George
George is sad that James is sick, but he likes to watch himself while he sits with James on the couch. George and James both think that George is very funny. George needed a bath even before James got sick, so he'll definitely be making a trip to the basement once James gets better. James says that George helps him feel better.
Steven
Steven is still in one piece, which for a bear of his advancing years is always remarkable. He also needs a bath, but trips through the washer and dryer are getting more perilous for Steven Bear. Yesterday he rode in Daddy's pocket all the way up to the donut shop on a long walk in the sunshine, and Daddy didn't even remember that he was there until they were very nearly home and there was a panicked moment of worrying that he'd been dropped somewhere along the route. Steven is also very sad that James is sick.
New Steven
New Steven still hasn't been fully accepted into James' tribe, and only maintains an auxiliary member status. Owen, however, LOVES New Steven. He reaches for him, grabs him, holds him, puts him in his mouth, attempts to roll from back to front for him, and generally makes happy faces whenever he sees the (mostly) fluffly (mostly) white little bear. We are hoping that New Steven isn't carrying any of whatever James has.
Wood Blocks
The wood blocks need to be used to make a house. The house needs to have a roof, and also it needs to have a garage door. In the house there needs to be a storage cube (9 cubes total), a microwave, and stairs. In the garage there needs to be overhead storage, and in the overhead storage we need to put a box that holds the scary clock and a box that holds the scary Nutcracker. We do not want to look at either of those things.
Sippy Cup
We have very little use for sippy cups any more, because big boy cups are far superior. Except if we must drink from a sippy cup, we would prefer to drink from the fire truck sippy and not the drump truck sippy.
Thomas Blanket
We are ever so excited about the Thomas blanket that Mommy is going to make using the fabric that she bought at JoAnn's. However, we are so excited that we are completely excited about the blanket that whenever Mommy gets it out to work on it we need to walk and dance on it, even though we are sick, and even though Mommy tells us to keep off.
Showing posts with label Illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Illness. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Stumbling Across the Finish Line
It was a rough finish to the December concert marathon.
Today was the last day of big performances before Christmas break. I had the cantata at church, and then I was home free. I was up before 6 to get coffee and donuts ready for my choir and musicians and to make sure the church was set up. J texted me, wishing me luck, as I led them through a grueling two hour rehearsal. "One more thing and then we're free!!"
I felt great as I drove back home. There was a Bills game on in the afternoon, good leftovers for lunch in the fridge, and nothing to do except relax and hang with the boys. James had been in a particularly good mood all week. What with the move and the new baby we got in the habit of letting him watch an episode of Curious George every night before bed for a few weeks, and we noticed that he wasn't handling it very well. About a week ago we decided to kill two birds (or monkeys?) with one stone by telling him he could only watch George if he did certain big boy things on the potty. This hasn't worked out on the potty training end, but he's become a much nicer kid since we cut down his TV intake to nothing.
I noticed right away, though, that he wasn't in a playful mood when he got back from church with J. He whined through lunch, and went down far too easily for a nap.
I settled down for an afternoon with J...her Steelers game was on at 1, and the Bills were on at 4. It was exciting to watch the Bills play a meaningful game in December...they even still had a chance at the playoffs!
When James got up from his nap he didn't want to give up his binky. In fact, he didn't want to do anything other than lie on our bed and whimper about being held. At first I thought he was just trying to bump Owen off of his favorite two laps, but as the afternoon dragged on I began to realize that he was sick. And it was obvious enough for me to realize it despite the fact that the Bills were in the middle of a very sickly football game.
I asked him if his mouth hurt and he said yes. Eventually he'll stop answering that question truthfully, because whenever he says yes he gets pinned down by one parent while the other forces down some Children's Tylenol. By this time it was almost 5, J was trying to get a pizza into the oven, and Owen was entering the winter of his discontent. (4:30-7:30 PM, daily) Plus, the Bills were losing.
James was crying almost inconsolably when J came up. I had both kids on my lap, and James had his binky in. J asked him what was wrong. And then he vomited all over our bed. It was too gross to describe in detail, and all of us just sat in shock for a moment. And then he vomited again. Fortunately, a primordial parental instinct kicked in allowing J to stick her hands out under his mouth, so instead of having a vomity mess all over our child, quilt, and comforter, we had a vomity mess all over our child, quilt, and comforter, and she had a handful of vomit.
I think Owen ended up on the floor. The handful of vomit ended up in a hastily grabbed box that apparently also had J's nursing pads in it. James' pajamas were covered, and unfortunately, so was George.
"At least he didn't get Steven."
We mopped him up as best we could while both boys cried, and J took George and half our bedding down to the laundry while I put a protesting James in the tub. Owen didn't do great while we left him alone on our bed. The Bills didn't do much better while I left them alone, either.
I put a shivering and sobbing little three year old--they look so much smaller when they're sick--into a new set of clean pajamas and brought him into J. She'd brought up a bowl for any future incidents, and I tried to get Owen calmed down.
"Mommy, where's George?"
"He's downstairs taking a bath. He got a little dirty when you got sick."
"I need George."
"Why don't you snuggle Steven. And if you feel like you're going to be sick again, try to get it into this bowl, okay?"
"I need my ginky."
"Honey, do you know where his gink ended up?"
(It had been brought downstairs for boiling and re-sanitizing.)
"I'll go get it."
And then he vomited all over the place again. This time it got all over the sheets, his new pajamas, and J. And Steven Bear.
"Am I taking Owen, or the sheets, or James?"
"You take Owen and find the paper towels. James, stay here and don't move. No, sorry honey, Steven is going to need to take a bath too."
"I can't believe they're gonna punt with that little time left."
That was when we decided to let James watch a George, even though he hadn't gone in the potty that day. It seemed like a good idea for all parties involved.
Owen started crying some more, and James asked a lot for George and Steven, and I scrubbed out a lot of clothing in the utility sink.
When J finally did come up with a clean and dry George we got the lone smile of the night from James. He made some monkey noises and then asked George whether he liked his bath, which he apparently did. James threw up again before we put him down for the night, but we managed to get all of it in the bowl that time, and we have some back-up pjs ready.
J's evaluation of the situation is that if it had happened two days ago I would have been gone at a concert and she would have had a puking toddler, a screaming baby, a laundry emergency, and a pizza in the oven all at the same time.
Her Mom's evaluation of the situation is that we've finally reached full parenthood now that we've both earned the vomit badge.
My evaluation of the situation is that any quarterback worth only a second or third round pick is unlikely to provide a net gain greater than an offensive line upgrade in the short term, and that the throwing up was only the second gruesomest mess I saw today. I put that on facebook, and used my first ever hashtag.
#christmasbreak
#stillhaventshowered
#fifteenyeardrought
#maybenextyear
#owenisstillscreaming
Today was the last day of big performances before Christmas break. I had the cantata at church, and then I was home free. I was up before 6 to get coffee and donuts ready for my choir and musicians and to make sure the church was set up. J texted me, wishing me luck, as I led them through a grueling two hour rehearsal. "One more thing and then we're free!!"
I felt great as I drove back home. There was a Bills game on in the afternoon, good leftovers for lunch in the fridge, and nothing to do except relax and hang with the boys. James had been in a particularly good mood all week. What with the move and the new baby we got in the habit of letting him watch an episode of Curious George every night before bed for a few weeks, and we noticed that he wasn't handling it very well. About a week ago we decided to kill two birds (or monkeys?) with one stone by telling him he could only watch George if he did certain big boy things on the potty. This hasn't worked out on the potty training end, but he's become a much nicer kid since we cut down his TV intake to nothing.
I noticed right away, though, that he wasn't in a playful mood when he got back from church with J. He whined through lunch, and went down far too easily for a nap.
I settled down for an afternoon with J...her Steelers game was on at 1, and the Bills were on at 4. It was exciting to watch the Bills play a meaningful game in December...they even still had a chance at the playoffs!
When James got up from his nap he didn't want to give up his binky. In fact, he didn't want to do anything other than lie on our bed and whimper about being held. At first I thought he was just trying to bump Owen off of his favorite two laps, but as the afternoon dragged on I began to realize that he was sick. And it was obvious enough for me to realize it despite the fact that the Bills were in the middle of a very sickly football game.
I asked him if his mouth hurt and he said yes. Eventually he'll stop answering that question truthfully, because whenever he says yes he gets pinned down by one parent while the other forces down some Children's Tylenol. By this time it was almost 5, J was trying to get a pizza into the oven, and Owen was entering the winter of his discontent. (4:30-7:30 PM, daily) Plus, the Bills were losing.
James was crying almost inconsolably when J came up. I had both kids on my lap, and James had his binky in. J asked him what was wrong. And then he vomited all over our bed. It was too gross to describe in detail, and all of us just sat in shock for a moment. And then he vomited again. Fortunately, a primordial parental instinct kicked in allowing J to stick her hands out under his mouth, so instead of having a vomity mess all over our child, quilt, and comforter, we had a vomity mess all over our child, quilt, and comforter, and she had a handful of vomit.
I think Owen ended up on the floor. The handful of vomit ended up in a hastily grabbed box that apparently also had J's nursing pads in it. James' pajamas were covered, and unfortunately, so was George.
"At least he didn't get Steven."
We mopped him up as best we could while both boys cried, and J took George and half our bedding down to the laundry while I put a protesting James in the tub. Owen didn't do great while we left him alone on our bed. The Bills didn't do much better while I left them alone, either.
I put a shivering and sobbing little three year old--they look so much smaller when they're sick--into a new set of clean pajamas and brought him into J. She'd brought up a bowl for any future incidents, and I tried to get Owen calmed down.
"Mommy, where's George?"
"He's downstairs taking a bath. He got a little dirty when you got sick."
"I need George."
"Why don't you snuggle Steven. And if you feel like you're going to be sick again, try to get it into this bowl, okay?"
"I need my ginky."
"Honey, do you know where his gink ended up?"
(It had been brought downstairs for boiling and re-sanitizing.)
"I'll go get it."
And then he vomited all over the place again. This time it got all over the sheets, his new pajamas, and J. And Steven Bear.
"Am I taking Owen, or the sheets, or James?"
"You take Owen and find the paper towels. James, stay here and don't move. No, sorry honey, Steven is going to need to take a bath too."
"I can't believe they're gonna punt with that little time left."
That was when we decided to let James watch a George, even though he hadn't gone in the potty that day. It seemed like a good idea for all parties involved.
Owen started crying some more, and James asked a lot for George and Steven, and I scrubbed out a lot of clothing in the utility sink.
When J finally did come up with a clean and dry George we got the lone smile of the night from James. He made some monkey noises and then asked George whether he liked his bath, which he apparently did. James threw up again before we put him down for the night, but we managed to get all of it in the bowl that time, and we have some back-up pjs ready.
J's evaluation of the situation is that if it had happened two days ago I would have been gone at a concert and she would have had a puking toddler, a screaming baby, a laundry emergency, and a pizza in the oven all at the same time.
Her Mom's evaluation of the situation is that we've finally reached full parenthood now that we've both earned the vomit badge.
My evaluation of the situation is that any quarterback worth only a second or third round pick is unlikely to provide a net gain greater than an offensive line upgrade in the short term, and that the throwing up was only the second gruesomest mess I saw today. I put that on facebook, and used my first ever hashtag.
#christmasbreak
#stillhaventshowered
#fifteenyeardrought
#maybenextyear
#owenisstillscreaming
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Back Pain
I am currently shut down for repairs.
Last night I pulled James' stroller up the big hill on Colby Street so that he wouldn't be stuck pointed into a bright sunset for ten minutes while we walked to the playground. Somewhere along the way I tweaked a muscle on the left side of my upper back, and by the time I went to bed I knew something was wrong.
I woke up several times during the night. Once I went downstairs to hunt for aspirin, and around 3 AM I even roused my longsuffering wife to rub my back. Around 5:30 it was too painful to lie on my side anymore, and on the fourth or fifth attempt, I rolled my legs off the bed and limped downstairs. My neck was stuck forwards as I walked, and I couldn't turn my head at all. It was barely light out as I turned on hot water for coffee--all with my right arm, since I couldn't lift my left--and measured out four scoops of grounds.
Woe is me.
This happened once before, in the summer of 2008. J and I were in Hanover, getting ready to drive to Philadelphia for a week at Csehy. These were the olden times, before small bears, and we would stay up late every night and sleep in late every morning. Our bodies were younger then, and they didn't break down. It wasn't like now, now that we're 28 years old and our youthful prime is behind us. Interestingly enough, it was that same week at Csehy that I played with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra for the first time. They needed a trumpet player in a pinch, and they called the RPO personnel manager asking for a recommendation.
We were in the backyard of the Davis homestead, throwing a frisbee about with J's two brothers. I reached high for a toss that was sailing over my head, and I knew instantly that some muscle had moved into a place it shouldn't. We drove to Csehy that same afternoon, and my neck stiffened more with each passing mile of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time we arrived my head was bent over my chest, and I couldn't move my neck at all. Our assignment for that evening was to drive back and forth from the campus in Langhorne through the city of Philadelphia to the airport, and to bring back arriving campers with their luggage. J was, for reasons long forgotten, somehow unable to drive. She checked the lanes around me to tell me when it was safe to turn, since I couldn't turn my head, and I tried to keep track of the dizzying interchanges as we made each half-hour trip in and half-hour trip back. I think we made eight runs before we quit.
Fortunately, our friend Opifera was there that night.
The record should show that I don't like to be massaged. I am painfully ticklish, I'm not particularly good at sitting still for long periods of time, and just when you think that adults can't be reduced to spasmatic giggles at a feather's touch, I am painfully ticklish. "But wait," you say "haven't you and your wife ever passed a cold winter evening with glasses of red wine, some jazz turned down low in the background, and a family-blog-appropriate 'back rub?'" I'm sad to say that back rubs are unromantic when convulsive elbow flailing leaves one or both parties with black eyes.
I was not expecting much help, in the summer of 2008, when Opifera offered to work on whatever knot was immobilizing my entire upper body. She put her hand on my back, felt around where the center of the pain was, and then started to work on what felt like an entirely unrelated spot on my back. My whole neck seized up for about ten minutes, and then just like that, everything had relaxed. I was still a little sore for the next day or so, but I could stand up straight again, and even managed to carry in our luggage from the car.
This morning, as I waited for my coffee to brew, I was thankful that Opifera lived only a few minutes away, and that she'd had six months of formal massage school to hone her gifted instincts.
I enjoyed the hour and a half before James got up--I read Homer and Pliny, and blundered through a few verses of Genesis in Hebrew, and was even fairly comfortable in a hard wooden chair. When I heard James begin his morning chatter upstairs, I climbed my way out of my seat--goodness, my left shoulder throbbed--and made my way up to him. He doesn't wake up from afternoon naps very well (he's always angry at the world) but he's a little angel in the morning. He was cooing to Steven Bear as I walked in the room, and he bounced to his feet in excitement when he saw me.
"James," I said softly "would you like to go downstairs and play with toys?" He gave me a big smile behind his binky and nodded several times. I grinned back and reached in to pick him up. The first two tries were unsuccessful, but he eventually climbed into my outstretched right arm. I couldn't lift him any higher than my waist, so a new diaper on his changing table was out of the question. He snuggled with me in the big downstairs chair for a few minutes (which made the trouble of standing up out of said chair worth it) and then mostly cooperated when I changed his diaper on the floor.
J texted Opifera as soon as she was up, and we got through the morning just fine. James would forget about every fifteen minutes or so that I wasn't available to rough-house or tow him along in a laundry basket or play ring-around-the-rosie today, but then he'd find some way to entertain himself--I even let him watch a little television this morning--and he'd help J look after me. They filled an old brown sock with old white rice (and, unfortunately, some nice brown rice when we ran out of the cheap stuff) and used it as a heating pad. I was given permission to spend the whole morning on the couch reading Annales articles on the Middle Ages, and I was even excused from washing the dishes.
I went over to Opifera's before lunch, and I'm much improved now. I can move both arms freely, and there's just a little bit of stiffness in my neck. It's tough getting to be an old geezer like me, but I'll manage a full recovery on this one.
Only, I may not be quite well enough to help with the dishes yet.
Last night I pulled James' stroller up the big hill on Colby Street so that he wouldn't be stuck pointed into a bright sunset for ten minutes while we walked to the playground. Somewhere along the way I tweaked a muscle on the left side of my upper back, and by the time I went to bed I knew something was wrong.
I woke up several times during the night. Once I went downstairs to hunt for aspirin, and around 3 AM I even roused my longsuffering wife to rub my back. Around 5:30 it was too painful to lie on my side anymore, and on the fourth or fifth attempt, I rolled my legs off the bed and limped downstairs. My neck was stuck forwards as I walked, and I couldn't turn my head at all. It was barely light out as I turned on hot water for coffee--all with my right arm, since I couldn't lift my left--and measured out four scoops of grounds.
Woe is me.
This happened once before, in the summer of 2008. J and I were in Hanover, getting ready to drive to Philadelphia for a week at Csehy. These were the olden times, before small bears, and we would stay up late every night and sleep in late every morning. Our bodies were younger then, and they didn't break down. It wasn't like now, now that we're 28 years old and our youthful prime is behind us. Interestingly enough, it was that same week at Csehy that I played with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra for the first time. They needed a trumpet player in a pinch, and they called the RPO personnel manager asking for a recommendation.
We were in the backyard of the Davis homestead, throwing a frisbee about with J's two brothers. I reached high for a toss that was sailing over my head, and I knew instantly that some muscle had moved into a place it shouldn't. We drove to Csehy that same afternoon, and my neck stiffened more with each passing mile of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time we arrived my head was bent over my chest, and I couldn't move my neck at all. Our assignment for that evening was to drive back and forth from the campus in Langhorne through the city of Philadelphia to the airport, and to bring back arriving campers with their luggage. J was, for reasons long forgotten, somehow unable to drive. She checked the lanes around me to tell me when it was safe to turn, since I couldn't turn my head, and I tried to keep track of the dizzying interchanges as we made each half-hour trip in and half-hour trip back. I think we made eight runs before we quit.
Fortunately, our friend Opifera was there that night.
The record should show that I don't like to be massaged. I am painfully ticklish, I'm not particularly good at sitting still for long periods of time, and just when you think that adults can't be reduced to spasmatic giggles at a feather's touch, I am painfully ticklish. "But wait," you say "haven't you and your wife ever passed a cold winter evening with glasses of red wine, some jazz turned down low in the background, and a family-blog-appropriate 'back rub?'" I'm sad to say that back rubs are unromantic when convulsive elbow flailing leaves one or both parties with black eyes.
I was not expecting much help, in the summer of 2008, when Opifera offered to work on whatever knot was immobilizing my entire upper body. She put her hand on my back, felt around where the center of the pain was, and then started to work on what felt like an entirely unrelated spot on my back. My whole neck seized up for about ten minutes, and then just like that, everything had relaxed. I was still a little sore for the next day or so, but I could stand up straight again, and even managed to carry in our luggage from the car.
This morning, as I waited for my coffee to brew, I was thankful that Opifera lived only a few minutes away, and that she'd had six months of formal massage school to hone her gifted instincts.
I enjoyed the hour and a half before James got up--I read Homer and Pliny, and blundered through a few verses of Genesis in Hebrew, and was even fairly comfortable in a hard wooden chair. When I heard James begin his morning chatter upstairs, I climbed my way out of my seat--goodness, my left shoulder throbbed--and made my way up to him. He doesn't wake up from afternoon naps very well (he's always angry at the world) but he's a little angel in the morning. He was cooing to Steven Bear as I walked in the room, and he bounced to his feet in excitement when he saw me.
"James," I said softly "would you like to go downstairs and play with toys?" He gave me a big smile behind his binky and nodded several times. I grinned back and reached in to pick him up. The first two tries were unsuccessful, but he eventually climbed into my outstretched right arm. I couldn't lift him any higher than my waist, so a new diaper on his changing table was out of the question. He snuggled with me in the big downstairs chair for a few minutes (which made the trouble of standing up out of said chair worth it) and then mostly cooperated when I changed his diaper on the floor.
J texted Opifera as soon as she was up, and we got through the morning just fine. James would forget about every fifteen minutes or so that I wasn't available to rough-house or tow him along in a laundry basket or play ring-around-the-rosie today, but then he'd find some way to entertain himself--I even let him watch a little television this morning--and he'd help J look after me. They filled an old brown sock with old white rice (and, unfortunately, some nice brown rice when we ran out of the cheap stuff) and used it as a heating pad. I was given permission to spend the whole morning on the couch reading Annales articles on the Middle Ages, and I was even excused from washing the dishes.
I went over to Opifera's before lunch, and I'm much improved now. I can move both arms freely, and there's just a little bit of stiffness in my neck. It's tough getting to be an old geezer like me, but I'll manage a full recovery on this one.
Only, I may not be quite well enough to help with the dishes yet.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
San Francisco
I was in San Francisco from last Saturday to Wednesday. I had never been further west than Kansas before, but I had an audition with the San Francisco Symphony. I wasn't sure whether I would write about this or not--I usually don't make audition trips very public--but so long as everyone swears not to tell any of my current employers that I occasionally look at other jobs (okay, thanks everyone!) I'll write about how it all went down.
It all started going down(hill) on Friday night. J's brother Tim was arriving to fix our broken-down Gaxmobile, and J and I were going to my church's holiday staff party. My departing flight was very early Saturday morning and we needed to put James to bed, so I knew we'd have a good excuse to leave at a reasonable hour. Sometimes professional social events give me chills. And then, I realized, the chills I was feeling were unusually strong. And I felt a bit achy. But no, I couldn't be sick.
We dropped off James at our friend Laura's house (soon to be Dr. Laura) and drove over to the party. It was very cold and windy out. That, obviously, was why I was feeling so chilly and why my teeth were chattering so much. We went inside and socialized politely. And I felt terrible. J told me I looked chalk-white, and though I made it through the party and had a reasonably good time, I was definitely aware that I was sick by the time we got home. Naturally, I hadn't packed yet, so I threw some clothes and snacks in a suitcase while J dug through the medicine cabinet. I went to bed early and a full-blown fever came on.
In defense of my wife, she was dutifully wary about letting me go across the country while running a high fever. She took my temperature several times and made sure I was semi-rational in the morning. (It was 4 AM, though, so I'm not sure how she had any point of reference to evaluate me.) I slept at least a little bit, and then dragged my luggage through the snow and into the car, shivering and trying to stay lucid. I actually don't remember anything about the trip to my connection in Philly...apparently they let me through security and I found my way onto the right plane.
At 6:30 when I got to Philly I had a little fruit and got on board the San Francisco flight, having caught a few more hours sleep and medicated up. Some coffee helped, and I alternated between reading Ovid and dozing for the very long 7 hour trip to the West Coast. I was in an interesting row of people...the gentleman in the aisle seat was doing some sort of engineering work in Hebrew, the woman in the middle was a Stanford grad student reading in Chinese, and I was writing out scansion marks. I hope I didn't get any of them sick. One small advantage of being under the weather was having no appetite whatsoever over the course of the flight, in which $6 would basically buy you a bag of chips.
I'm not great at travel planning. I had made arrangements to stay at a hostel in downtown San Francisco that night, but had no idea where it was or how I was getting there once the plane landed. I'm not sure what I would have done without an iPhone. I found my way somehow to a public train, and got my first (and only) glimpse of the West Coast. It was very nice. I was more worried about keeping my stomach together with all of the hurky-jerky motion on the train, at the time.
I got to the hostel around 3:30 PST (7:30 civilized time) and checked in. I'd decided to stay at a hostel because the flight to San Francisco cost about twice as much as most audition trips usually run. (I had already passed through a taped round, which was how we justified it) I figured it would be cheaper than a hotel, and it actually wasn't too bad. The rooms were like college dorms (I was on a top bunk) and we had to wash our own dishes at breakfast. But there were clean sheets and towels, and wireless internet that sometimes worked, and everyone was very pleasant.
My two roomates while I was there were Adam, who was from Perth, and Jack, who was from somewhere in the American South. Adam was completing some sort of 8 month long tour of the world before starting a job with the company in Perth where he had interned in college. Jack worked a record store, but was, in his own words, "capable of great things."
They were both pleasant and quiet and reasonably hygienic. (I still contend that spraying manly smelling must all over yourself is neither attractive nor a substitute for regular deodorant.) I was tired enough on the first night that I passed out at 6:00 their time and didn't even do the usual night-before-the-audition nervous vomiting.
Sunday morning was the day of the preliminary round, and I was scheduled to go at 4 PM. (And to show up at the hall at 2:30) I found some decent coffee and laid around reading Edward Gibbon's Impossibly Exact Record of the Every Minute Detail of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. (I wanted to bring a book I wouldn't finish right away) I took a shower, got dressed, and got ready to go to the hall. Having spent so much money on the plane ticket, I decided that I needed to save some money on the day of the audition. So, instead of calling a cab, I made up my mind to walk the 1.1 miles to the hall.
This was stupid. This was stupid for several reasons. The first reason was that I did not have my backpack-style gig bag. Walking with a gig bag is pretty easy. Walking with hardshell cases is not. The second reason why walking was stupid was because I had three hardshell cases, and only two arms. I needed five trumpets for the audition, according to the rep list, and three hardshell cases get heavy in a hurry. And the third reason why walking to the hall was stupid was because I was very sick with the flu. I didn't feel so bad lounging around in my pajamas in the morning. I felt like death by the time I'd lugged five trumpets in three cases through downtown San Francisco to the hall.
Once I arrived, I was met by the personnel manager. I politely declined to shake her hand, explaining that I was under the weather. (Given how sweaty and washed out I was at that point, I'm sure she wasn't offended.) She showed me to a warm up room, gave me the rep list for the preliminary round, and told me that since the audition was running a little ahead, I ought to expect to play around 3:50 instead of 4. I thanked her. It's very helpful to know when you're going to play, because you want to time your warm-up so that you've warmed up enough to be comfortable, but you haven't been playing so long that you're starting to get fatigued.
It was about 2:45. I listened to recordings on the preliminary round rep list for about a half an hour, and decided I'd warm up around 3:20. That would be perfect. At 3:20 I got my instrument out and buzzed a little on my mouthpiece. At 3:23, the door opened and the personnel manager told me I needed to be ready to play in 5 minutes.
"I thought I'd be going at 3:50...I think I may need a little bit of time to warm up!"
"Okay, well, they're on the candidate before you."
I accelerated my warming up, and at 3:25 the audition proctor opened the door.
"The committee is waiting for you."
I won't go into detail on how the actual audition went.
I really don't have an excuse. Charlie Geyer told me multiple times to practice playing audition excerpts as the first notes out of the case, preparing for just such a circumstance. I might be able to plead violent illness and exhaustion, but I'm pretty sure he would have a story about Herseth preparing for big Mahler weeks by rolling about in dirty linen from the sick ward just in case he had to ever play the Posthorn with a cold.
I didn't stay to hear the results announced. I just went outside and, giving up on the "save money by walking scheme" called a cab for a ride home. (I'm just bummed I didn't get to shake the personnel manager's hand...)
So, that was the audition. I got Chinese food and a beer that night, but that was about the extent of my moping. It was Sunday evening, and I wouldn't be leaving until Tuesday. What to do with two days in a beautiful tourist paradise?
Mostly, I missed J. Once the audition was over I became the world's most attentive husband. I wrote her a nice long letter, bought souvenirs for her and James, planned out some date nights for us for the next few months, and texted with her a lot. (She was having a trying time herself trying to take care of James alone while the Gaxmobile repairs got on about as well as you'd expect for that vehicle.)
I went to a big mall to buy Ghirardelli chocolates to bring home and trotted around with my Gibbon under arm, scowling and the music and looking indignant at the price tags. (I was channeling Carl Frederickson.) I read a lot and tried not to spend any more money than I absolutely had to. The fever turned into a really nasty cold, but I got a lot better over the course of the next few days. I heard a lovely rendition of "Stand By Me" by homeless man who stood outside the hostel window from 6 PM to 1 AM on Monday night, and I read all about the Bills' new coach. All in all, it was a lonely but restful few days.
And then I came home. I looked like a mountain man--I hadn't brought a razor--and I did not come back having won a high-profile six-figure dream job. But by the time I got home I was VERY happy to see my wife and my little boy, and happy I am to be with them now.
Special thanks to:
Tim, for fixing our PT Cruiser and looking after James and J while I was gone.
Pax & Kylie, for donating garage space to the repair effort, and for giving James and J a place to visit, and for filling in at CPC in my stead
Mom, for bringing lots of steak to fill our freezer
and Ghirardelli Chocolatiers, for being really good at what you do.
It all started going down(hill) on Friday night. J's brother Tim was arriving to fix our broken-down Gaxmobile, and J and I were going to my church's holiday staff party. My departing flight was very early Saturday morning and we needed to put James to bed, so I knew we'd have a good excuse to leave at a reasonable hour. Sometimes professional social events give me chills. And then, I realized, the chills I was feeling were unusually strong. And I felt a bit achy. But no, I couldn't be sick.
We dropped off James at our friend Laura's house (soon to be Dr. Laura) and drove over to the party. It was very cold and windy out. That, obviously, was why I was feeling so chilly and why my teeth were chattering so much. We went inside and socialized politely. And I felt terrible. J told me I looked chalk-white, and though I made it through the party and had a reasonably good time, I was definitely aware that I was sick by the time we got home. Naturally, I hadn't packed yet, so I threw some clothes and snacks in a suitcase while J dug through the medicine cabinet. I went to bed early and a full-blown fever came on.
In defense of my wife, she was dutifully wary about letting me go across the country while running a high fever. She took my temperature several times and made sure I was semi-rational in the morning. (It was 4 AM, though, so I'm not sure how she had any point of reference to evaluate me.) I slept at least a little bit, and then dragged my luggage through the snow and into the car, shivering and trying to stay lucid. I actually don't remember anything about the trip to my connection in Philly...apparently they let me through security and I found my way onto the right plane.
At 6:30 when I got to Philly I had a little fruit and got on board the San Francisco flight, having caught a few more hours sleep and medicated up. Some coffee helped, and I alternated between reading Ovid and dozing for the very long 7 hour trip to the West Coast. I was in an interesting row of people...the gentleman in the aisle seat was doing some sort of engineering work in Hebrew, the woman in the middle was a Stanford grad student reading in Chinese, and I was writing out scansion marks. I hope I didn't get any of them sick. One small advantage of being under the weather was having no appetite whatsoever over the course of the flight, in which $6 would basically buy you a bag of chips.
I'm not great at travel planning. I had made arrangements to stay at a hostel in downtown San Francisco that night, but had no idea where it was or how I was getting there once the plane landed. I'm not sure what I would have done without an iPhone. I found my way somehow to a public train, and got my first (and only) glimpse of the West Coast. It was very nice. I was more worried about keeping my stomach together with all of the hurky-jerky motion on the train, at the time.
I got to the hostel around 3:30 PST (7:30 civilized time) and checked in. I'd decided to stay at a hostel because the flight to San Francisco cost about twice as much as most audition trips usually run. (I had already passed through a taped round, which was how we justified it) I figured it would be cheaper than a hotel, and it actually wasn't too bad. The rooms were like college dorms (I was on a top bunk) and we had to wash our own dishes at breakfast. But there were clean sheets and towels, and wireless internet that sometimes worked, and everyone was very pleasant.
My two roomates while I was there were Adam, who was from Perth, and Jack, who was from somewhere in the American South. Adam was completing some sort of 8 month long tour of the world before starting a job with the company in Perth where he had interned in college. Jack worked a record store, but was, in his own words, "capable of great things."
| Great things...terrible, but great. |
They were both pleasant and quiet and reasonably hygienic. (I still contend that spraying manly smelling must all over yourself is neither attractive nor a substitute for regular deodorant.) I was tired enough on the first night that I passed out at 6:00 their time and didn't even do the usual night-before-the-audition nervous vomiting.
| Not great...just terrible. |
Sunday morning was the day of the preliminary round, and I was scheduled to go at 4 PM. (And to show up at the hall at 2:30) I found some decent coffee and laid around reading Edward Gibbon's Impossibly Exact Record of the Every Minute Detail of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. (I wanted to bring a book I wouldn't finish right away) I took a shower, got dressed, and got ready to go to the hall. Having spent so much money on the plane ticket, I decided that I needed to save some money on the day of the audition. So, instead of calling a cab, I made up my mind to walk the 1.1 miles to the hall.
This was stupid. This was stupid for several reasons. The first reason was that I did not have my backpack-style gig bag. Walking with a gig bag is pretty easy. Walking with hardshell cases is not. The second reason why walking was stupid was because I had three hardshell cases, and only two arms. I needed five trumpets for the audition, according to the rep list, and three hardshell cases get heavy in a hurry. And the third reason why walking to the hall was stupid was because I was very sick with the flu. I didn't feel so bad lounging around in my pajamas in the morning. I felt like death by the time I'd lugged five trumpets in three cases through downtown San Francisco to the hall.
Once I arrived, I was met by the personnel manager. I politely declined to shake her hand, explaining that I was under the weather. (Given how sweaty and washed out I was at that point, I'm sure she wasn't offended.) She showed me to a warm up room, gave me the rep list for the preliminary round, and told me that since the audition was running a little ahead, I ought to expect to play around 3:50 instead of 4. I thanked her. It's very helpful to know when you're going to play, because you want to time your warm-up so that you've warmed up enough to be comfortable, but you haven't been playing so long that you're starting to get fatigued.
It was about 2:45. I listened to recordings on the preliminary round rep list for about a half an hour, and decided I'd warm up around 3:20. That would be perfect. At 3:20 I got my instrument out and buzzed a little on my mouthpiece. At 3:23, the door opened and the personnel manager told me I needed to be ready to play in 5 minutes.
"I thought I'd be going at 3:50...I think I may need a little bit of time to warm up!"
"Okay, well, they're on the candidate before you."
I accelerated my warming up, and at 3:25 the audition proctor opened the door.
"The committee is waiting for you."
I won't go into detail on how the actual audition went.
I really don't have an excuse. Charlie Geyer told me multiple times to practice playing audition excerpts as the first notes out of the case, preparing for just such a circumstance. I might be able to plead violent illness and exhaustion, but I'm pretty sure he would have a story about Herseth preparing for big Mahler weeks by rolling about in dirty linen from the sick ward just in case he had to ever play the Posthorn with a cold.
I didn't stay to hear the results announced. I just went outside and, giving up on the "save money by walking scheme" called a cab for a ride home. (I'm just bummed I didn't get to shake the personnel manager's hand...)
So, that was the audition. I got Chinese food and a beer that night, but that was about the extent of my moping. It was Sunday evening, and I wouldn't be leaving until Tuesday. What to do with two days in a beautiful tourist paradise?
Mostly, I missed J. Once the audition was over I became the world's most attentive husband. I wrote her a nice long letter, bought souvenirs for her and James, planned out some date nights for us for the next few months, and texted with her a lot. (She was having a trying time herself trying to take care of James alone while the Gaxmobile repairs got on about as well as you'd expect for that vehicle.)
I went to a big mall to buy Ghirardelli chocolates to bring home and trotted around with my Gibbon under arm, scowling and the music and looking indignant at the price tags. (I was channeling Carl Frederickson.) I read a lot and tried not to spend any more money than I absolutely had to. The fever turned into a really nasty cold, but I got a lot better over the course of the next few days. I heard a lovely rendition of "Stand By Me" by homeless man who stood outside the hostel window from 6 PM to 1 AM on Monday night, and I read all about the Bills' new coach. All in all, it was a lonely but restful few days.
And then I came home. I looked like a mountain man--I hadn't brought a razor--and I did not come back having won a high-profile six-figure dream job. But by the time I got home I was VERY happy to see my wife and my little boy, and happy I am to be with them now.
Special thanks to:
Tim, for fixing our PT Cruiser and looking after James and J while I was gone.
Pax & Kylie, for donating garage space to the repair effort, and for giving James and J a place to visit, and for filling in at CPC in my stead
Mom, for bringing lots of steak to fill our freezer
and Ghirardelli Chocolatiers, for being really good at what you do.
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