Isaac Joseph

June 18, 2009


I never meant to write a daddy blog.

It’s funny. Just when you think you know everything that’s going to happen, life smacks you behind the ears and reminds you otherwise.

I thought I knew this whole childbirth thing. After going through it with Sierra two years ago, I proclaimed myself an expert.

Yet here I am, still surprised, completely in awe. Unable to do anything but think about being a daddy. Absolutely convinced that, no matter how hard I try otherwise, I can’t write about anything but being a daddy. A new daddy. To a little boy.

Isaac Joseph

Welcome to the world, Isaac Joseph.

Thank you for bringing another Y chromosome into the house. For promising a lifetime of work as Sierra’s foil.

And for reminding me that, despite all of my insistence otherwise – both two years ago and now – Black Marks on Wood Pulp is first and foremost one of those daddy blogs.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Living in simpler times

June 15, 2009


We got to go to the balloon races this past Saturday. Though our friends were there, it was solely a family excursion. Just Kerrie, Sierra and me. Just like the zoo a few weekends before that, and just like every night in the backyard over the past month.

Last night, we followed it all up with a trip to Dairy Queen. Dinner led to dessert. Sierra’s constant repetition – “ICE CEEM COON ICE CEEM COON” – was both cute and disturbing, though we were convinced we should fulfill her wish. After all, it was only an ice cream cone, to that point only seen in pictures, only a distant reality in a children’s book.

And it was one of the last she could have in this situation. Just Kerrie, Sierra and me.

Sierra’s ice cream cone continued a vow we made to ourselves – never verbally, never consciously, but a vow all the same. To cherish these last few days alone with Sierra. To remember what it was like when our family was just three people and a dog.

I mentioned before that our time in our old home would be an experience that only Sierra could claim. Something special she had as the older sister – as our first child; a reward for putting up with our flailing attempts at learning parenthood.

Parenting may be easier with Baby Boy Vilhauer. It will certainly be more familiar.

But regardless of the benefits that come from being number two, Sierra will always hold one thing that Baby Boy never will – memories of a first home. Memories of a smaller family. Memories of growing up and teaching us how to love something more than life itself.

It’s not that much longer before Sierra is forced to share her life with another child. I know it will be a change, but it’s a change that she’ll accept. Because she cares enough for other people to understand what it means to have a little brother. It’s instinct with her. It’s the most natural thing I could imagine her latching on to.

Until then, we’ll look back on these simpler times with joy. With a touch of nostalgia, I’m sure – not because we don’t love what’s going on, but because we equally loved this point and can never get it back.

It’s funny. I’ve been tethered to the idea of nostalgia for years. Looking back and remembering the best is something I’ve stubbornly clung to, something I constantly fall back on despite knowing I should simply stop and enjoy the good times.

Like going out for ice cream. Just Kerrie, Sierra and me. I knew what I would miss at that point. But it didn’t stop me from enjoying every minute.

Sierra teaches me something new every day.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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16-Page Read: The Velveteen Rabbit

June 12, 2009


The Velveteen Rabbit By Margery Williams
The Velveteen RabbitTwo years ago, we read The Little Prince to Sierra.

She wasn’t born yet. It wasn’t an act of consciousness for her – simply a vehicle for getting her used to my voice: the second voice in her life, and the one she often heard when her mother’s was quiet. She didn’t pop out quoting lines from the book, and her propensity toward books is caused more by availability than some deep-seated memory of reading while still in the womb.

It doesn’t matter. We read it to her anyway. And with Baby Boy Vilhauer, we repeated the task – this time with The Velveteen Rabbit.

I understand that Baby Boy Vilhauer probably won’t remember a word from The Velveteen Rabbit.

But that’s not exactly the point, is it?

Really, we read it for ourselves. We both rediscovered the simple joy in making something real – remembering our own Velveteen Rabbits, those childhood items that we loved more than anything, believing they held some kind of magic powers that keep us safe from evil.

Our minds flowed back to the innocence of youth, finding comfort, understanding that as we grow, our own cherished things become more fragile. Harder. Unwilling to protect us. I find no solace in an old clock, or in the cold sharpness of a family keepsake. But I do see that comfort in Sierra’s toys. As if they weren’t designed for play, but for protection from some unseen tragedy. Designed to keep people young, to preserve that innocence.

More than that, we understood that, by reading The Velveteen Rabbit to Baby Boy through the constricting nature of the womb, we were reaching out to him. Longing to meet him.

The Velveteen Rabbit became, without doubt, Baby Boy’s book. That’s an important connection in our household – a story that will forever be connected to a time and place; laying in bed, Kerrie propped on her side, we went through all 33 pages in two nights, reliving the memory of a classic story, and introducing it to our next great discovery.

Sierra had that with The Little Prince. And, though I understand it’s all coincidence, she has grown to be a caring and peaceful individual, seemingly learning from the lessons of that book.

If our baby boy can move forward with his lessons – on accepting everyone, on loving without barrier, and on the importance of believing in yourself – we’re confident that his first book will be as meaningful to him, even if unknowingly so, as it is for us.

Tags: 16-Page Read, Books, Isaac, Sierra |

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Not quite ready

June 1, 2009


Okay. I’ll admit it.

I’m not ready for this baby.

Whoa, whoa. Before your “fear of commitment” sirens start flashing and you start pointing your golden finger of justice in my direction, know that I am, indeed, excited for this baby.

I am thrilled, actually. I know I’ve been quiet on the subject, but I’m simply ecstatic. Nervous, yes – nervous to finally meet him, to welcome a boy into the world, to know that everything wonderful that Sierra has brought to our lives is about to be hectically heaped upon us once again, despite being in the midst of another parenting chapter at the same time.

I’m proud, too. Proud to have this opportunity, to marvel at how Sierra has grown and learned and become such a great little person, and proud to have the chance in helping Baby Boy Vilhauer do the same. The honor of doing so, even.

But I’m not ready.

Not when it comes to preparedness. Not when it comes to having all of our ducks in a row.

Not when it comes to timing.

No, considering the change in scenarios, and compared with Sierra’s relatively muted arrival, Baby Boy is entering life with a jarring bang, chaos surrounding him. Where last time we were preparing day by day for the arrival of a not-yet-determined child, this time we’re lucky to have noticed the process at all. We’ve found ourselves waist-deep in full-term concerns.

We haven’t unpacked. We only just cleared out a room. We’re still adapting to a new home, to the whirlwind of summer invitations, to the advancements of close friends.

Sierra is only slightly aware of what’s to come, and at times I fear we’re in the same boat.

From a period of contentment to an unassailable feeling of anxiety.

I suppose we’re doing this the way you’re supposed to. Full on, with all surprises intact. An adventure in adding life – one we’ll always remember.

Still, without a doubt, we’re not ready for this baby.

Of course, by saying that, I realize that, when it comes down to it, we’ve been ready since the beginning.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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64 crayons

May 10, 2009


When I was in grade school, the trek to buy school supplies was a momentous occasion. It was a license to get new stuff, served fresh from the school district thanks to a one-page white sheet detailing all of the supplies we’d need for the year.

Often, there were items that seemed superfluous – 18-color watercolors we’d use once, a straight edge we’d use more often to launch paper missiles than we’d use in art class. But there was always one constant – crayons, at least 16.

One year, in an act of kindness I still remember, I was given every grade schooler’s art-supply-list dream: the 64-crayon box of Crayola. The one with silver, bronze and gold. The one that said, “I have 64 colors, and I am a better person than you.”

That night, the night before school started, my mother sat down and, per the school district’s suggestion, began writing my name on all of my school supplies. On my ruler. On my eraser. On my pencils and on my pencil bag. And then, though it wasn’t needed and seemed ridiculous to the point of insanity, on each of those 64 crayons.

Imagine that. Writing “Corey V.” on the sides of 64 crayons, each one seeming smaller and smaller, each one causing more and more hand cramps.

I still think of that today. It’s what I use to remind me of the bond between a mother and a son. And it’s proof that, despite how distant I’ve been in my life – and despite how callous I can seem – my mother has done things for me that I’ll never begin to know.

I see those things firsthand, now. The sacrifices that Kerrie has made in order to make sure Sierra has the best life possible – things that our little girl will never remember: gifts of time and energy and attention, career changes done specifically for her benefit, each worried minute when she’s sick, each patient second when she’s misbehaving.

Sure, fathers are there too. But the bond is different. Mom’s get a head start – a 40-week head start. A head start that strengthens the bond, not into something better than a father’s bond, but into something different. Something a little more patient.

Something that can lead a mother to write the same name, hundreds of times, smaller and smaller, just, in the rare chance that it could happen, to protect her son from losing his precious silver crayon.

That’s my mom. And in a way, that’s all of our moms.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. And Happy Mother’s Day, Kerrie.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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On losing a great grandfather.

May 1, 2009


I never knew any of my great grandfathers.

Most of us probably never got the chance. Nature doesn’t make it easy, and despite advances in technology and medicine, it’s still difficult to make it to 80 years old, a time when you’re most likely to have great grandchildren. For men, it’s even harder.

I never knew any of my great grandfathers, but Sierra’s known two: Great Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa Burt, both on Kerrie’s side.

Yesterday, Great Grandpa Burt passed away. Suddenly, without warning, in his sleep. Peacefully and with dignity.

I’ll admit, I’m without easy words. Though I’ve gone through this before with my own grandfather, it seems so foreign – to see a man who has been so large a part of so many lives just leave the world without warning, leaving his wife of 63 years – Kerrie’s grandma Mardell – and the rest of us behind, lamenting, celebrating and remembering.

A World War II veteran. A wildly successful businessman. One of the kindest people I’ve ever had the privilege to know – a man who instilled caring and pride and common sense into every member of his family, from his children to his grandchildren.

His range of influence reaches farther than anyone I’ve known. Every name leads to another, each handshake holding the memory of a thousand more. Burt saw things I’ll never see, lived lives I’ll never imagine. Took everything as it came, with knife between teeth, crawling through life when needed and relaxing when the time was right. He fought wars I’ll never fight, flew next to French authors and catered ice cream to South Dakota’s future leaders.

He held every memory close, held each smile as if it would escape him. Manifesting in more of a frown, struggling to stay hidden despite the grasping urge to be set free, each smile came wryly, as if a present wrapped tightly. And once it broke through, it was absolutely beaming, each tooth seeming to smile itself, both eyes blinding in their joy.

Smiles that most often came from the screech of a little girl or boy. One of his great grandchildren – kids that naturally gravitated toward him despite their shyness, despite their need to stay latched to mommy.

That’s what always amazed me. Sierra was a different child around Burt. During her most shy days, she would gather up the courage to muster toward Burt, melting immediately into his arms, grasping as his glasses and gazing into those smiling eyes. The bond was evident. Though both probably never thought about, they were part of something special. Something legendary; a relationship spanning four generations.

I can’t attest to much more than what I know – that Burt was a brilliant, soft hearted man who had lived a long and illustrious life. Sprightly. Animated. Filled with vigor even as the years caught up with him. Always ready with a sly smile, always ready with a grandfatherly concern.

But I can attest to something special I witnessed in the past year and a half: a relationship so unique and rare that most don’t get to experience it. The relationship between a great grandfather and great granddaughter.

Every person hopes to live long enough to see just one of his or her great grandchildren. Burt was lucky enough to have six.

And Sierra was lucky enough to be one of them.

Sierra and Great Grandpa Burt

“When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you, it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!”

And he laughed again.

“And when you’re consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it… And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars. They always make me laugh!”

- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, On..., Sierra |

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A typical dinner convesation since learning “No.”

April 14, 2009


COREY: “Are you hungry?”
SIERRA: “No.”
COREY: “Do you want some applesauce?”
SIERRA: “No.”
COREY: “Would you like some milk?”
SIERRA: “No.”
COREY: “Do you want a cracker?”
SIERRA: “No-OOOO.”
COREY: “Do you love daddy?”
SIERRA: “No.”
COREY: “Do you love Becket?”
SIERRA: “BEH-BEH!”
(Takes bite of applesauce.)
COREY: “Is that good?”
SIERRA: “No-OOOO.”
(Thinks.)
SIERRA: “Mmmm…”
(Laughs.)

It’s not that she’s being malicious or hurtful.

She just knows a new word and – this is key – she understands its meaning. And, like “Mine,” she’s IN LOVE WITH IT.

Tags: Sierra |

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