Neodad

So, as part of my plan to make a million playing poker on line, I entered my first cash tournament last night. It cost me $2.20 of my $5 gift from PokerStars.

Fifteen minutes before the tournament began, I sat watching as the number of players entered rose: 542, 543, 544. The maximum number of entries was set at 2,750. If that many get in before registration closes, it will take a long night of poker to win. But hey, the more that enter, the more money on the line. Thirteen minutes to go, 600 entered.

I’ve played poker on line for several years now. But never for cash. I’ve played in my local bar on Wednesday nights. Again, not for cash. I’ve played with my buddies on a Friday night. That one’s for cash, and I usually do fairly well. Actually, in most of the games, I do okay. But this is the first on-line cash game and I’m interested to see how people play it.

Ten minutes to go, 700 players entered.

Okay, five minutes to go. 975 players entered. Checklist time:

Kids are in bed.

Dog and cat have been fed.

VCR is taping Hell’s Kitchen for later.

I’ve peed.

Fire’s been stoked.

We’re good.

I check the list of players. There are poker fans from all over North America and beyond. I see Montreal, Welland, Los Angeles, Sioux Lookout, Toronto, Dahlonega, Snohomish, Belfast, London, Quebec and Moscow to name but a few. Registration is now closed. 1,770 players have entered. The prize pool is $3,540. First prize is $557.56. Those who finish between 241st and 252nd get the bottom prize of $3.18. Game on.

Seventeen minutes in. 250 players have been eliminated. I’ve had one good hand and a couple not too bad. I’ve bluffed a few times and have not been caught. I’ve more than doubled the stake I started with. Not bad, but could be better.

Okay, we’re almost one hour in. I’m holding, but not improving. And in these tournaments you need to be improving. You also need to not panic. That is, at times, difficult. When your chip count is getting low, it’s always tempting to go all in with a marginal hand, just to catch up. Patience my friend, patience. Breathe.

Yes, I am low stack at the table right now. But there is plenty of time. Okay, just bluffed and got caught. It is now officially panic time. Extremely low stack. All in with Queen-Ten suited. Guy calls with 9-10 off suit. Flops the nine, picks up the 10 on the turn. Got two of my spades on the flop, didn’t get the last one. Game over. I’m not rich, finished in 955th place.

Okay, lessons learned? Stay the course, unless you need to veer off course. Be patient, be patient, be patient, until you need to increase your stack now, now, now. It’s a long tournament. Play quality hands and don’t push a bluff beyond what you can afford to lose. Unless it’s a great bluff. 

Okay, I’ve still got $3.80 left and I’m ready for the next tournament. Big money’s a comin’.

Well, the financial joy of becoming a stay-at-home dad is beginning to rear its cash-strapped head. I didn’t make a fortune as a bartender, but I made enough that we’re feeling its absence.

So I’m now trying to come up with ways to make a little extra cash. My first thought was to become a professional on-line poker player. But, as of yet, I have not summoned the courage to put 50 bucks into PokerStars. The good news, however, is that a few days ago, the good folks at PokerStars credited my account with $5, which I must use within a week, or lose it. It’s a marketing thing, kind of like, hey kid, try this stuff. It’s free today. Go ahead. It’ll make you feel good. A little won’t hurt you . . .

I’ll let you know how I make out with the $5. I plan to enter a couple of $1 tournaments this week, after the kids go to bed. I’ll let you know when I make my first million.

In the meantime, I am looking for ways to make money writing. After all, I used to do it professionally. People actually paid me to write and edit. So, if you’re reading this, you owe me $100. Send your cheques to . . .

The world of on-line, stay-at-home work is a treacherous one. I’ve spent the last few days doing internet searches for LEGITIMATE work-from-home opportunities. From the millions of hits on my search, I found only one that looked promising so far. And one must be a U.S. citizen or resident to apply. Grrr.

So my quest continues. This will thus be a short entry. I will update more often as the search continues. Stay tuned.

Well, I’m back from Playgroup.

And I need to make a correction to one of my previous entries. February is not Reading Month. January was Reading Month. February is Nursery Rhymes Month. I know you’ll all sleep better knowing that. I will.

And today’s Craft was a little book, made in the shape of the child’s hand and bound with yarn. A little complex for a 3-year-old, but I guess the Ham Radio kits hadn’t arrived yet. As for the book project, an example was provided to follow. The first page, or cover, had “Sonwun’s Story,” written on it. Page two was supposed to list something he liked to do: “Sonwun likes to play baseball.”

Page 3: “Sonwun loves Mommy, Daddy and Sontoo.”

Page 4: “Sonwun likes to eat toast and jam.”

Well, fortunately, there was a group of Grade 8 students there to help out. Now before I go on here, I should mention that the “young helpers” have been another bone of contention for me. Usually, they are Grade 5s and, sorry, they’re relatively useless. And, in some cases, they’re detrimental. They actually compete for the toys with the 0 to 4-year-olds. These Grade 8s, however, left a much better impression. They seemed to actually understand why there were there. And I appreciated it. While I sat back with Sontoo, enjoying a cup of crappy coffee, young Austin (Grade tackled the unenviable task of assisting Sonwun, who, as previously mentioned, loves to spread glue, colour everything and cut with scissors in no particular pattern. In the end, the two of them pulled it off. Austin really impressed me with his patience and willingness to stick it out to the end. Really nice to see in one so young.

And there was some other good news. Jake was there this week with his son. So I had someone talk to and commiserate with as Austin attempted to learn what Sonwun’s favourite food and favourite activity were.

While the mommies sat at the far end of the room, Jake and I worked on some additional pages for the little books:

Page 5: “Sonwun prefers his martini shaken, not stirred.”

Page 6: “Sonwun thinks massive spending is not the best way to beat a recession.”

Page 7: “Sonwun is Pro Choice, now that he and his brother are safe.”

Or one for little Mercedes’ book (the little princess with a proper, pristine mommy from hell) : “Mercedes likes her coffee like her men . . .”

Would have killed to see Mommy’s face if we slipped that into her little book.

Anyway, we kept our pages out of the little books. And, while Sonwun really had no idea what was going on with that book, his Mommy loved it. As soon as she saw it, she insisted we put the date on it and put it away in a memory book. So, mission accomplished. And I guess that’s why it’s mostly mommies at these little gatherings and this is why we do these silly little crafts.

And here’s the exciting part . . . as February is Nursery Rhyme Month, next week, the kids are supposed to dress up as their favourite Nursery Rhyme character. Jake and I have already decided that next week will more likely be Wii Day at Jake’s house. 

I just don’t get it. And maybe that makes me a bad daddy, I don’t know.

I don’t mean to rag on playgroup, but I just can’t help myself. I don’t understand anything beyond the basic concept that kids need a chance to play together. That’s why I take the boys. End of story. Oh, sorry, not quite end of story. I also take them so that they can paint with their fingers and I don’t have to bath the kids, the walls, the table, the dog and the cat— just the kids.

I don’t take them so that someone else can read a story to them. I do that at home. 

I don’t take them for “Snack Time.” Again, they do that at home.

I don’t take them so that I can sit, drink really bad coffee and ignore them while they run rampant. They don’t get that anywhere.

And I don’t take them because “This Month is Reading Month.” So freakin’ what? Why, oh why, do we need a theme each month? The average age of the kids is a little under three. They don’t give a rodent’s behind that February is Reading Month. It doesn’t change the routine at Playgroup. Same schedule, same kids, same songs, same stories, same toys, whether it’s Reading Month, Alphabet Month, Vowel Month, Correct Punctuation Month, or Daddy needs a Stiff Drink to get Through This Month!  

But again, I digress.

Today was Valentine’s Playgroup. So, today’s Craft Time involved decorating a little paper bag for Valentines. And again, I don’t get it. Remember, these kids are between 0 and 4. They have no concept of Valentine’s Day. To the vast majority, that is not what Playgroup is about. It’s about (anyone?) . . . playing.

In any case, not wanting to be a bad Mommy, I sat down with Sonwun, the elder, and we attempted to decorate a paper bag. Now, to Sonwun, Craft Time is about spreading as much glue as possible, on as many things as possible. It’s about cutting paper in no particular shape or design, cause scissors are fun. It’s about rubbing markers in random places. And it’s about finding out how many stickers are in the box and how many we can use at once. So today we did it all on a brown paper bag.

Three to five minutes later, after the kids lost interest and headed off to find toys, the Mommies were busy writing the Valentines and completing the paper bags. And again, I ask why? Why, why why? The kids giving the cards don’t care. The kids receiving the cards don’t know where they came from and they don’t care either. Why do it?

Now, the “Keener Moms” brought Valentines from home. Us bad Mommies (most of us) were given Dollar Store Valentines to fill out so that they could be placed in the other kids’ paper bags. The peer pressure was palpable. But I had Sontoo in one hand and was trying to keep Sonwun out of trouble with the other. I did not have the time, or the inclination, to fill out cards on his behalf. I refused to bow to peer pressure - a better lesson for my kids than how to be phony on the holidays. (Or, if you prefer my conspiracy theory mind at work: a better lesson than beginning the Hallmark brainwashing that will compel them for the rest of their lives to purchase impersonal cards, written by others, to express their personal thoughts on birthdays and holidays. PICK UP THE PHONE PEOPLE!!)

But back to Playgroup.

If we must do something for Valentine’s Day, (and apparently we must) why not make a card for Daddy (or Mommy in my case). You know, construction paper, heart stickers and maybe an ink pad or something so that the kids can “sign” it with a handprint. Mommy would absolutely love it. The kids would be able to give it to mommy and understand why.  Okay, if we’re being honest, maybe Daddies wouldn’t appreciate it quite as much as Mommies. But at least the kids would have some idea of what they’re doing and why. (And Hallmark would be deprived of another lifelong customer). And if a handmade card doesn’t cut it, maybe Mommy could bring a bottle of Daddy’s favourite Scotch to Playgroup and let the kids decorate that with hearts and pawprints. I know he’d appreciate it. 

Well, I failed.

Test results came back yesterday and my little swimmers are hanging on for dear life.

Yes, I had the Big V(asectomy) a couple of months back. It was not the most pleasant experience of my life, but I survived. The process has been a study in maintaining dignity while all around you, life is conspiring to rob you of same.

It began with the “consultation” process. My family doctor told me I had to meet with the surgeon, the kindly Dr. Bob, so he could go over the procedure, outline the risks and be sure I was ready to proceed. Bob, I was told, had neutered thousands of us. He knew what he was doing. So off I went to the consultation . . .

Where I met Dr. Bob’s young, attractive female assistant. I’m not sure which is worse, having an older male doctor inspect the boys, or a young female who said she had to “make sure everything was where it is supposed to be.”

Well, she found nothing out of place, and it certainly was not for a lack of looking.

“Think about something else, think about something else, think about something else.”

And so it was that I found myself, working to avoid eye contact with anyone in Dr. Bob’s waiting room, a few months later. I had been told the procedure would take 12 to 15 minutes and a few days to recover. Now the fact that they said “12 to 15 minutes” made me just a tad nervous. It sounded like someone was keeping track and trying to beat their best time here. I really didn’t want the boys to be treated like a worn out tire at a Nascar pit stop. This is not a race. Take your time, do it right, and don’t forget to put everything back where it belongs.

As I had been told, the worst part was the anesthetic. If you’ve ever had stitches, say, in your finger, you know what I’m talking about. It’s kind of like a prolonged bee sting. On your finger, not so bad. Where he stuck the needle  . . .

After Dr. Bob finished the first side, I was introduced to his intern, who was to do the other side. I learned the intern was from Saudi Arabia, where this procedure, he told me, was illegal. Um, okay. But let’s all remember that this procedure is both legal and in full keeping with MY religious beliefs, okay? Let’s not get all Jihad while we’re wielding a knife in an area I am very fond of. And I’m sorry, but these thoughts did, in fact, run through my mind, given the world’s political climate these days. My apologies if you consider that racist. 

Bottom line is, he was a nice guy, we had as nice a conversation as is possible under the circumstances, and I was relieved to note that Dr. Bob did not take his eyes off of the subject the entire time.

Well, with a bag of frozen peas and Tylenol 3s as my new best friends, I got through the recovery phase in about a week.

Which brings us to Thursday. 

Two months after the procedure, one must bring a “sample” to the lab to be sure the swimmers have all left the pool. Having lost the instructions, I phoned Dr. Bob’s office to make sure everything was done right. I was somewhat dismayed, however, when his office person, told me the sample had to be one hour old. 

“Any wiggle room on that?” I asked, given that I live about an hour and 10 minutes from the lab.

“No,” she answered firmly. “One hour.”

I explained my situation, to which she replied, “People get very creative.”

See, I fell for what TV had taught me. You know, there was a room at the lab with “reading material,” maybe “a video” and that’s the way it went. Not so. I was to get intimate with the specimen cup, apparently somewhere between my home and the lab.

Well, I figured it would be easier to explain why I was speeding to a police officer, than it would be to explain why I was, well, spending a little quality time with the palm sisters, on the side of the highway at 11 a.m. on a Thursday.

In any case, I made it to the lab on time (130kmh in a 100 zone most of the way), turned in my cup and was told it would take 2 days for results. Huh?? What exactly was the rush then? If I had to be here in an hour, seems to me we’d be firing the sample under a microscope ASAP, wouldn’t we? After all, there were only minutes to spare.

Well, I called the lab Friday and apparently there are still some tadpoles in the pond. And that means, oh joy, I get to make another mad dash to the lab in a month. Oh, and if after six samples, there are still fish in the sea, I get to start all over - from the beginning.

My two boys have quite a collection of battery-operated toys. Some take C batteries, some AA, some AAA and even a few D cells. We buy in bulk at Costco, seriously.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s a male thing. But I can’t stand the same electronically reproduced song or tune over and over and over and over and over. I think it began with Sonwun, the elder and his bouncy chair. Sonwun, you see, had colic. For those not in the family way, colic is a medical term doctors use. It’s from the Greek, colichuh, which literally translates, “I have no idea why your baby is crying.”

In any case, during that three months of sleep-deprived hell, the one device that came closest to inducing sleep was the bouncy chair (3 D batteries). It played a little tune that was supposed to be a lullaby. It played on and on for three months, heavily interspersed with inconsolable crying. And though tolerable in the beginning, it rapidly became the soundtrack to my nightmares. To this day I can’t listen to it without getting chills.

As Sonwun grew, the gifts began arriving from family and friends. And while the boy would have been quite happy with pots, pans and a wooden spoon, most of the gifts involved batteries. And I understand why. I too shop at Toys’R'Us. I know the allure of the brightly coloured toys and packages. I have fallen prey to the marketing. Baby Einstein . . . sheesh.

And I have to believe, as three of my elder siblings have already done the baby thing and had to endure the battery-powered torture devices, that there is some element of revenge involved. My wife’s sister, in particular, seems to always find the highest-volume, battery sucking toys on the market. This past Christmas, I wanted revenge. And I found it at Toys’R'Us. An electric guitar for her 4-year-old. It was loud, the sound quality was poor and it took a truckload of batteries. It was perfect!

But my more level-headed wife talked me out of it. “We don’t want to start a war.”

As far as I was concerned, war had already been declared and I was feeling a little like Poland.

We didn’t get the guitar. But on Christmas morning, when we opened the present from sister-in-law, there it was. No, not the guitar, but a steering wheel with the Caterpillar logo on it. Batteries required. It doesn’t steer anything cool, like a remote control earth mover, it just has 10 buttons on it, each of which produce a different construction-based noise. But hey, who doesn’t love the sound of a diesel engine starting, or a large truck backing up? And who doesn’t love walking to bed in the dark, stepping on a toy and hearing, at a pretty good decibel level, a random “boing” noise three or four times?

Startled, I stumble to the left, accidentally kicking “Lightning McQueen,” another gift from sister-in-law. It’s AA powered engine roars to life, rivaling the volume level of the steering wheeel. 

“Speed?” it states, “I am speed.” It then roars across the room, causing the dog to bark in its sleep and the cat to go tearing up the stairs.

As a final thought, I offer Sontoo, the younger. He’s just beginning to walk. We have no fewer than three toys designed to help him learn - hand-me-downs from Sonwun. Two of them require batteries and have multiple buttons to push, producing multiple noises. His favourite of the three, however does not. He’s quite happy to push the low-tech, four-wheeled hippopotamus back and forth in the rec room. But he gets a little ticked when he runs into something, because he can’t turn the hippo around.

Given the choice, Suntoo will take either the empty Pampers box, or the empty 18L water bottle, and push that around the house. Both of these little walking aids are lighter than the commercial brands, he can turn both when reaching an obstacle, neither one plays any kind of catchy little ditty ad nauseum and, best of all, there are no batteries required.