accomplished something miraculous, something that made her think perhaps she had made the right choice selecting me as her husband.
And then our son peed all over himself.
Posted on October 27, 2024
Lessons from Sue the T-Rex: Why We All Need Moments of Wonder
Last week, I went to Chicago’s Field Museum to visit Sue the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Did you know it’s the most complete T-Rex skeleton ever found? Or that one of the only artificial parts of the skeleton on display is the skull, because the real skull is studied so frequently? Or that Sue was about thirty years old when he/she died? Or that we still don’t know if Sue was a he or a she?
I didn’t know any of this. What I do know is that Sue reminded me that dinosaurs are awesome. More importantly, Sue taught me that we shouldn’t lose track of the simple wonders.
I am in my mid-thirties, happily married, terminally employed, and with a toddler to occupy my every waking moment. That means my finite amount of time—the same 24 hours a day we all share—gets parceled out almost without thought. From waking up to getting ready to sitting at work to working out to changing diapers to making dinner to chores to bed. These are the routines of my week, and they take up the bulk of those 24 hours.
Where is the time to wonder? Not idle curiosity, though that is an important part. I mean the Oxford definition: “A feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.” It’s that tangible feeling when a child encounters something new, with wide eyes and an exclamation of wordless noise because what word could possibly fit such an experience?
At some point, we lose the inclination to wonder. We have seen too much, grown too jaded, or have other things on our minds. We outsource it, crawling through algorithmically provided content hoping for a flash of something that we used to find all around us. Or perhaps we find it vicariously through our children, watching their moments of wonder and feeling nostalgia for when that was us.
While we may lose the inclination, we never lose the ability to wonder. If you still have a soul, you can find those moments. All it takes is two things: stillness to stop the cacophony in your own mind so there’s room for wonder, and the humility to acknowledge there are things in this wide universe of ours far beyond what we know, and that is magical.
That is why I am grateful to Sue. Seeing that T-Rex brought me dozens of small wonders wrapped up in a single experience. I marveled at how a single tooth was the size of my forearm. I gaped at the broken ribs, imagining what titanic struggle Sue had that might have caused them. I shivered at the thought of Sue hunting me, finding myself much lower on the food chain than I’d prefer.
In that exhibit—just for a moment—I was a kid again. That’s a moment I want to have again, looking up at the world in wonder and smiling at the thought of what’s around the next corner.
Posted on October 13, 2024
Our Love is Radioactive: Why Love Needs More Control Rods and Less Firewood
In the yonder days of the internet, there was a brief moment where people realized potatoes make a better metaphor for love than roses. When I first heard this, it opened up a world of terrible metaphors and statements about love that when looked at deeply, make no sense at all—Romeo and Juliet is an allegory about why it’s dumb to make decisions purely off emotion, the statement “if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” justifies toxic behavior, and whoever thinks love means never having to say you’re sorry doesn’t know how relationships work.
I will add to this pantheon by taking down another love metaphor. Love is not a fire. Love is a nuclear reactor.
Let’s acknowledge the similarities. Both produce energy, require fuel, and provide light. These are all good things that translate easily to a loving relationship, but each handles them in distinct ways worth considering. Walk through the process of establishing a nuclear reactor, and you’ll see the parallels to a successful relationship.
First, there’s recognizing the need. Reactors don’t pop up like the endless weeds in my garden. They are placed with purpose to fulfil a known need and—just as importantly—needs into the future.
Translation: relationships are more likely to succeed if the partners understand who they are and what they need before getting started. Sure, things will change along the way, but that’s to be expected. The important part is to ensure everyone is on the same page, working towards the same end.
Next is taking the vision from paper to reality. The reactor’s foundation gets laid, support structures get established, and the facility gets connected to the local infrastructure. These aren’t the money maker actions that get all the glitz and glamour, but they are crucial for everything that goes into making a reactor functional.
Translation: everyone wants the end result of a loving relationship, but that doesn’t come from nowhere. There is a ton of effort put into making a relationship work, and most of it isn’t sexy. Everything from meeting friends and family to understanding how partners communicate best matters, and skimping on this part almost guarantees issues down the road.
Now it’s time for the magic. Fuel gets loaded, a neutron source gets added, the control rods lift, and BAM! Fission, baby. The power of the sun in the palm of your hand. Yes, I know that’s fusion, and no, I don’t care. Little bits of stardust split and split again in a chain reaction of energy that eventually comes out of the little sockets on your wall to power your karaoke machine you bought as a joke but now use more religiously than your toothbrush.
Translation: to mix metaphors, this is “The Spark™” modern society constantly gets hung up on. It’s when the focus of a relationship moves from early infatuation to something self-sustaining. Maybe it’s the first time you say “I love you,” or maybe it’s the night you both stay up laughing together till 3 AM and realize you never want it to end. It could be the shared commitment of marriage or an unspoken understanding that this connection is different, deeper. It’s all these things and none of them, and it’s unique to each relationship. What matters is the transition point from the relationship being sustained by external factors to when the internal matters more.
Your reactor is cooking, but you have to make sure its output stays within the appropriate bounds. Too little, and you can’t use your karaoke set. Too much, and HBO gets to make Chernobyl 2: This Time, It’s Personal. This is when you use your control rods and fuel insertion to maintain that smooth, steady flow of energy that keeps all the lights green and the klaxons off.
Translation: relationships aren’t static things, but they generally have a happy place they like to stay within. Doing nothing will lead to the relationship withering, while doing too much can cause it to overheat and explode. This is why it’s important for both partners to understand themselves and what they want out of a relationship, plus for both of them to know how to communicate with each other. Putting in the right amount of effort to keep things growing in a positive way is hard to do as a team. Alone, it’s impossible.
The reactor is now pumping out energy, but the work isn’t done. Up next is the countless hours of maintenance and observation needed to keep the reactor running. People have to update equipment, mend cracks in the foundation, and keep the reactor secure from threats. Reactors can run for decades, outlasting one crop of workers and moving onto the next without a single break in delivering energy.
Translation: you thought the work getting your relationship built on a solid foundation was hard? My friend, that was just the start. Now is when you hope you did your best on building the foundation, because if you didn’t, you can bet you’ll be going back trying to patch over the gaping holes as you try to keep your love from collapsing in on itself. Even if the foundations seemed perfect at the time, you have to check them constantly. Life situations change, and just like a shifting landscape, previously unknown forces can throw things into turmoil.
What about meltdowns? Well, what about them? Everyone gets all in a tizzy over nuclear meltdowns, but in seventy years, only two reactors have had major reactor incidents—Chernobyl and Fukushima Daiichi. Which has hurt more and caused more damage, nuclear meltdowns or wildfires?
Translation: yes, relationships do end, and yes, sometimes they end badly. But if you put more thought and effort into your relationship than just tossing logs on a fire and hoping things don’t spiral out of control, you’re far more likely to succeed in maintaining that relationship in a healthy way for both partners.
Congratulations, you now have a successful nuclear reactor! Unlike a fire that is harder to control and can burn out (or out of control) quickly, your firmly established and well-cared for reactor will provide a constant stream of energy for years to come. Now go find your partner, look them lovingly in the eye, and say the words every woman or man wants to hear:
“You’re my critical mass.”
Posted on September 29, 2024
Through Fire and Fluff: How I Survived a Kitchen Calamity
The flash point for your average marshmallow is 200 degrees Fahrenheit. I know this because my wife attempted to burn down our house with marshmallows a few days ago.
I was in our office when the cry for help came. My wife has very distinct tones for different scenarios. There’s the “standard operations” tone for normal situations, the “I’m tolerating this because for some reason I still love you” tone for when I go hard on puns, and my personal favorite, “Mama Bear is gonna’ cut you” tone for when she thinks someone has mistreated our son.
This time, however, it was the “things have escalated” tone. Given how competent my wife usually is, this tone is used as often as a hurricane alarm in North Dakota. I jerked upright and ran to the kitchen, ready for anything from a knife wound to an intruder soon to have a knife wound.
Fortunately, there was no blood or intruder. Unfortunately, our oven was on fire. On the top rack sat an entire tray of marshmallows, burning merrily away as though an entire Boy Scout troop had set up shop in our kitchen. I was torn on which hurt more, the potential loss of our house or the sure loss of whatever my wife had been baking.
My wife and I made eye contact. This is one of those moments where two people who know each other well can have an entire conversation in the single beat of synchronized hearts without saying a word. Ours went something like this:
“What did you do?” I asked, knowing the answer but needing to have it confirmed anyways.
“Does that really matter right now?” she countered, as the kitchen began smelling like a campfire gone horribly wrong.
“Fair. This would be an excellent time to know if our homeowner’s insurance covers marshmallow-based arson.”
“Or you could just focus and put the fire out before that becomes an issue.”
“Ahh, that makes sense. I’ll get right on that.”
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
“Try and save the marshmallows—I need them for a recipe I’m trying.”
I looked at the roaring flames in our oven, then back to my wife. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening.”
Plan of action in hand, I leapt to my wife’s defense. Luckily, we had prepared for just such a culinary emergency by buying a fire extinguisher. I threw the sink cupboard open, grabbed the extinguisher, and rose like a 90s action hero ready to save the day and win the girl. I aimed at my adversary and uttered my catchphrase: “You’re fired.”
I pulled the trigger. But instead of a white fountain of justice, all I got was a soft click. Looking down, I saw that the safety pin was still in place. “I can salvage this”, I thought to myself. “Just think how cool this will look to my wife when I pull the pin and toss it across the room like a matador twirling his cape.”
Alas, it was not to be. You know that little plastic tab that they helpfully put on fire extinguishers to ensure the pin doesn’t fall out in transit? Yeah, that was still locking in the pin. The phrase hero to zero crossed my mind, and I considered whether or not throwing the extinguisher at the fire would be a suitable last act of defiance.
Thankfully, my wife recognized the problem and intervened. She whipped out a pair of junk drawer scissors like a sheriff facing down a desperado at high noon pulling out her six shooter. The tab got cut, the pin got removed, and I was back in the fight.
I turned to face the foe once more, and started with an updated catchphrase: “If you can’t handle the heat…”
“Put the fire out!” my wife yelled.
“…get out of the kitchen,” I muttered under my breath as I pulled the trigger. White foam covered the luminous marshmallows, and the crisis was at an end. I stood there, triumphant in my moment of victory, prepared to humbly receive my well-deserved accolades.
Instead, my wife went over to the tray of marshmallows and prodded their charcoal husks with a fork. “I think I can salvage these.”
Maybe I needed a better catchphrase.
Updated on September 15, 2024
Yellowstone and Grand Tetons: A Haiku-tiful Experience
My wife and I decided life wasn’t challenging enough, so we decided to do a five-day road trip to Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons with our toddler. Remarkably, he took mercy on us and behaved like a champ. While a pleasant surprise, the unrealized emotional tension snapped back into my eye like a misfired rubber band. Instead of focusing on taming the toddler, I had only one item to direct my attention towards: the endless, all-consuming expanse that is Wyoming.
If you have not driven through Wyoming, don’t—they have airports. If you insist on doing so anyways, you must prepare yourself. Otherwise, you will find your mind wandering far afield from its usual haunts. In will plumb the depths of untrod neural pathways, seeking desperately for some relief from the monotony of endless brown.
In my head, this settled onto one phrase: the Haiku Review. Why haikus? I have no idea. Why a review? Because I knew I needed to do a Wandering, and why not talk about two of the most beloved national parks in America.
Without further ado, please enjoy the first iteration of the Haiku Review: Yellowstone and Grand Tetons edition.
Vast plains stretch ahead,
Endless sky, road never ends—
There are no bathrooms.
Who needed the stop,
Toddler or grown man? Who knows—
Dinos thrill us both.
Cautionary sign.
Child slips, geyser erupts—
Oops, there goes the kid.
Pretty pool bubbles.
Fingers itch, a dangerous game—
Ouch, hot, 9-1-1.
Bison, lone and wild.
Other animals missing—
Must have missed memo.
Old Faithful erupts
Two minutes behind schedule—
Got my money back.
Massive log cabin,
Majestic, peaceful, serene—
Tourists everywhere.
Gorgeous waterfall.
Toddler tried his best to jump—
No swimming for you.
Grandest of Tetons,
Peaks scrape the azure above—
Switzerland got lost.
Milky Way, so bright.
Mosquitos, pesky, buzzing pests—
Stars obscured by bites.
Beaver’s grin calls you,
Pilgrims gather, carts in hand—
Gas station or cult?
Road trip, finally done.
Miles traveled, memories made—
Home sweet home at last
Posted on August 26, 2024
War is Gardening by Other Means: My Battle with the Weeds
I have never had much of a green thumb, but Colorado has done its best to remedy that. Unfortunately, its tool of choice has been weeds. It also decided to get a head start, with the weeds in our yard well-fortified and prepared to resist a ground assault weeks before we moved in.
Having already dealt with the wasp menace, I now had the maneuver space to take on this next foe. I went out, reached down to grab a weed grown to hip height, and promptly let go as its thorns plunged deep into my flesh like a rabid rat going after a slice of three-day old pizza.
“A general should never take too much on his own shoulders,” I said to myself. “What I need to do here is delegate.”
“That’s a great way to rationalize laziness,” I replied.
“How much blood do you want to lose pulling these weeds?” I retorted.
Internal rhetorical battle won, I lit the beacons and called for aid. Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Little did I know, yard work is a hot commodity here in the local area. I had multiple companies tell me they were too busy for new clients, and others apparently too busy to even pick up the phone. Meanwhile, I watched the weeds complete their hostile takeover of my exterior yard. They named their new territory Weedlandia and established a rudimentary form of governance that would be impressive if not for the aggressive posture they established on the borders of my lawn.
Then, as all hope seemed lost, a light. One company I had reached out to days earlier finally heard my call for aid and chose to answer. Plans were made for a walkthrough to provide an estimate. I mocked the weeds and told them their days were numbered. They waved back in the wind, unconcerned. I should have seen that for the sign it was.
The day of the estimate arrived, and my ally appeared. I knew at once that this man, no, this hero, would restore balance in my life. He got right to business, assessing the battlefield like Napoleon atop his steed. I could feel the weeds quiver in fear at his passing, and I reveled in it.
The landscape legionary finished his walkthrough, then turned to face me. “We can do it for seventeen sixty,” he said.
My first thought, I’m shamed to admit, was joy. A mere $17.60? Has righteous judgement ever been delivered on such an efficient budget before? I think not!
Then the rest of my brain caught up. “$1,760?” I clarified.
“Yep,” he said.
Ladies and gentlemen, I do not have a large yard. It is by no means cramped, but it is also no Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Twenty good steps will take you from one end to the other, and most of that is grass the weeds have yet to conquer.
Let me frame it another way. If I went to the bank and asked for 1,760 dollar bills, I would have more than enough to sew together into an awning I could use to starve every weed in my yard of sunlight, killing them just as well as my so-called hero might have done had I delivered those dollars to him instead.
I thanked the man for his time, said we would not be needing his services, and sent him on his way. The weeds—already familiar with landscaping economics on the Front Range—rustled with laughter.
The next day, I dug through a tool box and found a pair of gloves. I then spent an hour pulling out the vast majority of weeds in my yard, save for a few I elected to keep alive as test subjects for an upcoming round of chemical warfare.
As I stood upon my porch looking out over the devastation of my enemies, I felt mixed emotions. On one hand, there was the satisfactions of seeing my foe brought low, their few ragged remnants twitching halfheartedly in the wind as they stared in shock at the results of what their pride had brought them.
On the other hand, tearing out the waist high weeds really accentuated how half of my lawn is dead or dying. But that, dear reader, is a war I have yet to fight.
Posted on August 11, 2024
A Man, A Wasp Nest, and a Lesson in Critical Thinking
I have a swollen lump on my thigh about the size of a tennis ball. It’s red. It itches. All in all, an unpleasant experience—zero stars, would not recommend. Why, you ask, do I have a red, itching lump on my thigh? Because, I answer, I am a man. This means I am large in stature, but occasionally stumble when it comes to critical thinking.
Three days ago, my son and I decided to spend some time in our backyard together. He loves to run and I love to watch him run and tire himself out before bedtime. Everyone wins. After a solid round of wind sprints, he decided to take a rest on one of the patio chairs near our propane firepit.
Enter the wasps. You see, at some point during the previous owner’s tenure, a horror of wasps decided to nest in the interior of the firepit where the propane tank goes. I have no evidence that this is why they left it for us, but you could say the circumstances kindled my suspicions. Regardless, I was well aware at this point in time that they festered within the dark crevices of the firepit, awaiting the smallest of provocations to unleash their fury upon the world.
This is where I blacked out. I have spent the last three nights staring at the ceiling, wondering what could have possibly possessed me to do what I did next. I have no answers. Were I in the court of law, I would claim temporary insanity. Given that I was tried in the court of marriage, I claimed temporary stupidity. My loving wife is convinced of the second part, but has her reservations on the first.
Regardless, what happened next is I stood up from the chair, walked to the firepit, and threw open the propane tank access door. Upon opening it, I discovered the largest wasp nest west of the Mississippi hanging off the inside of said access door.
The wasps, needless to say, were upset. They charged out to do battle like the Mongol hordes across the Eastern European steppes, their multifaceted eyes filled with rage and bloodlust. I, being a man, did the age-old dance of men who have startled dangerous insects—a graceful combination of flailing arms and high knees while executing a slow to moderately paced rotation.
Midway through my first rotation, I realized that my two-year-old son was well within the blast radius of the wasp apocalypse. This is when I experienced my very own “suburban mother lifts car off child” moments and threw caution to the wind as I leapt to his defense. I swatted one wasp away from him, swept him off the chair, and sprinted with him back to the safety of the house held over my head like a thirty-five-pound Simba getting presented to the animals he would soon eat.
We made it inside and shut the glass door, a barrier wasp-kind has yet to figure out how to overcome. I hugged my child close, checked him for any bites or stings, then set him down and turned to face my judgement at the hands of my wife. I had one move to make at this moment, and I made it:
“That was incredibly stupid of me to do,” I said.
She opened her mouth, closed it, looked at me. “Yeah, that was dumb.”
It was at that point I looked down at my thigh and saw the rapidly swelling red spot. I had saved my son, but the Gods of Stupidity still demanded their pound of flesh. All I can say in my defense is that the wasps may have won the battle, but a can of Raid and a size ten boot ensured that I eventually won the war.
Posted on July 28, 2024
Violence Is the Last Refuge of the Incompetent
I am fond of a saying Isaac Asimov coined in his Foundation series: violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. It’s used as an insult towards those who jump to violence because they cannot—or will not—work through their issues otherwise. As our country grapples with the ramifications of the attempted assassination of former President Trump, my thoughts turn to Asimov’s line and what comes next.
It only took hours after the assassination attempt for both sides of the political spectrum to point the finger at each other as the root cause. Meanwhile, you have elected officials calling for a civil war if their guy loses the presidential election, and the Republican presidential nominee refusing to discount political violence if he loses. These are not actions to make one comfortable with the direction things are going as we head towards November.
As violent rhetoric increases, it leads to despair. Why should we try to be peaceful if the other side refuses? What’s the point in the rule of law if the other side willfully denies its existence? We may not be over the edge yet, but we are certainly flirting with it.
Political violence, however, is never the answer. In fact, we should use the proper definition for it: terrorism. Too often we disregard terrorism as something that happens “over there” but the reality is it happens here in our country as well. Anytime someone uses violence (or the threat of it) to pursue political goals, they are engaging in an act of terrorism.
Attempting to kill a presidential nominee. Naming half of the nation evil murderers. Calling for a civil war if your side loses an election. These are acts designed to stoke terror and fear. While we don’t know the motives of the shooter, we do know the motives for the violent rhetoric that has followed—political sway.
Political violence has no positive end state. Its results sit on a spectrum of bad outcomes. The best case is that no one dies, but the rule of law is weakened as people feel justified in undertaking terrorist actions like that in the first place. The worse case is an escalation spiral that leads to major conflict, like how the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand sparked off World War One.
The following months will likely fall in the middle of that spectrum. I doubt the nation will snap out of its fever dream of partisanship anytime soon, and I pray that things have not deteriorated to the point where we have a modern-day Fort Sumter event. That said, there is plenty to be concerned about regardless of where the final political violence tally lies.
For one, it hands Russia and China golden material for their global propaganda campaigns. Every moment a democracy looks chaotic is one authoritarian regimes happily use to push why their system is superior. We also should worry about how extremists on both ends of the political spectrum are inspired by such acts to carry out terrorist acts of their own.
This is generally where people say, “Sure, violence seems bad, but what if there’s no other option? Are we supposed to just accept [insert political bogeyman here] ruining our country?” To that argument, I have two counterpoints. First, the data clearly show that nonviolent campaigns to enact political change—even in authoritarian regimes—were ten times more likely to achieve their goals than violent ones, even if the initial campaign initially seemed unsuccessful.
Second, law only exists because we believe in it. There is nothing written into the fabric of our genome that dictates whether or not I will jaywalk, shoplift, or commit assault. I follow these laws because I believe they are right and just, and because they align with my values. If someone starts believing that the other side are all evil murderers, that sending death threats to the family members of people with different political beliefs is an acceptable weekend activity, or that assassinating elected officials is the only recourse to fix what they perceive as a problem, then they have allowed their values to shift so far off the mark I can’t help but pity what a dark and twisted world they have created for themselves.
When President Reagan was shot in 1981, he is purported to have said to the surgery team “I hope you’re all Republicans,” to which the lead surgeon—a liberal Democrat—replied “Today, Mr. President, we are all Republicans.” Americans can be better than this current atmosphere of political vitriol. We should be better than this. Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, and there is no rational eloquent enough to hide spilled blood.
Posted on July 14, 2024
My Son Is Not A Terrorist
Terrorism is defined as the use of violence or the threat of violence in the pursuit of political goals. This comes shockingly close to the experience of living with a toddler. Toddlers embrace violence, be it hitting, kicking, biting, or any of the myriad of ways a small child lashes out with malice or glee. As for political goals, what toddler does not envision him or herself as the divine monarch of their household? In their minds, they are the state, ergo their wants are political wants.
This leaves the parents as hapless civilians under threat of constant terror. My wife and I were two such innocents recently, as our toddler has realized something chilling: his vocal cords possess strange powers capable of making his parents react in new and interesting ways. What’s truly terrifying, however, is that he listened when I jokingly talked to him as an infant about military strategy to exasperate my wife. He listened, and he learned.
We set the battlefield for this encounter by taking our son out on what we call ‘adventures’—any occasion when we leave the house, whether it be heading to daycare, the park, or his personal favorite, Costco. After the usual amount of wrangling an enthusiastic sack-of-potatoes sized toddler into a car seat, we set off. All went well at first, but we could see as we began heading home that something had changed.
His eyes took on the glint of madness we’ve come to associate with troubled waters. My wife was sitting in the back seat with him when he turned to her and let loose with a shriek so potent, nearby car windows shattered. Not content with just an opening salvo, he fired off another three in quick succession. Each assaulted our eardrums with that special resonance only toddlers are capable of, leaving us broken and afraid.
Though taken by surprise, we rallied. We are grown adults, we thought to ourselves, my eyes meeting my wife’s in the review mirror. We’ve led hundreds of people, traveled to dozens of countries, and know how to spell Roth IRA. What could this tiny human throw at us that we are not prepared for?
We centered ourselves, took a breath, and retaliated with a parent’s most devastating tactic—we ignored him. My head stayed forward, my wife turned hers away, and our toddler shrieked with growing impatience as he failed to get the reaction he craved.
He grew silent for a moment, then uttered a soft “I love you, mama.” My wife turned, her eyes glistening with tears of maternal affection towards her life’s purest joy. I gave a fist pump in the front seat, certain that our firm discipline had won the day. Victory was at hand. But the power of the toddler cannot be denied.
Sun Tzu teaches that all warfare is based on deception. Our son demonstrated his mastery of this principle as he looked my wife in the eye, smiled, and shrieked directly into her face. You could see the betrayal ripple across her features, the loving adoration turning first to shock, then despair before she hid her face away in shame from the now laughing toddler. His laughter was that of Niro, fiddling on while Rome burned.
Knowing that our retribution would be swift, our execution just, our son then implemented phase two of his plan. As a student of Clausewitz as well as Sun Tzu, he knows that the best form of defense is attack. So what does this toddler strategist do?
The exact same thing. And like fools, we fell for it. Again.
It was at this point that we realized we had but one weapon left to us. As piercing as his shriek might be, as devastating as his laughter was after seeing ourselves get fooled by a two-year-old twice in as many minutes, he has short pudgy arms incapable of reaching the front seat to adjust the volume knob.
I took that knob and cranked it. The audible assault now went in the opposite direction, Taylor Swift now our Rider of Rohan coming to aid Helm’s Deep. Paired with this came the most intensive ignoring yet, one so palpable he could not help but know we focused our efforts entirely on him. Our son’s efforts collapsed into a complete rout—blessed silence for the remainder of the car ride.
We enjoyed that silence like the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo or General Washington at Yorktown, but we knew it would not last. As every parent knows, there is no true victory against a toddler. There is only surviving until the next battle.
Updated on June 30, 2024
House Hunting: Amusing, Odd, and Criminally Inclined Homes
If it wasn’t for the fact that it’s a whirlwind of stress as you grind through a slow, agonizing death march of compromising on what you thought you held most dear, house hunting would be a fantastic activity. For one, not being homeless is a huge win. You can’t take that for granted these days, especially given the Supreme Court’s latest ruling on the matter. It’s also nice to play an adult version of “house” as you walk through potential homes, pointing at blank walls and making pithy comments like “Yeah, I bet a couch could totally go there.”
The best part about it, though, is getting glimpses into the lives of the current homeowners. Sure, you’re getting a sanitized version of what their day to day is like, but that makes it even more fun to guess. We’ve toured dozens of houses the past few weeks, and three really stand out as windows into the amusing, the odd, and the criminally inclined lives of local homeowners.
First, the amusing: Cat House. We loved this house, but sadly it wouldn’t have worked out for us given a few externalities. Nonetheless, touring it gave my wife and I each a sense of connection to the owners. For my wife, it was the multiple closets and/or rooms stocked with Christmas decorations. I kid you not, these folks had more Christmas décor on standby than Russia has functional tanks built in this century.
My enjoyment came from a more mobile source. The entire time we toured Cat House, a giant Siamese cat followed a few paces behind, waiting for scratches. This feline friend is the reason behind the name Cat House, which I took great joy in ensuring was the sole way any of us—including the realtor—referred to the home from then on.
Second, we had the Vegas Retirement Home. This house had a great location, a view second to none, and a wonderful backyard. It was also themed after a 1980s retirement home on the outskirts of Vegas, the kind of place where washed up off-Strip performers go to live out their last years in complete obscurity. I’m talking off-tan walls, fake wood paneling stained the color of mediocrity, and an alarming dedication to backsplash tile reminiscent of straight to DVD set design for Stereotypical Alien Mothership. It was the sort of place you knew from the moment you stepped in you’d never buy, but you couldn’t help yourself from walking through it to get the full experience.
Finally, we come to my personal favorite: the Russian Mafia Safe House. This was a charming home in a desirable neighborhood that, at first glance, met most of our requirements. But as we toured it, more and more items popped up that felt off. Eventually, they painted a picture that I’m convinced implies shenanigans of a less than legal nature. Allow me to elaborate.
Point one: the external camera system. When I say this, you probably envision the cameras Silicon Valley has been introducing the past decade to “disrupt” the home security scene. You know the ones—cute and sleek with minimal functionality. These were not those. These were the old guard of security cameras, the kind that make professionals think twice and small children uncomfortable. One pointed directly at anyone approaching the front door, its malevolent glare reminiscent of the Eye of Sauron as it silently asked How dare you enter these hallowed grounds?
Point two: the door. Most houses have a deadbolt and a door lock for the front door. For some security conscious folks, a chain lock may be added for peace of mind. These homeowners felt the need for something with more heft. They ripped out the entire door and replaced it with a modern day portcullis that, when engaged, shot at least eight solid steel bolts into the door frame. It’s the type of door that laughs in the face of a local police department’s battering ram.
Point three: the master bedroom. Many of the homes we toured had connections for TVs in the master bedroom. While not something we want or need, I can understand why many would. At first, I took the wiring on the wall here to be another one of those set ups, albeit an incredibly robust one. A second look—followed by a third, and a question to our realtor—revealed that this was no simple cable TV arrangement. It was the nervous system for a full security suite without the screens installed, a panopticon of integrated surveillance appropriate for federal prisons or the average Chinese living room.
Point four: the AC. Colorado being a hot place during the summer, AC units are quite common. Significantly less common are two full, separate AC units for one house, particularly with one of those systems feeding solely into a single room. That leads me to said room in Point five.
Point five: the server room. I don’t know for sure that this room held servers, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what else it might have been. For one, there’s the aforementioned dedicated AC unit. Servers run hot and need significant cooling, so unless they were aging meat in a carpeted basement room, I don’t know many other reasons for dedicated temperature control of that level. The room also was ready to rumble when it came to wiring, with outlets every two feet or so along its wall for electricity and dedicated Cat7 (yes, Cat7) ethernet cabling.
Oh, and did I mention that the entire thing was maybe the size of two closets slapped together width wise? With two separate doors to enter? When I asked the realtor for what she thought the room’s purpose was, I got a puzzled brow, a few sentences aborted halfway through, and an eventual shrug. It reminded me of a line from the show Resident Alien: “I’m getting a whole lot of random **** from this area right here.”
One of these points by themselves wouldn’t have meant much. Heck, even two probably wouldn’t have resulted in more than a raised eyebrow. But all of it together screams shady shenanigans, so I’m sticking with my original theory of Russian Mafia Safe House.
Obviously, we put an offer on it. A very nice man named Vladimir called to let us know it was no longer on the market. Shame, that.
