George IV

2008.07.21

Almost a year ago, talking about baby #2 was scheduled for further delay. It was too soon for Anna, having two children so close in age that you’re changing two sets of diapers. Eventually, nature trumped the debate – we were making Elena a big sister in `08.

The following months went by much differently than Elena’s pregnancy. It was the second time around, so we already knew the dietary change, the eventless doctor visits, and the eventual tummy that’d poke out to spark conversation in every supermarket checkout line we stood in. We weren’t examining every experience like a wonder we needed to photograph for posterity, it was all more just going through the motions.

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Elena 2 – Now She's Mobile

2007.10.30

Just updated this video to show off YouTube. Congrats to me for catching up with the rest of the Internet… it’s only my career.

The First Four

2007.04.02

We’re in to month 4 of our first child, giving us enough time to appreciate and absorb all those typically “new parent” experiences. There’s the initial “will I break my baby” phase, the “thanks for the baby clothes, grandma” period, the “OK, enough with the baby clothes, grandma” period, and the “ooh, (s)he’s so advanced for her age” game. Like, when your baby blurts out something at three months old, and you can swear she said “rubella”, so naturally you figure your baby will have a medical degree at age four. Then she swallows her hand, and you start to doubt her early doctor career.

I’m noticing some funny double standards along the way as a father. Like for instance, I was at the auto store picking up parts for our car while carrying our daughter in a car seat carrier. I get to the counter, and the clerk remarks humorously, “stuck babysitting the kid, hunh?” It sounded funny for a second, because I wasn’t carrying someone else’s kid – it was Elena, my daughter. I think that just classifies as being a Dad. For a second, I wanted to say to Elena, “what?! Where’d you come from?! Dammit, where’s your mother at? Well ain’t this a b-tch, I guess I’m stuck with her now, hunh?!”

It’s funny, but the expectations for Dad’s are real low. Basically, Mom’s are expected to raise a child properly, instill the right values, serve as a good role model, provide good nutrition, console all emotional pains, and make sure the house in general runs smoothly. On the other hand, Fathers are expected to keep children under their care generally alive,… and that’s about it. Looking at our parents’ generation, I can see how this standard was set. To this day, my Dad doesn’t know what to do with a washing machine. He built machines that built machines in his time, but when a washing machine is finished spinning, he considerately yells to my mom, “Jen! Your laundry’s done! Come take care of it! Jen!!” He treats it like some alien incubation box that holds technology outside of his grasp.

Seriously, when you see a commercial with a father clumsily herding a wild group of children by himself, it’s endearing and you feel sympathetic. When you see a mom who can’t control her children, the message seems more like “this woman obviously can’t handle the role her biological makeup has handed her.”

That’s why I don’t typically react to how other parents interact with their children. My only exception to this is when a parent spanks their child in public, to which I cheer emphatically. A few months back, I saw a woman at the supermarket lean down to her loud daughter and give her a good smack on the behind, along with one of those “Come to Jesus” talks face-to-face. I wanted to give her a medal right there and then, or at least pay for her produce items. Something. Nothing restores my faith in parenting like a mother or father that isn’t afraid of discipline.

Now,I’m not totally sold on spanking per say, I just think we’ve become so damned afraid of it that parents are almost too intimidated to discipline their children in general. For too long, Americans have provided too much abundance and convenience for their children, leaving us a future of vapid, privileged brats who have nothing better to do in life than conjure up creative ways for killing brain cells and their parents’ bank accounts. It’s one thing to provide a better life and a college fund for the next generation, but completely another to shower your kids with their every friggin’ desire until they have no touch with the real world. These train wrecks generally end in college, when the child has a 0.2 GPA in their Sophomore year and can’t find a employer that’s “cool” enough to hire them.

Discipline is good. You gotta treat the home like the real world: what you get is what you earn, and no one owes you anything. Period. Did you pay attention to what I just wrote there? If you did, it’s not because you owed it to me – you don’t owe me squat, and I don’t owe you (unless you’re Blockbuster – I told you I returned Steel Magnolias, dammit). Everything, from money to someone’s attention is earned, and creating an 18-year long bubble where these rules don’t apply won’t help your kids any.

…

OK, so all of this is coming from a guy who hasn’t even potty trained his first child yet. I’ve got a long way to go before I can start doling out parenting advice. Maybe I’ll crack with the first temper tantrum, or give in the first time Elena storms off to her room. But, I’m pretty sure that if I know myself so far, my bitterness and indignation toward our epidemic of spoiled children will prevail.

If not, I guess Anna and I can always hash out any issues with our children on Ricki Lake or Montel Williams.

- GK

Wow.

2006.11.19

We arrived at our now weekly obstetrician appointment to collect yet more urine from Anna. It followed the same routine, but being a day before week 39 of the pregnancy, there was a definite seriousness to the visit. The day was near.

The doctor who knocked on the door was a new face to us, which didn’t phase us at all as the clinic has a list of rotating doctors. Kim, the doctor, laid Anna down as expected, measured her stomach, and followed the expected script for these weekly visits.

Then, she asked if we’d like her to do a membrane sweep “to kick-start the process.” I heard kick-start, but the rest was blurred by my excitement. We’d been anxious to get this party started since our baby had been kicking out Anna’s stomach walls around week 35. A kick-start of any kind was a welcome idea. With a warning of the labor that may soon follow, Kim performed the sweep and we went home.

Thursday morning, 11/16, 5:00am

Anna stirs me awake. “My water broke.” I could have sworn I heard her say her water broke, so I asked what she wanted. She repeated, “I’ve been up since 2am, and I think my water burst around 4:30.” I was right. Naturally, the first reaction that came to mind was jubilation at missing another day of work.

Mind you, this wasn’t necessarily red-alert oh-sh*t time or anything; we’d gone through two false labor trips to the hospital already, so we knew this process could easily take a while. The first order of business would have to be food, since once you’re admitted to the hospital, your only food is a sucrose intravenous drip. Anna calmly cooked up some cream of wheat, and I slowly made my way out of bed. Almost everything we needed was safely packed inside the car, and a car seat was fastened securely in the backseat. I had time to meander.

Anna just got done cooking her cream of wheat when the pain really kicked in. These contractions weren’t like the other contractions – these were serious f-ing contractions. Anna was already beginning to question her objection to an epidural.

6:00am

I was really hoping to run into traffic along the way to the hospital, just so I could finally have a legitimate excuse to drive like a madman. We got on the highway, and there wasn’t any room for a Hollywood movie mad-dash to the hospital with the moaning passenger in labor. Anna was quiet, and we made it to the hospital in good time. Damnit.

10:00am

We settled into a room suited for a Raddison Hotel – but with a cache of beeping medical instruments. Nurses hook Anna up to an IV for hydration with some mild anesthetic, and another IV that induces painful contractions. While the two battled each other in Anna, our main doctor came in to greet us and explain the pros and cons of an epidural block. He begins a laundry list of benefits, but Anna’s tremendous spats of pain forces a quick vote for the spinal anesthetic. Shortly after, another doctors enters to administer a 4 inch needle into the base of Anna’s back. I’m told to sit down, but the curiosity was maddening and I had to watch the tail end of the process. Grotesquely interesting, I suppose.

Before the pain blockers were introduced, Anna was wincing in evident agony every two to five minutes. Now, the monitors followed her contractions while Anna played with her numb legs in amusement. If it were any other time, we may have tried jabbing forks and objects into her leg to test the pain blockers, but the situation made the idea seem a scoatch inappropriate.

4:00pm

Anna’s parents had arrived an hour earlier in time for some photos before the “main event”, and around four o’clock, the band was warming up. Now began the pushing.

First, the nurses show me the top of our babies head which is slightly revealed. I was ecstatic, but still I wondered how the hell this hairy patch of skin could be my daughter’s head. Anna continued pushing, and more of the crown was revealed, but still I was anxiously wondering how this could be a head. I saw hair, but where’s the face?! More pushing and now it was beginning to disturb me. Was my daughter cousin It from the Addams Family? All I saw was hair – I need more to go on! Finally, the nurse began grabbing this dome and started wrenching it out, finally revealing a complete dome covered with damp hair. But where’s the FACE?!!

Then, I watched as the midwife rotated the head to reveal a pale, chubby, scrunched up baby’s face, perfect with lips, eyes, two ears and everything. Wow. She was inside Anna all along. She was the little person kicking my wife’s bladder over the last two months. Finally, with a quick jerk, our child’s entire body was plucked into the world.

Happy Birthday Elena. You’re officially 0 today.

Elena Mary Kovats was born at 5:03pm on 11/16/2006, weighing in at 8 lbs, 11 oz.

For the next four hours, we watched the nurses run a gambit of pricks, pokes and prods at Elena, all the necessary medical routines take with a newborn child. In the end, I was handed a healthy, crying pink baby girl. I could have melted right there and then.

Now grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Jakubowski were glowing as they each held their new granddaughter Elena, taking turns feeling her delicate features and watching all of her wild facial expressions. As for Anna and I, we spent the next day and a half feeding, burping and changing diapers for our newborn daughter as proud new parents.

When it came time for us to finally take our baby home, we were both anxious to finally be alone with our brand new daughter. Contrary to everything we were told, there wasn’t a single moment where I personally felt anxiety over caring for Elena; we were eager to hold her and bring her home from the moment she entered the world. When the time finally came, we couldn’t get her in the car fast enough.

The takeaway from all of this

I know, every parent feels like his or her own child is the center of the universe. As it turns out, they’re all wrong.

Elena is in fact the center of the Universe, as shown using a diagram from the Polish astronomer Copernicus (nice try, Nicolaus). Clearly, Elena is the pivot to all the Universe, debunking everything we’ve been taught until now. Don’t worry – most Astronomy textbook publishers will refund your purchase once they release updates for this new discovery.

In the meantime, I am now officially whipped by two women. And it’s wonderful.

Et Tu Spinach?

2006.09.23

Look at that spinach! That's some EVIL spinach!

So I’m out at a restaurant the other day with my wife and some friends ordering my favorite appetizer, nachos and spinach dip.

The waitress quickly says (and I’m paraphrasing a little), “we ain’t serving spinach, you retard! Don’t you watch the news?” Then Paul follows with “don’t you work for a news organization?! Shouldn’t you know this stuff?!!”, and starts to immediately chuckle. At that point, the entire restaurant joined in on the laugh. Then a hobo hit me with an egg, and Nelson laughed. The trifecta was complete.

Clearly, I had forgotten about the news that spinach had killed just recently, and is still out on the loose. As a result, America (and Canada – article) has thrown out all it’s spinach, soup and salad bars are temporarily just soup bars, and spinach has been added to the prohibited carry-on items list at all U.S. airports.

Paranoia, up 40 points in the social stock market, doesn’t stop there. I came across an article that suggests this E. coli outbreak could some day be a future act of terrorism (because people died, and terrorists like that). That’s right, someday an al Quaeda cell could be high-fiving each other over 10 dead vegetarians at a Tuscon Ruby Tuesday. I’d say more, be I’m afraid it’d spark another bogus chain email about Bin Laden and our national radish supply.

A decade of people pointlessly loitering in coffee shops

Today I got a Starbucks coffee, and the fact that I still occasionally like the coffee still disturbs me to some degree. It was Sunday afternoon – about 12:10. Walking toward the door, the only outdoor table was occupied by two tweens. Inside, every available seating area was filled with people – some families, some friends, some loners.

Every time I approach a Starbucks counter, I treat it like a guy handling women’s underwear from the dryer: awkward, and aloof. Part of it is because of the incredibly forced eclectic vibe the place tries to cram down your throat, from the Yanni or Miles Coltrane music to the Pier One furniture gone wrong to the failed art student “Baristas” dishing out coffee-flavored milk.

Walking out, I couldn’t help but stare at the sitting patrons. I felt like yelling, “it’s Sunday afternoon! Don’t you yuppies have families or hobbies?!” Of course, this didn’t apply to the wasp family of four sitting toward the back of the store, who’s apparent hobbies were enjoying frappucinos and coloring books at Starbucks.

Seriously, of all the places in the world you could use your laptop – at work, outside, at the library, in your friggin’ home – why would you Google your own name at a table at Starbucks?! I know Dunkin’ Donuts isn’t feeling the love – those tables are empty. Why? Because people buy their coffee and donuts, and then they LEAVE.

Amazing? No. It’s actually the norm.

And speaking of things that blind me with rage,

Here’s an actual quote from the season premiere of the Supernanny, taken from a father who’s experienced progress with his seven year-old son’s behavior:

“I think it’s great. Trevor is wiping his own butt…”

Anyone know? SERIOUSLY.I wanted to scream into the stratosphere, and somewhat into the troposphere. Like this.

The father was experiencing relief after his seven year-old son was finally wiping his own ass without the aide of his mother. Now, I applaud wounded veterans with the courage to carry on with their lives in spite of debilitating mental and physical trauma, but Trevor’s courage to wipe his own ass has really got me thinking. Is this how the dinosaurs knew it was over for them? Did they see a few idiots diving in tar pits and realize their civilization had already peeked?

In defense of the Dad, he was a relatively sane guy, just hopelessly lazy. The point that really had my bile gurgling was the tanning bed in the mom’s bedroom. Like any working class American family, they purchased a now successful childcare business (why didn’t I think of that?!), so successful that they figured “why not pay for sunlight?” What posh HOA community estate can be complete without a tanning bed?

Really, step back for a second. Picture your mom when you were, say, 8 years-old. You wake up early, sneak into your parents’ bedroom, and wake your sleeping mom with a big hug (cause you love her, dammit!).

Now plop a tanning bed in the corner of that room. Something seem funny about that image?! ‘CAUSE IT IS.

Moms, for those fortunate to have them, are the structural cornerstone of a family unit. They tie shoelaces, kiss bruised knees, and always make you eat the greens on your plate. Apparently in 2006, they also make sure their skin is a healthy, surreal bronze even in the dead of winter, right in their own bedrooms.

Did someone changes the rules? Was I not informed?!

Somebody get Norman Rockwell - we've got a painting for him!

And how is it that a 240 lb Dad can be proud of his son’s first asswipe at SEVEN?! Whatever happened to that intense anger that drove parents to smack their kids out of detention and into the honor roll? Whatever happened to the fear?

I called my dad a name. Once. There’s good reason there was never a second time. I would not be alive to write about it. That’s evolution explained.

The new Norman Rockwell family portrait

Perhaps when my daughter is born, it’ll all make sense to me. In time, I may just lose my passion to raise a responsible, respectful member of society. Who knows? Someday, it may be me who has to put his vanilla hazelnut latte down to wipe his teenage daughter’s ass in a Starbucks bathroom, while my wife is entombed into a bed of UV to perk her melanin.

You have full permission to sucker punch me when that day comes, but not in the stomach. I may have just got done eating some nachos and… artichoke dip.

It's… an embryo!!

2006.04.19

Forget everything you ever knew about me. And, if you didn’t know me before (or rather, if you had somehow actually known me once long before), get to know the new “me”.

George Kovats: drawer of things, friend to the porcupines, drinker of beer, healer of the leppers,… father.

Yes, my wife Anna has produced a child; or, she is “with child”. And so, the Jakubowski / Kovats empire grows, bringing honey liquor and dry wit to all in it’s path.

I know, this is somewhat anti-climactic in light of the starring triumphs of Katie Holmes and Brooke Shields: two crazy
hollywood primadonna martyrs willing to sacrifice an eventual tummy-tuck for 9 months of Enquirer coverage. Still, it’s a joyous occasion for the whole family. But before rejoice can echo throughout, I have to first state the conditions and plans my son(s) and/or daughter(s) must follow through to earn the name Kovats, and all the non-expired Jiffy Lube coupons that entitles them to.

  1. They must find me extremely funny.
    This will be easy at first. I’m sure a dangling key chain will suffice for a couple of years, but once they can grasp complex shapes, I’ll need their full appreciation of my complex and obscure humor. If they don’t get my Oscar Wilde quips and references to Henry VIII, we’ll have issues.
  2. They must be a “man’s man”, or conversely, a “woman’s woman”
    Nothing queer or quasi-normal here – just everything the Good Lord and Jerry Fallwell intended. And no metrosexuals either. You survive like your father: on one bar of Lava soap. Nothing fruify for my children like moisturizer, exfoliating cream, hair spray, deoderant, feminine products or toilet paper.
  3. Mandatory Military Service
    My children will earn their citizenship! Through grueling, boring, and highly anecdote-worthy service to our Uncle Sam. And, not to be totally unfair, if my children are fiercely against becoming a part of our Armed Forces and captivated with the civilian lifestyle, they can join the Air Force. Either way, it will be at least 4 years of their life they can talk about in bars for endless years to come.
  4. They will not become a podiatrist. Period.
    I had a neighbor one time – the man collected pictures of hands cut out from magazines. He was a former podiatrist… or a magazine editor. I could never remember. Either way, it was friggin’ creepy, so no Podiatrists in the family.Magazine editors are negotiable.
  5. I will put the “fear of God” in them
    My father enjoyed making us scared witless when we interupted “Wheel of Fortune” during recliner time. So, in keeping with tradition, I’ve been mentally practicing the “fear of God” technique for years now. The minute my children begin to emulate a TV child star or listen to Clay Aiken, that’s when the yelling begins. It’s a lot like how you’re told to scare off black bears in the forest – stand really tall with your arms waving above your head and yell gutteral sounds. It’ll will send my children into a panicky frenzy, make them realize the error of their ways, and potentially show them how to act in a mosh pit.
  6. No Barney
    I know, more 3 year olds these days are watching The Family Guy than Barney, but that smug purple bastard is still waiting to be knocked down a peg if you ask me.
  7. No Family Guy either
    I’ve Tivo’ed almost every episode that has aired, and I gotta tell ya, they’re not missing much. Plus, I don’t think babies with british thespian accents are cute or funny, and I’ll have none of that crap in my house. At leat not anymore, now that I’ve seen every episode.

I know – I’m a fan of lists, so I’ll cut it short here. I’m thrilled about the prospect of having a baby, but like all life events, I’m going to downplay it out of respect for those who have braved these events before me.

I will say I have a lot of pent up parental hostility from watching Sally Jessie Rapheal reruns and whiny WB teen shows, and I vow to raise a grounded, respectful child that understands this world doesn’t owe them jack. I marvel at parents that let their children strut around without any sense of consequences or unforgiving reality. Of course, I jest above – my son or daughter can be a gay podiatrist that doesn’t understand my humor – but this part is real. The second goal of every parent, next to providing all life-giving necessities, is to prepare their children for the real world. And, in the real world, you don’t get toys and gifts for bad behavior.

So, to my future offspring, you’ve been warned. If you so much as smell a whippit or start considering Scientology as a viable lifestyle, be prepared for flailing arms and boisterous howling. It was good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for you.