Slow Down

Posted on April 5, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Tomorrow is the Big Day and I feel as though I just don’t have enough time to get ready. I found out a little earlier that my mother-in-law is flying in this afternoon, which is great because I know that Christine will really love having her mom here. Jackson will love it too, because typically afternoons with Bubbe (what he calls her) mean ice cream and toys.

I think it’ll be good for Ben too, because I think it’s great that she will be present for both deliveries. Something tells me she’ll make it to the arrival of all her grandkids. Woman loves being a grandma (just don’t call her that).

I have forsaken getting any research done today- not that I could really focus on it anyway. Instead I’m just trying to tidy everything up and prep for the weekend. Our dear friends Steve and Judy volunteered to watch Jackson this weekend- I cannot tell you how important they are to us. They are our Kansas family. Love them all. Dearly.

But in the midst to finish the laundry and clean the car and feed the cats I remembered something: I am going to meet my son tomorrow. I will actually see his face and hold him for the first time. Tomorrow will be one of the most important days in my life.

I had to stop cleaning and share it with you because I think in the rush to make everything perfect there is a tendency to get lost in the moment and maybe fail to embrace just exactly what is going on.

Tomorrow my life changes again. That’s pretty cool.

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Stuff You Really Need for the Delivery

Posted on April 5, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Ok folks, we have been scheduled to be induced into labor Friday morning. That means a little over 36 hours from the time I’m typing this we should be full on into labor. It’s time to put the finishing touches on this pregnancy.

You can typically expect your stay at the hospital or birthing center to be about 2 days, providing everything goes as well as it should. We live close to our birthing center which means I don’t have to pack as heavily as I did the first time. I have the liberty of sneaking back to the house and feeding the dog and cats and grabbing anything we may have forgotten. But what about you? Perhaps you live in a technologically backward state where hospitals are few and far between? Here are a few things you don’t want to forget:

1) Clothes. You’re gonna be there for at least a couple days. Pack a bag, preferably separate bags for you and your wife, otherwise you’ll never find any of your stuff. The baby’s birth is a big day and you don’t want to be wearing the same thing in every picture. This day is about you and the woman you conquered married.

2) Car seat/stroller. I don’t know of a place that will let you leave without a carseat. Install the car seat at least a couple weeks before your due date. Get familiar with it. Don’t be that moron who installs it in the parking lot of the hospital. If you’re stupid, you probably shouldn’t having children (but we have Indiana anyway), so you can go to the police station or fire station and the guys there can show you how.

3) Cameras. You want to capture your child’s first moments for their sheer beauty, but mostly so that you can get family members in other states to shut the @#$@ up and stop bothering you. Also, that one guy that was a dick in high school has ugly kids and this is a great way to get revenge.

4) The Wire. After the initial rush of delivery, it can actually get a little boring in the room. Why not take some time and finally watch the greatest television series in history? Because, the bleak conditions of Baltimore will make you glad you live somewhere else.

5) Nunchuks. Just in case. Maybe even some throwing stars.

6) Snacks. What you’re about to go through is emotionally draining. Don’t forget to pick up a few things to charge back up.

7) Your wife. Your wife is also important. After the baby is born, you’re going to need someone to hold the camera.

I’m prepping the last of my stuff now. Just gotta figure out which Schwarzenegger movie I want the little guy to see first. Wait, that’s easy. Predator.

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My Children and Religion

Posted on March 30, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

The last thing I told my son as I dropped him off this morning was “Remember, all of this Jesus stuff is a bunch of nonsense.”

And with that, he scurried off to play with his friends. I, feeling that his innocence was protected, drove off happily.

With The Deuce arriving soon, I figured it was good time to address religion in the lives of our children, or more properly, the lack of religion in the lives of our children. You see, I am what they call a realist. I don’t look for more than what there appears to be in life. You see a rainbow and you remember God’s pledge to never again kill almost every living being on earth. I see it and think of reflection of the light spectrum on water droplets in the atmosphere. Which one of us is right? Well, me. I have proof.

There is a basic argument in logic that says if you say an outrageous thing, the burden of proof is on you. That’s the dividing line between me and the fools that believe in some sort of higher power. I believe only what can be proved. I’m not saying that the Christian zombie Jesus didn’t rise from the dead, I’m only asking that you prove it. There is nothing is the Christian myth that applies to the human condition.

Walking on water? Can’t do it.

Turning water to wine? Nope.

Reviving the Dead? Only on AMC.

I don’t believe in some special place you go when you die. Life is not eternal. If we’re lucky, we get 70-80 years on this planet and hopefully we enjoy most of those. Why isn’t that good enough? Why can’t we just embrace those years instead of telling ourselves there’s some kind of afterlife where we sit around and tell god how great he is?

My sister died a few years ago. She’s not in heaven. Her body is slowly decomposing in a box six feet under the earth. Her memory remains, but she’s gone. Nothing left. Same with my grandmother. Also with any number of family members. When you die, that’s it. There is no more. That’s why we have to cherish the years we have.

I’d rather embrace the present than hope for some future we may never have.

Let’s look at the Bible, specifically the New Testament. (For you Catholics, the Bible is what you read when you’re not worshipping Mary.) We know it was several accounts of the life of Jesus collected sometime after his death and supposed resurrection. Also included were a bunch of books, mostly written by the Apostle Paul, that gave instructions on how to live a virtuous life. Here’s my problem- these “holy books” were assembled many years after the fact and crafted to tell a story that early Christians wanted to tell. It was crafted by men, not by a god.

I have issues with the whole prayer concept as well. What in the Hell are you doing when you pray? You really think you’re communicating with an ethereal presence? The Bible says the last person to communicate directly with God was the Apostle Paul. So if you’re not talking to God, who are you talking to? Nobody. The Bible says Jesus is coming back. Really? When? Christians have been setting a place at the dinner table for 2000 years for a guy who hasn’t shown up. You ever think he’s just not gonna make it?

Furthermore, who is this god character anyway? You Christians really think you’re supporting a monotheistic religion? I’d think again, pal. You have the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. That’s three. For you Catholics out there, prepare to get your prayer beads in a wad. You’re worshipping everything under the son. Folks, I hate to break it to you, but when you pray to something, you’re worshipping it. Think of that next time you’re praying to the patron saint of latte at Starbucks.

Either way, is the christian god even worth worshipping? I spent a lot of time in the Baptist Student Union of my university when I was 18-20 years old. We sang a lot of songs that said things like “we are not worthy” and “thanks for our lives.” What a bunch of shit. We are not worthy? Well, didn’t God create us? Doesn’t that make us worthy? We didn’t ask to be created? Why the fuck should we be thanking you for something we didn’t request? In this manner, God is like the asshole at Dairy Queen who puts whipped cream and a cherry on my milkshake when I didn’t ask for it. I hate cherries. Get creative somewhere else, bub. Besides, isn’t a divine creator who creates you and then demands you worship him an asshole? Fuck that guy.

And what is it with this indoctrination bullshit anyway? Most Christians would not be Christians unless they were raised as such. You know why? The story is too fucking unbelieveable for any sane adult to buy into. That’s why you have to start young. You have to get to them when concepts like a virgin birth are no sillier than the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. Otherwise, you’d have people asking questions and if there’s one thing religion can’t stand, it’s questions.

My wife is Catholic, so this obviously causes a dilemma. She’s usually right when we disagree unless it’s over religion. I think she is too intelligent to believe in all the hoopla that surrounds religion, but wants to believe it. Listen, I’d love to believe it, too. I’d love for there to be a higher power that gave us all a purpose in life and to know that in the end, everything was gonna work out all right. But guess what folks? It ain’t that way.

One of the best things I can do for my children is to fight the influence of religion in their lives while they are young. Once they are older and have the ability to logically deduce things and separate facts from nonsense, I’ll let them have a peek into the world of crazy that is religion.

But until then, when I leave them, it’s with a reminder.

 

 

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Games to Play While Your Wife is Pregnant, Volume I

Posted on February 20, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Is your wife pregnant? Great news! Give yourself a high-five.

Is your wife pregnant with your baby? Even better! Give yourself another high-five.

They say it’s important to support your wife during pregnancy, which is weird because you could really throw your back out that way, but whatever. During Christine’s two pregnancies I decided to make sure I supported her by making up fun little games for us to play while my spawn was sucking the life-force out of her. Feel free to play along at home with your wife.

WARNING: THIS MAY GET YOU DIVORCED.

The name of the first game I like to play is, “Guess That Smell.” You see, in addition to your wife’s enhanced boobs (another high five!), her sense of smell will also grow due to the pregnancy. Scientists have researched this, but I’m pretty sure the reason why is that she could find the chocolate fudge Pop Tarts that you hid in the guest bedroom closet. Christine’s sense of smell grew so much that I started calling her “The Wolverine,” which I’m sure was very flattering and had nothing to do with the lack of nookie I received. Seriously, though, Chris got a prenancy test for the first time after I made her some garlic bread and the smell repulsed her.

During the early months of a pregnancy, a woman’s sense of smell grows so out of whack that not only do certain smells make her run for the commode, the mere thought of those smells can make her sick. This, of course, is grounds for high comedy.

The goal of Guess That Smell is to make yourself laugh by making your wife sick. “But Jason,” you may say, “isn’t that cruel? What does my wife get out of being sick?” A valid point. Here is your explanation: You’re married. Your wife chose to be with you and to put your needs above her own. I’m sure that after the first trimester is over, she will appreciate all the hard work you went through so you could enjoy laughter together. That’s what marriage is all about. She’ll understand.

This is how you do it: bring your gym bag inside and while she’s in the vicinity of the laudry room, decide to actually do the laundry. There are two possible pitfalls here: 1) You may have to actually work out at the gym to make your clothes smell, and 2) you may end up doing the laundry. Another way to make your wife gag is by the use of garlic. I don’t know of any pregnant female that can stand the smell of it. If you can, poop a lot. It’s fun, and it ensures that she won’t bother you in the bathroom again. But my go-to manuever is called Cleaning the Fridge. Do this when she should be in the kitchen, such as when she is fixing you a snack (your hard work can make a man hungry). The smell of old milk, festering enchiladas and Chinese take-out from six weeks ago should send her running. And by running, she is getting exercise, so you both win.

It's good for her.

I hope this helps the two of you connect through this beautiful time together. I’ll be back soon to teach you how to feel her emotions through the use of an old country music video.

See ya then.

 
 
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How to Host Your Kid’s Birthday Party (and Still Have a Good Time)

Posted on February 17, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Kids’ birthday parties can be tricky. You spend a lot of time (and money) in preparation for the big day, hoping the little guy will have the time of his life. You really put yourself into this. Otherwise, you’ll fear the day that the now-grown love of your life ships you off to an old-folks home like I’m planning for my mom.

Planning the day required multiple trips for me, as I made ventures to Toys-R-Us for presents as well as our butcher and baker (the candlestick maker could not be found). Because Jack was turning four, most of the invitees were friends of ours that have kids. This was fine, because naturally Jackson loves our friends’ kids- they are his friends.

But we also like to have our adult childless friends come out as well. Because in your mid-thirties life tends to get in the way and you don’t see your peeps as often as you’d like. (It’s not hard to get people to come; our childless friends love Jack.) With that in mind, we try to make sure that everyone has a good time. How do you do that? One word: RIBS.

I got the pork in the smoker around 11:30, which meant they’d be ready by around 4:30 or so. Typically my friend Richard helps me with the ribs, but since he moved off to Denver, I was alone. Dick. Actually, my buddy Fletcher showed up in time to help me get things rotated and then we watched basketball for a few hours while our wives were doing… something.

Jack in the meantime, was demanding presents NOW, because he couldn’t wait for his friends to arrive. He was also throwing the worst temper tantrum in six months because he didn’t want to take a nap. “I’m not tired, Daddy!” he said.

liar.

So instead of being awake to greet all of his friends as they arrived, Captain Napface was passed out on the couch until almost five o’clock. What was impressive was the amount of drool that collected under his cheek as he slept. I wasn’t worried; I tell myself that his slobber is good for the leather.

Either way, we got everyone fed on dead pig meat and prepped the cake. Jack has finally grown out of the Cars phase of his life and moved on to Star Wars (thankfully). This year’s cake had the Clone Wars theme, which kind of ticked me off, because I wanted to get him a cake with the original trilogy characters, instead of something representing George Lucas destroying my childhood. Regardless, Jack sat next to his buddy Ben and got busy with some birthday cake (yes, that sounds horribly wrong).

After all the cake and ice cream, the kid got his presents, almost all of which were Star Wars toys. See? Not a single Cars toy in the mix. We are out of that phase. Now, it’s just about sword fights everywhere, which I’m sure couldn’t possibly go wrong.

The Student becomes the Master.

 

 

My buddy Bob’s son had the quote of the night when I asked him if he wanted a sword to play with. “I don’t need a sword, I have a blaster.”

looking for a target

 

The night was a success. We saw our friends, Jack saw his friends, Jack got cake, ice cream and presents, and most importantly, we’ve avoided being sent to an old folks home so far. As I type this, Christine is in Fort Lauderdale, which is very much not in Kansas, meaning I have Jackson for the entire weekend. I embrace these days- they’re just for him and me. I have a bunch of things planned that I’ll tell you about next week.

If we survive.

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A Reflection on Birthdays Past

Posted on February 16, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

As you know, we had Jack’s 4th birthday party over the weekend. While I’ll get to the full recap of that later, I thought it might be good to revisit the highs and lows of Jackson’s previous birthdays. Since we didn’t know each other then, I thought you’d enjoy catching up.

Your child’s first birthday is in many ways much more about you than him. You see, your kid doesn’t quite know why he’s getting all the attention. You, on the other hand, are celebrating not killing your kid for the first year of his life. If you’re a first time parent, this is a Major Feat. Think about it- no matter how prepared you tried to be, you had NO CLUE what you were doing. (Your parents however, DEFINITELY knew what they were doing, and probably enjoyed telling you how you were doing it wrong.)

Regardless, you made it. Congratulations. Here in America, we celebrate our child’s first birthday by trying to give him diabetes. Maybe that’s a little exagerated, but we do enjoy shoving a whole lot of sugar down the little tyke’s throat. This is typically done using something we call a SMASH CAKE.

Smash cakes are exactly what they sound like. They are small little cakes that are designed to be destroyed by your kid on his first birthday while you snap pictures. Most grocery stores will make on for you for free if you are also purchasing a regular sized cake for everyone else. And while your kid will get presents, the highlight of your kid’s first birthday is the destruction of said cake.

Allow my son to demonstrate. Things will start off innocently enough:

Then he will start to build a little more confidence:

 

Soon, you’ve got a full blown mess on your hands:

And your kid hopefully learns not to eat too much sugar (this will not happen):

The only problem remaining is that you now need to clean up. For this I suggest your dog. If you don’t have a dog, get a fat kid from your neighborhood:

Jack’s second birthday was much different. For instance, this birthday was about HIM. After you have managed not to ruin your child in his first year, getting him through another shouldn’t be a problem. You should be excited. With all the attention, cake and presents you should be able to get some pictures that capture the happy moment for a lifetime:

Ok, so that didn’t go as planned, but by the third year you’ve got things pretty much in the bag, right? I mean, unless you just moved to a new town and have a bunch of new friends in the house that you’re still getting to know but you don’t want to be alone on your kid’s big day, right?

Fortunately, Jack was in a much better mood, and it turns out that our new friends in 2011 are still our friends in 2012.

 

Aside from the amount of Cars stuff that Jack received, it was a great time. Also, if your kid goes through a Cars phase, don’t worry, it gets better.

All of this leads us up to birthday number four, and the party we had for the little man. I’ll be back soon with the recap as well as tips for getting your adult friends to come to your kid’s party (hint: bribe them with food).

See you then.

 

 

 

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Four Years

Posted on February 15, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Four years today. Happy Birthday little buddy.

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Superman at 78

Posted on February 10, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Today is one of my favorite days of the year. It’s February 10th, which means it’s Grandaddy’s birthday. He is 78. Actually, no, he is NOT a number. What he is, is AWESOME. He is my HERO. And one day, when I grow up, he is THE MAN I WANNA BE. Let me explain.

His story goes something like this: he was born in 1934 and then a bunch of not important stuff happened and then I was born. From then on we were just buds. Every young boy needs a man in his life, and while I had a father and a stepdad, grandaddy and I were always closest. Perhaps my fondest memory is of he and I wrestling in the floor when I was four or five. When I think of him, I tend to think of the 50 year old version of him, because that’s what he was when those memories were being made. I hated strawberries as a kid, that was, until I found out Grandaddy’s favorite ice cream was strawberry ice cream. Later, he and I would grab a watermelon and head for the picnic table behind the house. And we’d eat and talk. Just us. And in college we’d play chess almost every night (until I took a chess class just to be able to beat him).

This kid:

Loved this guy:

Every family has its stories, and Grandaddy is responsible for a few. My favorite has to do with the fingers he lost in a saw mill accident years ago. When we were kids, my brother and I would ask Grandaddy what happened. “Well, I was in the woods one day,” he would start off, “then I just got real hungry and I ATE THEM!” (Cut to two little kids looking amazed and horrified at the same time.) My cousin, Ashley, who is eight years my junior, heard this story. So did my sister, two years later. Ashley’s daughter has heard the tale. And apparently my nephew Remi has developed his own fascination with Grandaddy’s hand. I’m sure the story for him is coming soon.

If you know me, you know the trouble I have with my name. My last name is Herbert; my grandfather’s is Chadwick. I don’t have a relationship with my father’s side and because of that I have always identified myself as a Chadwick. But still, I’d see pictures of my grandfather, uncle and I and think, “Chadwick, Chadwick, Herbert.” As if somehow I was less because I didn’t have the same last name. This isn’t because of anything my grandfather or anyone else did. It was just because as a kid I wanted to be so much like him. I hated going to family reunions and seeing cousins that had the Chadwick name and have to think, “I am Jason Herbert.” I hated that. Still do sometimes.

To me, my grandfather has always been this combination of John Wayne and Johnny Cash. He was this larger than life presence that I was in awe of. When my parents would fight, I would look to his relationship with my grandmother and think that’s what marriage should be. I even moved into the basement of Grandaddy and Granny’s house when I was sixteen, because I felt better there than at home with my mom and dad. I attribute this to natural teenage rebellion, but mostly I connected with my grandparents better than my parents. They let me have my space and in return I wanted to be around them that much more.

The threat of my grandfather’s death has haunted me for years. As I aged into adulthood, he aged into his golden years. (Why do they call it that? I’m pretty sure there’s no gold in that part of Kentucky.) I would wonder what it would be like without him. He had had several heart attacks through the years. It seemed like we were always on alert. That’s why Granny’s death shocked us all. I think we had all figured Grandaddy would be the first to go. And after she died, we all went on Grandaddy Death Watch. Would he be one of those people who gave up and died after his wife? They were married for 50 years. I can’t imagine what that was like. But the old man fought on. I think he’s taken pleasure in seeing the next generation of Chadwicks at his feet; a total of six once Benjamin gets here.

As I have gotten older, the image that one day he won’t be here gets closer to reality. For some reason, it is important to me that he sees the good that I have done. I want him to know that I will have my Ph.D. one day. I need to see my wife and children and take pride in them. I hate it that we are so far from him. There is a part of me that is desperate to link my grandfather and my children, for them to know him. That Benjamin’s middle name will be Chadwick is no coincidence.

Jack and Grandaddy in 2008

This is 2010. I know you're not supposed to do this, but Grandaddies are allowed to.

Last year.

I love the old man. He has always been the picture of what I want to be to my family. A provider, full of love. I always used to love it when I was younger that Grandaddy always got the first plate at Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. It wasn’t because he was stern or demanded it; it was because the rest of the family put him first, as he had always put his family first.

So here we are: He at 78, I at 34. My second child is due soon, but thoughts of my hero instantly turn into a kid no more than 5. My grandfather, more than any man alive, has made me want to be more than I am. My wish on his 78th birthday is for him to be proud of the man I’ve become and happy for the family I am raising that shares his blood.

I love you, Grandaddy. Wanna wrestle?

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Making Baby Waves in Wichita (in 4D)

Posted on February 7, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

We spent last Friday afternoon at Baby Waves, not because we were sending a child down the river so that he would be raised by a princess and then lead his people out of the country (that’s just crazy), but because we were there to get 4D ultrasound pictures of Benjamin.

 I was surprised when I posted the pictures on facebook that many people had never heard of the technology. Essentially what happens is that an ultrasound tech smears blue jelly made of whales’ tears onto your wife’s stomach. Then, a sonic emitter sends digitized waves of Bette Midler’s greatest hits down to your fetus. The result is that a three dimensional picture of your child appears on a screen in front of you, allowing you to see your child’s face for the first time and begin to bond with your infant. Or more importantly, verify the presence of a penis.

The results were pretty amazing. They turn this:

 

 

 Into this:

 

Just for kicks, I added Jack’s 4d Ultrasound so we could compare them, because apparently comparing your children for their entire lives is a good thing:

Jackson at 29 weeks

Most importantly, Ben’s penis, in all its glory:

 

The final tally was about $200. We got these pictures (plus many more) on a CD, a DVD of the whole exam, plus a bunch of pictures printed out. Here’s the kicker: if you want to get pictures like this you’ll need to get your OBGYN’s permission (which shouldn’t be a problem and they’ll probably be able to give you a referral to someone trustworthy). Also, you’ll need to go between you 27-30 weeks of pregnancy. Any later than that and you won’t be able to get a decent picture of the little rascal.

See ya later.

 

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9 Weeks To Go, or Carter’s Owns My Soul

Posted on February 6, 2012 by afistfulofdiapers

Wait, nine weeks???

It seems like I wrote the last checkup a week ago. Crap. Well, we still don’t have anything ready, but we did manage to spend $117 at the new Carter’s store on Sunday. I don’t know why we bought it; people inevitably end up buying tons of stuff for your kid when he is a newborn and then the clothes start to trickle off.

Actually, that never happened with us- Christine’s mom and grandmother have continually sent pajamas to us every since Jack was born. We literally could have not bought a single set of clothes for the kid and we still would have had too much stuff. I literally cannot close Jack’s dresser drawers right now. I know, we’re lucky to count these as problems. I’m guessing this is because Jackson was the first grandchild on his mother’s side of the family- everyone went bananas buying stuff for him/us. However, I think Christine’s grandmother just loves buying clothes. For a while, she and her husband wouldn’t stop buying me clothes. Every so often a package would arrive from Bealls with Guy Harvey shirts and flip flops in them. Part of this is because I am from Kentucky and I think Grammie and Roger really just wanted to make sure I actually had shoes. (I have to admit that I loved the packages.)

Back to the point of this story. Because this is kid #2, you can’t count on people buying all kinds of stuff for this one. The newness is over for your family as well. Other siblings or cousins will have started having kids and a lot of the attention is duly focused on them. You engage in what I refer to as defensive purchasing. You obviously don’t want your new infant to lack for clothes, but you also want to allow relatives gently off the hook when they apologize for forgetting to get you a set of onesies. “It’s okay,” you can say, “we already have soooo much of that to begin with.”

If you aren’t familiar with Carter’s, you soon will be. And for good reason- Carter’s is the shit. (No, I’m not being paid to say this.) They are pretty much the people to turn to in order to clothe your child. The clothes are of course, unfairly adorable, but more than that, they stand up to the copious amounts of vomit and excrement your spawn will inevitably heap upon them. You can pass them on to a friend or family member that is expecting a child. (And really, how many things can we soak in piss, shit and vomit and then pass on to a loved on without batting an eye?)

After our trip to the zoo (post coming soon) I thought I’d show the new store to Christine. Fearing that they’d shun a camera, I don’t have pics from inside the store. But what I can tell you is that when shopping at a Carter’s, BEWARE.  The cuteness of the clothes will suck your money away from faster than you can imagine, even if everything is 40% off of clearance prices (and it was).

Chris wisely brought Jackson to the big kids’ section and let him pick out a set of jammies so that he would would feel included in all of this. Problem is, Christine wouldn’t stop buying things.

“Christine,” I would plead, “please, we have to pay for other things, like electricity and books (books are especially high priced in Kansas due to their scarcity). But I couldn’t get her to yield. When I turned around, I saw a tall woman with a big belly and a huge smile saying, “Honey, LOOK.”

I tried to reason with her; it was no use. She was convinced that we must purchase clothes sized for a one year old now because it was important. Besides, there was a sale.

I wanted to be mad. I wanted to explain to her that no amount of defensive purchasing could explain the need to buy clothes that Benjamin wouldn’t need to wear for two years. But then I saw this little set on a hanger with some cute little crabs on it. It looked like something you’d wear if you were from Maine, like Christine’s grandfather was.

Ah, dammit.

The damage today:

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