First Tears of 2012

I’ve performed on stages all over the world but yesterday had to be the most nerve-racking and meaningful performance of my life. It was my daughter’s first PIMPBOT show.

As a temperamental toddler, approaching her “terrible twos,” I was prepared for any reaction to my performance… so I thought. As I looked back at my drummer to count in the first song, our show started like any other. I said greeted the audience over the song’s intro and scanned over the audience. As I held my trombone to my lips, I focused on my daughter front and center. She stared right at me and started shaking her hips. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Behind my Wayfarer sunglasses, tears began to well.

I’ve never had to sing while trying to hold back tears. I found out what happens is that you end up singing horribly. I mentally scrambled to regain composure. A song later, I missed a verse. Luckily my band is talented to recover and had no idea what was wrong with me. They were probably thinking, “Geez, is he THAT hammered?”

Since that performance 12 hours ago, I’ve been wondering what brought on this emotional breakdown. As far as I can conclude, it was just a ton of emotions surging through me at once and it was more than I could bear. Here were a few of the things running through my mind.

Ultimate Approval: Musicians have their own versions of success that drive them. For some, it’s landing a record deal. For others, it’s just scoring a couple of free drinks and getting laid that night. My views of musical success have changed throughout my career. However, I realized yesterday that having my own flesh and blood approving music that I’ve been working on for over a decade is the only success I care about. With each hip movement, I realized that it was all worth it – the late night practices, the grueling tours, everything. The blood sweat and tears of my career were suddenly validated with a few simple hip movements. Imagine that.

Three Women: I am only the man I am today because of the women in my life. Without the support of my wife, daughter and mother, I have no motivation whatsoever. From the makeshift stage, I was able to see all three of them in one glance. I looked at these three beautiful, strong-willed, women and I realized how lucky I am to have them in my life. Because of them, I am unstoppable.

Pride: I’m not sure what a father is supposed to be like. I’ve never had one. Christians have always told me that it’s okay because I have a heavenly father. I’m sure that’s fun to say but have you ever tried playing a game of catch with your heavenly father? He doesn’t catch the ball when you throw it. I’ve been winging this whole dad thing for two years and I’m guessing I’m at the very least doing better than my dad because… well… I’m here. When I look at my daughter, sometimes I get upset that she doesn’t have any grandfathers that claim her. However I’m proud of myself for showing her a love that was instilled in me from my family. I pour my love onto her daily. I want her to know how special she is and that she is capable of doing anything. Any sign of joy in her heart, whether it be a smile, an excited scream or dance, is a tenfold return. She is learning new things everyday and I’m proud of the smart and adorable little girl that she is turning into.

After the show, I walked my mother back to her car and shared my experience that I just had on stage. She told me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She says she feels the same thing when she watches me perform.

Circle of life, I suppose.

Happy Martin Luther King Day.

Saying Good-bye to my Childhood Home

From 1984 – 2006, I was fortunate to live in the same home. It was my grandparent’s house and regardless of what happened in life, I always had it as my home base. When we first moved in, we were a family of 5. But today, it was just my mother moving out of the recently sold home. As I took a final tour through the rooms and hallways of my youth, I attempted to capture a few last, up-close images.

Living Room

Tiles

Cubbard

Bedroom

House

Street Sign

Daddy: Year 1

Tonight my baby girl went to bed clutching a Lego, a doll, and a bottle of milk. Not too different from every other night except that when she wakes up tomorrow, she’ll be one year old.

It was one year ago where I nervously laid on a cot in our delivery room, tweeting updates and reading encouraging text messages from friends and family. From that moment on, it was a series of milestones: First bath, first car ride home, first solid poop, first swim, first time eating solids, first tooth, and first word.

As my wife feverishly bakes cupcakes for my daughter’s first birthday and I load tables, tents and chairs into our car, I think about the way I’ve also changed in the past year. Not milestones per se, but rather unforeseen developments in taste and physicality.

Before Baby:
t-shirt size – medium
favorite band – Mighty Mighty Bosstones
favorite tv show – Family Guy
bedtime – 3am
nightcap – Jack & Coke

After Baby:
t-shirt size – large
favorite band – Imagination Movers
favorite tv show – Yo Gabba Gabba
bedtime – 11:58pm
nightcap – orange juice

Basically, you start liking what your kids like. Your baby can’t run around at the park yet so you just stay home and change diapers. You feel like the world’s largest a-hole if you feed your baby breakfast with a raging hangover.

I welcome these changes and the many blessing that having a little one brings. However, I look forward to doing more physical activities with her in the future. I can’t afford to go up another t-shirt size.

Gingerbread Obituary: Helga Gingerberg

This is the obituary of Helga Gingerberg, the female gingerbread woman pictured below.  She is now inside of me.

Helga Gingerberg, 2010 (hopefully) - 2010

Helga tasted true to the meaning of her Scandinavian derived name, holy and blessed.  She was born from the oven in the year 2010 (hopefully) by a very successful and clean (again, hopefully) baker.  She was eaten with egg nog, later to be chased with a California merlot.

Baby Accessory or Crack Pipe?

By the stack of nipples behind it, I’m guessing it’s a baby accessory of some sort.  Also because my wife doesn’t smoke crack.

My baby girl is almost 8 months old now and I am surprised daily by both, my little crawler and my wife.  Having horrible reading comprehension, my wife has secured the role of the baby bookworm in this parenting team while I take my rightful place as the defender.  Basically, my duties entail swatting evil away from my family unit in every direction.

As new alien tools such as this pop up in the kitchen, I am trained to go along with it and just clean it if it’s dirty.  Thus far, majority of the implements have been sheathed in milk, peas and carrots.  No crack… so far.

Bathroom Door ALWAYS Closes for a Deuce

More than just a nob with a lock...

When I’m home alone, the condition of my bathroom door is subject to the events within.

When I’m going number one and I’m alone, it’s pretty exciting for me to leave the door open.  I feel free.  It was like when I first began wearing boxer shorts.  If I could officially name the feeling, I would call it “naughty freedom.”

However if the game at play is number two, the outcome of the bathroom door is a direct opposite.  Whether I’m alone or in company while putting my city’s sewage system to the test, the door must ALWAYS remain closed.  In fact, I feel even better about the situation if the door is locked.  A safe environment must be created where myself, a porcelain bowl, and my cell phone are one.  Then and only then can my sin be released.