Five Apps You'll Be a Horrible Parent Without

You’re a smart parent. You have a smartphone. You’re familiar with apps that create loud, bright emergency diversions like YouTube, Hulu and Netflix. But here are some Android apps that will kick up your parenting game seven or eight whole notches.

*Image cropped to remove several square inches of empty space

1. Fortune Clock

by Swiven. $0.

This is a handy alarm clock app that — and this is a huge game-changer — also incorporates fortune-telling. You meditate on a problem that’s been bothering you, then you tap one of eight symbols “by intuition.” A wild fortune appears!

“When you prepare something already, marches forward courageously, it’s real good symbol for you!” Fortune Clock says. “Due to this factor, you will sacrifice time of with your family, even away from your lover…”

It’s super effective! And this is obviously much more sophisticated than somebody’s first attempt at coding an Android app. Each fortune feels uniquely crafted and comes with at least 7 sets of contradictory advice.

2. Dancing Toilet Fun Dance Game

by Mibejo Mobile. $0.

This app’s strongest point? It does what it says in the title. A poorly drawn cartoon toilet with big angry eyes dances to synthesized music when you press the “dance” button. A poop appears, complete with fart noise, when you press the poop button. When you press the “F” button, you hear a flush and the poop shrinks until it disappears, because that’s exactly how toilets work. When you press the back button on your device, a giant ad swivels to cover the entire screen. If Dancing Toilet Fun Dance Game isn’t your thing, you can check out another app from the developer, Dancing Poo Virtual Pet Dance.

3. Alien Scanner UFO Radar

by Circle Star Software. $0.

Possibly the most complete UFO Radar app I’ve installed. It has a sweeping purple arm, some moving yellow triangles and even a moving red dot! There’s a transceiver tuned into the intergalactic frequency for scary text messages, and words like “humans” “earthlings” “mothership” and “surrender” scroll by in an intricate pattern that seems random until you stare at them for seven minutes straight and the paranoia kicks in.

Marcanthony Garcia gave Alien Scanner UFO Radar three stars, saying: “its fake why do the yellow triangles hoover and red dot fly plus all it said on the tanseiver was attack surrender human contact earth and earthlings but i gave it a good review because it did scare me at first lol”

To sum up, Alien Scanner UFO Radar is an indispensable app for anyone who wants to detect free audiobooks and can’t remember audible.com’s URL.

4. Fingertip Violin Playing

Canada HadAPP Team. $0.

This app opens to the minimalistic interface of a tiny violin on a white background. When you touch the screen, a tiny bow appears beneath your finger. Then violin music starts playing, even though your finger isn’t moving. After wiggling your finger around for a couple of seconds, you realize the movement of your bow has nothing to do with the music. You are a deaf violinist, and no matter what horrible screeching sounds you could potentially be making, in your own mind it all sounds like a beautifully performed and horribly compressed classical recording. A “More” button will just play the recordings for you without all the tedious bow waggling. The “Supply” button opens a window, which reads:

“How to support this app?

Give me 5 Stars;

Share with friends;Tell me problems;

(button) Give 5 Stars (button) Later”

This app, while not really a workable replacement for the “world’s tiniest violin” gag where you rub your fingers together and make violin sounds with your mouth to accompany a friend’s melodrama, is a nice reminder that there’s someone out there to whom you can tell your problems.

5. Scales Simulator

by Piupiu. $0.

Like some of the other apps on this list, Scales Simulator really earns points for simplicity. When you put your finger on the picture of the scale, it displays a completely random number — down to the thousandths! Of course, to get to the picture of the scale, you have to get past the loading screen, then press the start button partially obscured by an ad, then close out of the full-screen ad that pops up. But don’t worry! There’s a big blue arrow that takes you back to the screen with the start button, in case you missed the ad there. The app has one shortcoming, as Elvin Babayev points out: “Works if only put your finger. Very very bad.” Indeed, if you try to place other objects on the picture of the scale — such as the tiny mound of white powder featured on the app’s cover — it fails to generate a random number. I can imagine several situations involving tiny mounds of white powder and impulsive decisions that could end up “very very bad” if you were to rely on Scales Simulator. That’s why it’s important to read the app description: “Make fun with friends with scales simulation.” And that’s where this app really shines.

So remember! You can't be a good parent without these apps. Your parents didn't have these apps, and they were horrible, remember? Don't let some therapist pin all your kids' hangups on you! Get these apps!

I’d promise a sequel of iOS Apps You Can’t Parent Without, but I don’t have any Apple devices. And it seems like they might have some sort of app vetting process.

Salt Lake Comic Con 2014 panel

A quick note to friends going to Salt Lake Comic Con: I'll be on a panel about defending free speech and the comics medium. The panel will be 3 p.m. Saturday in room 150D.
My research for the panel included asking many of you if you had questions on the topic. The most common response was "Does censorship occur in comics?" My answer: Yes, constantly. It's been a little better since the Comics Code Authority died, but there are still people at every level of comic book production with their own ideas of what the First Amendment does and doesn't cover.
If you're looking for other spots to put on your list, visit Death Ray Comics at booth 805 and Rattle Can Heroes at booth 2803.

Elmo vs. Red Monster Mascot

Charlotte, 17 months old, has had her first interaction with a brand. Until recently, she only had one word for “adult who takes care of me” (“dada”), and long before she’d say “Mama” on demand, she had a word for Elmo. Sure, that word is “Memo,” but she makes her demands clear enough when she stands in front of the computer monitor and shouts, “Meh-MO? Meh-MO? Meh-MO?”

Red Monster Mascot

It’s the same tactic she uses with food, which she calls nana. She starts out at a normal volume, putting a raised inflection on the last syllable like it’s a question. “Nana?” If she’s not fed within the next two thirds of a second, she repeats herself, getting louder each time. “Nana? Na-NA? NA-NA?”

It's not the Elmo brand itself that worries me. He's nonviolent and educational. Yeah, he has a different baby in his house every week, and that's a huge red flag, but he broadcasts interviews with these babies on his show, so I figure it's not a hostage situation. I mean, if you delivered a pizza to Jimmy Fallon's house and you accidentally saw Emma Watson tied to a chair, it'd be a good move to call the cops. But when you see Emma on The Tonight Show and Jimmy demands no ransom, it's probably on the level. So Elmo doesn't bother me — but the idea that companies are already cultivating brand loyalty in my 17-month-old does.

I know marketers did a number on me as a kid. My dad only drinks Coca-Cola. I think colas taste like muddy gasoline, but if I need a sugar or caffeine boost and my options are down to Coke or Pepsi, I'll always choose Coke. If my options are down to Pepsi, I'll choose water and drowsiness. At work, It took me more than a year to realize I might also buy from the Pepsi vending machine in the break room, even though I saw it every day. This despite Pepsi and Coke both tasting like muddy gasoline.

Another example: Legos. I used to play Legos with my two brothers, and we eschewed Tyco Mega Bloks (We also chewed Tyco Mega Bloks, but we chewed up everything as kids.). We got to the point where we could instantly discern the texture and color differences between Legos and Mega Bloks, and if my character Skullhead made a doomsday device incorporating even a single Mega Blok, no one would take it seriously.

Of course, my brand loyalty for Lego paid off years later when I learned that Lego was struggling to make a profit because they couldn't get patent protection against Mega Bloks’ incessant copying of their product in all its varieties. I felt like I was supporting the artistic integrity of Lego against plastic plagiarism. And then Lego licensed Star Wars sets in the late '90s, and finally they had something Mega Bloks couldn't copy. Fast forward to 2014, when the company had picked up enough licenses to make The Lego Movie into the most surreal character mashup ever to hit the big screen — one character can’t keep Gandalf and Dumbledore straight, and (spoilers) Batman steals the Millenium Falcon’s hyperdrive. The one thing they couldn’t seem to do was bring both Marvel and DC comic characters into the movie, despite selling sets from both.

My family’s criteria for brand loyalty selection was pretty weird. We stuck to brand names for Coke, Legos and outdoor gear. Outside those areas, we had Western Family corn flakes and Honey & Nut Toasted Oats and Equate ibuprofen. I suppose the rule I learned in my household is that anything that can save your life — climbing gear, tents, M&Ms — you don’t mess around with. Food’s not as important. In my grandfather’s words: “I don’t know why we spend all this money on food. We’re just going to eat it anyway.” With anything your kids want, sneak some off-brands in there and see if they kick up a fuss.

I hope Charlotte appreciates when Red Monster Mascot shows up at her birthday party.

I'm 27 and getting kicked out of my mom's basement

Charlotte tries on my shirt in my mom's basement.

I’m 27 and I live in my mother’s basement. My mom doesn't hassle me a lot about dating, though, because my wife and my 16-month-old daughter also live in her basement.

We used to live in a sixplex near campus with a lot of character and a moat when it rained. Early this spring, Sarah started hearing rumors that our building would be renovated and we might lose our apartment. Whenever she dropped off the rent check, she’d ask about the rumors, and they said they’d let us know if something happened.

They didn't let us know. On June 9, a letter from the new owners informed us we had to be out by July 1. The company was renovating the apartments, essentially changing it from family housing to rent to single students so they could make more money.

We weren't big fans of this plan. I don’t think either of us feel we’re entitled to a whole lot — maybe not even our crummy apartment — but we looked at our baby girl and reasoned that kicking a cute, helpless larva out of her home had to be illegal.

Several blustery Facebook posts and a few minutes of Internet research later, we determined Heartless Business Monsters LLC was well within its rights to kick us out. We hadn't signed a lease, so we couldn't sue for breach of contract. And in Logan, you’re required to give tenants 15 days’ notice before dumping them onto the curb. They’d generously given us 22, so we started looking for new digs.

Then lady luck must have started feeling like a jerk, because the next day, our real estate agent showed us a house in our price range. She’d done that before, but previously all the houses we could afford had meth contamination or roofs slowly ceding the point to gravity. The house she showed us this time was clean and structurally sound. By the end of the week, we were under contract to buy it.

In order to purchase a home, you have to convince the bank you can reliably produce pieces of paper, whether it’s dollar bills, tax documents, papers bearing your signature or checks for $500 they say you’ll get back at some point. In that respect, we made it rain. We buried the bank under a fluttering paperslide, hoping somehow we could move into our new home as soon as we moved out of our old one.

Three-hole-punch drunk, the bank promptly began sorting our paper mountain. They squinted at one third of our papers for a bit, then emailed us, saying these weren't the ones they were looking for. They gave another third to the government, and that’s the last we've heard of those. The last third they shredded and used as hamster bedding, I bet.

By the end of the month, we were up against plan B — my parents’ basement. We packed up our belongings — by which I mean Sarah packed up all our stuff while I told her how I was a packing pro in my bachelor days and didn't have to start yet. We put our things in storage and set up camp at the ancestral home, ready to move out at any word from the bank.

At the beginning of the month, we had word that we’d be waiting at least until Aug. 28 on our USDA loan. It's Aug. 28 now, and the USDA just asked us to produce more papers. We’re enjoying our stay and my parents are wonderful housemates, but there’s a problem. The basement we’re camping in doubles as my mom’s preschool, and we have to move out at the end of the month.

But looking at my cute, helpless baby, I bet my mom’s inclined to keep her as a tenant, at least.

Teething is a... well, you know.

Product Review: Baby teeth (1.5/5)

Do you have teeth? Me too. Remember when they grew in? Me neither, and thank the luckiest of stars above, because it is rough. Teething gets 1.5 stars. Or less.

So I have a beautiful daughter. She's smiley, happy and the light of my life. That's all fine and good, but when I ordered this child I did NOT order a lengthy and untimely ordeal like teething. Her first two teeth came screaming in around 3 1/2 or four months. Stressful. I have read in a very reliable baby book of baby-rearing knowledge that teething does not, in fact, cause any of the following: night waking, fever, extra night feedings, etc. This is an obese lie, the largest lie you can even imagine. She woke up a ton more at night and had a fever and needed more food. I'm sorry Dr. Smarts, you aren't a mother, and you don't have your own baby with teeth coming in.

Lovable and drooly bulldog.

Anyway, we had already been through this teething business once and it blessed us again around seven months. By blessed, I mostly mean scammed. She was for sure teething for about three weeks. I could see the little white buds on her top gums and she was drooling like a bulldog (a precious, lovable bulldog). Then, Houdini-like, the symptoms and the little buds disappear. They just left me wondering if I was a mother making up symptoms to explain an inability to soothe my own baby. I swear, they really were coming in!

Then, in December, she had some back-to-back colds. A nice little Christmas gift for us. At the tail end of the last one, she managed to sneak some teething in for a New Year's surprise. Not one, not two, but three pearly whites just magically appeared with no more fanfare than a bit of extra drooling (think three bull dogs), extra sleeping and a slightly more cranky Charlotte.

She is now trying to break these three new teeth all the way out of gum-jail. I'm really surprised by the quiet nature of this third teething round. It's not so bad as the first or second time (and the second time really did happen; I'm not crazy) and I am also a fan of cutting multiple teeth at a time. I'll take a week from the pits of Tartarus if it means all the teeth coming at once.

So, if you're thinking of ordering a round of baby teething, here's a review for you to ponder:
Delivery: A bit early, then a no-show, but then just right.
Satisfaction: Well, it increases the ability to chew food and smile less like a toothless grandpa, but it does increase nose-biting ability. That's from experience, people. Terrible experience.
Cost: Doesn't cost much, just a few extra pounds perhaps as you stress-eat your way through bags of chocolate or gallons of ice-cream.
Overall: 1.5 stars. It's worth it in the end, but boy-oh-boy, it's a rough ride.

I'm lucky I still have all my digits.

Today's post brought to you by a miracle

"I spilled water on the computer" is not a great text from your wife to get at work.

The imperiled Pew! Pew! Kickstarter

Sarah had been using our laptop, which I have named Freeman, when she tipped her giant water mug and the lid came off. Water spilled onto the keyboard, and she snatched the mug away. Freeman automatically logged her off and powered down as she quickly dried the keyboard, unplugged the power and removed the battery. That's my wife!

If I learned anything in my two years as a computer repair technician at PCs Unlimited, it's that computers don't do well underwater. And being a starving journalist, replacing or repairing a dead laptop could take a big chunk out of our finances. Without going into too many embarrassing budgetary details, our cost-cutting project this week is learning to make ramen from scratch.

What's more, I had launched the Pew! Pew! Kickstarter just that day. I needed Freeman, or at the very least the files on Freeman, to create the magazine I promised my Kickstarter backers. Even if the Kickstarter raked in twice my goal of $500, replacing Freeman would put us right back at square one.

When I got home from work after 11 p.m., Sarah was still up. I told her not to worry, it wasn't her fault, but I may need to get a second job. I'm a pie-in-the-sky kind of guy, meaning I have a very poor sense of what jobs are available and how to get them, so any conversations about finding work slowly spiral out of control until I'm talking about being a carney or signing up as a Mars colonist.

We tried powering Freeman up 4 or 5 hours after the spill, but during bootup he started beeping, which usually means something's gone wrong with the fiddly bits inside. Those fiddly bits are usually not cheap. On the plus side, the keyboard was much cleaner.

I went to sleep worrying about Freeman, worrying about Sarah, worrying about whether my insurance would pay for booster shots before I joined the circus. I prayed that Freeman might be OK somehow.

This morning, I tried booting Freeman up again. This time I still heard the beeping, but I didn't hear the cooling fan. That could be good news or bad news -- fans are cheap to replace, but they're not electronically complicated -- so if water somehow took out the fan, the rest of Freeman's guts couldn't be doing well.

I dug out my static clip and opened Freeman up. You know how when your walkie-talkie breaks as a kid, you get a screwdriver and open it up, even though everything you know about electricity comes from watching cartoon Ben Franklin fly kites? Despite the hundreds of computers I've opened up, I felt a lot like that.

I unplugged the fan and looked at it. Wonder of wonders! Miracle of miracles! A dried clod of dust was lodged in the fan, just big enough to keep the fan from spinning. When the water seeped into the fan, it must have dampened the dust and clumped it all together. I removed the clump and named it Dustin.

Dustin

After that, Freeman booted up fine. I'm grateful for a God who answers my prayers, and I'm grateful that he has a sense of humor. Now I'm writing a blog post with Charlotte on my lap. If I'm rambling, you'll have to forgive me. I'm restraining Charlotte, because she's trying to eat Dustin.

Update: A couple of days later, Sarah made a batch of miso ramen. It was delicious.

If you're our neighbors, please shut up

Resist the urge, Steve. Resist the urge. Photo by Fran Gambín.

We live in a college town, a couple of blocks off campus. I can genuinely say I enjoy living here, but pretty much only when school is out. When school is in -- especially at the beginning or end of a semester -- there's a party every weekend night.

Sarah and I were lying in bed at about midnight last night. We could hear the bass notes of a nearby party.
"I'm giving them half an hour, then I'm calling the police," Sarah said.

"It's OK. It's not too bad," I said.

Sarah gave me a dirty look. She had a rough day and didn't feel well.

She looked inclined to violence, so I said: "That's just what I was telling myself. I was just trying to CONVINCE myself that it's not a problem."

Then I'm assuming the partygoers got too hot and opened the windows, because a tide of OPA GANGAM STYLE crashed over us.

"Look out the window and see which house it is," she said.

I did, and every window outside looked dark. If I strained at the blinds of one house, I could see a strobe light.

"It's that house again," I said. "Let's burn it down."

"No," Sarah said. "That's not real."

House fires, not real? At my job at a great metropolitan newspaper, I listen to the police scanner for hours. Just last night fire crews responded to a house in Hyrum after someone said they saw flames. Last Monday I laid out a story for the News-Examiner in Montpelier about a fire that burned a family's house half to the ground. There was a great picture of the mother holding an oxygen mask over their pet turtle's head. Fires are real. And I really wanted to burn their house down, but my own wife kept denying the very reality of arson as a solution. I needled her, trying to find out what her specific objection to my plan was.

"I could go next door and fill a can up with gas and use that to get it going."

"Stop that. That's not real."

A few minutes later, I tried a reconciliatory approach.

"I guess I keep forgetting how close that house is to the other side of our apartment building. I bet a house fire right there would burn us up, too," I said. "But then again, our house is very wet."
Sarah laughed. We were at the tail end of a warm spell, and melted snow pooled up in our parking lot and over the sidewalk, coming right up to the foundation. The sagging rain gutters dripped more steadily right in front of our door. The lake wasn't new, but because we don't have a basement, we haven't complained to the landlord yet. But about a year ago, going to an early morning class, I opened the door to find a family of ducks.

"How many diapers do we have in the trash?" I asked. "We could set a bucket of dirty diapers on fire and leave it on their doorstep." This motion also died in committee.

"They have 14 more minutes. Then I'm calling the cops."

"You know what we should do? Here's what we should do. I'll take some speakers over there, plug them in and play Shaina Feinberg's cha-cha album. That would get them."

"I don't know what that is."

I should note that Sarah hates 95 percent of things I try to introduce, and she's never loved anything new after 11 p.m.

"It's the diametric opposite of whatever music they're playing. It's impossible to party to." I played it for her on our tablet.

"Turn that off. That's the worst thing I've ever heard."

For the record, Shaina, I like the album.

Sarah was afraid the noise would wake Charlotte. I said if it did, I'd take Charlotte, crying, over there and none of them would get lucky. Nothing kills the mood faster than a crying baby.

"No, you won't," Sarah said. "Why do you keep saying these things that aren't even real?"

"I dunno. I'm tired of calling the cops on these guys. The cops probably think I'm a whiner. I guess I want to do something that really makes them question their grip on reality. Where could we get 20 -- no, 50 cats? I want to break into the animal shelter, steal 50 cats, put them in a van and back them right up to their door. I'd let them go, and suddenly their house would just be full of cats."

No use. Sarah told me to call the cops, and when I refused, she stalked off downstairs with her phone. A couple of minutes after the call, the party stopped. Sarah made me look out the window again. I told her the cops were there, all right, with choppers and national guard tanks. She gave me another dirty look.
Sarah couldn't sleep for another half hour afterward, she was so mad. We watched Keeping Up Appearances on the tablet, and I couldn't help feeling a little like Hyacinth, the human killjoy. We broke up their party, but hey, they were asking for it at 12:30. And while by the light of day I realize arson isn't the answer, I still want to do something incredible. I want to host the loudest outdoor dance party in our parking lot. I'll do it every day for a week before finals and invite all my non-student friends. Then, at the end of the semester when they're partying again, I'll sneak over and caulk all their doors shut.

But Sarah's right -- I won't do any of that. None of it's real. What's real is the seasonal swing from party town in the spring and fall to ghost town over Christmas and summer. Even though those kids will someday turn 25 and realize that all parties are horrible and binges are killing them, they'll move out and we'll be stuck with another batch of 18-year-olds. They'll be younger every year, and every year my wife will remind me that we need to get out of here.

Maybe when I'm 45, and Charlotte is out of the house, and I'm having a real midlife crisis -- maybe then I can burn their house down.

What I know about Charlotte as of October 2013

-- Charlotte thinks humans communicate chiefly through raspberries and shrieks. Under our current schedule, I feed her at night. Most of the time, she's pretty groggy, but by the time I change her diaper, she might blow some raspberries. It's nice that she can be cheerful even right after she wakes in the middle of the night.

The tables turn in the morning. After I've slept in about half as long as I'd prefer, Sarah brings Charlotte onto the bed and points her at me. My daughter spits all over as she says good morning. I do feel a little bad that my wife needs to use our baby as a shield from my grumpiness when she wakes me.

-- Charlotte is surprisingly dexterous. I've mentioned her long fingers before, but it still amazes me how she can use them. She's now picking up little snacks and putting them in her mouth. When we feed her bottles, she often fully extends her arm in the air and looks at her fingers, tilting her hand as if admiring a diamond ring. Then she slowly rotates her hand to look at the front, then the back again. Her specialty, which she learned in the NICU, is grabbing wires and waving them around. During feedings, she'll often pull out my earbuds. I bet some old-schoolers will tell me that's a message.

-- Charlotte gets cabin fever. For those not familiar with the expression, cabin fever, or stir-craziness, is when you can't stand being stuck in your house any longer. Our kid will sit in her Super Activity Play Seat Baby Gundam Mobile Armor for about five seconds before she's sick of it. She loves her Baby Bjorn carrier, and she'll seldom complain on walks.

-- Charlotte loves new faces. She will sit and stare at a stranger quietly for minutes on end. This is very handy in church. Sometimes she's scared by glasses and sunglasses.

-- Charlotte is not easy to impress. With some kids, you throw them in the air or tickle their stomachs a bit and they laugh their heads off. Charlotte laughs for about five seconds, and then she just smiles like she's humoring you. The only times I've ever got her really laughing, she was pretty tired.

--  Charlotte's eyes are currently blue and green. By which I mean one is blue and the other is green. Of course, any predictions about her eye color I make now will end up being completely wrong, but I bet they'll be green or hazel.

UPDATE: Charlotte's trick poops were a result of the Enfamil Gentlease formula the NICU sent us home with. Once we switched to Sam's Club Brand Members' Baby Chow or whatever, her poops got a lot less interesting. She doesn't have blowouts nearly as often as before. Side note: Sarah believes the term "blowout" refers exclusively to baby poop escaping a diaper. Every time she sees an ad for a blowout sale, or hears an anecdote in which a car's tire explodes, she giggles uncontrollably.

Control is mostly (definitely) an illusion.

Silly me. I assumed once I figured life out it wouldn't change again. I could finally rest my weary head and, I don't know, smoke a pipe? But don't worry, it never came to that because I have learned one thing over and over again in life: control is mostly an illusion.

It's a real nice illusion though. Real nice. It's a bit like a low-hanging cloud scuttling around the middle of a mountain range. When I was younger I always had a dream of taking a jar up to those clouds and bringing some of it back with me. It was a tangible goal; I could get a jar, maybe wear a jacket and hike up to the unsuspecting cloud and snaggle some to take home. Then I think I realized that you couldn't catch a cloud in a jar. Well, technically, sure you can, but it just condenses to water droplets. This reminds me of control. You work to get to it, plan for it, but you can never quite have it, just the illusion of it in a wet jar.

I'm not sure why this is a lesson I've had to re-learn so many painful times in life. I thought I'd figured it out on so many different occasions, it's actually quite funny looking back. Silly me. Nothing has brought this lesson home further than marriage and motherhood. I know, I know, these are pretty much the only topics I write about but you have to admit, they're pretty major ones.

She's the best baby. Worth every moment of crying, spit-up and blow-outs.

Six pounds 11 ounces. Small, snoozy and dark-haired. My precious baby girl helped remind me of my jar full of water droplets. She was beautiful, of course, from day one. She had a crazy entry into life and then she demanded I give it all up for her. And I did. Steve did too. I didn't try to control all that much for the first six or eight weeks, but then as I started feeling more myself I started looking for my cloud-catching jar. Boy, oh boy, did that ever backfire. I had to relearn how to feel in control of the simplest aspects of adult life (ie: brushing my teeth or getting to take a shower). I felt completely out of control. Very luckily, I had a superstar husband and family to help remind me that this is how every new mother feels.

Hottest husband? Check.

But I've learned. I've adapted. Not always gracefully or with any tact, but I'm slowly getting there. I felt so confused for the longest time because I couldn't seem to get back that elusive control I'd so lovingly cultivated before all of this. I was doing all of the same things that brought it before -- why the flip wasn't it working? I'm going to wax quite poetic no,w but I think when I'd climbed the mountain with my jar, I looked out and saw that the mountain had changed, as well as the cloud and the jar I would need. I'm pretty sure that's happened every single time I've felt like "Aha! I've got the secret control formula now!" 

It's never going to be the same as before. That's just a fact of life. Doesn't mean it's a nasty, gross fact, like taxes or death. It can be a really cool, interesting and liberating fact, like you can eat dessert before dinner if you want. Control is an illusion, I'm pretty sure I've never been in control in my life. My jar always comes back with water droplets, not a cloud. But I learn and grow every time I try and find control, and there are things I can control in my ever-changing life. Whom I love (like my hot husband and beautiful baby),  my attitude toward all this change, which at best is grudgingly and at worst is full of tears, and if I want to eat lots of chocolate at 7 a.m. instead of a waffle.

So I'm going to try and remember that even though I can mostly control nothing and life will keep slapping me in the face with the red herring of change, I can control what I learn from it and a few small but really important aspects like love, perspective and chocolate consumption.

Songs to jump-start the space program

Do you miss the space shuttle? I do, and I never thought I'd miss that piece of junk. Looks like I'm not alone -- plenty of musicians sing lonesome songs about space. Here are a few songs to get you thinking about exploring the galaxy.

1. "Intergalactic" by the Beastie Boys
2. "The Year 2000" by the Phenomenauts
3. "Feel So Moon" by Unicorn -- This song is the opening theme to "Space Brothers," an anime about space exploration. The opening sequence alone is worth checking out.


4. "Do You Realize" by the Flaming Lips
5. "Astronaut" by Blitzen Trapper
6. "We Are All Made of Stars" by Moby
7. "Astronaut" by G. Love
8. "What Planet Is This" by the Seatbelts
9. "Lose Control" by Ash -- This song doesn't have any direct link to space, but the sound that plays at the beginning is from a Star Wars TIE fighter and the whole thing generally sounds like The Jetsons on energy pills.
10. "Some Kind of Nature" by the Gorillaz -- Honorable mention to the entire album "Laika Come Home" by Spacemonkeyz vs. Gorillaz.

Steve Kent's 115th Dream

I just woke from a dream which I think may be prophetic. I was at a party where a lot of food was served. Many people I knew from several periods of my life were there, but no one in my family. Every few minutes, my vision and hearing would be overtaken by an ad -- and I'm not just trying out a hyperbolic metaphor. Carefully placed in my surroundings, I'd see professionally produced hallucinations for life insurance, or deli meat or whatever.
I was going to ask whether these ads were normal -- if everyone at the party was having them -- but as soon as I went into ad mode, I couldn't find anyone I felt comfortable asking whether I was normal or having mini-epileptic fits.
The most effective ad by far struck when the little brother of a friend remarked on how much Monroe shocks improve our lives. As he spoke, the Monroe logo appeared below him. I was already inclined to agree with him, but what sealed the deal was when he got into his wheelchair. Which had shock absorbers.

A few other things that happened which may be less prophetic:

• There was a concert before the party. The crowd started moshing a bit, and my brain hit pause and started designing concert stages for maximum mosh safety. When the dream resumed, the band wasn't playing and people were just mingling. At center stage stood a Utah State University podium, painted Aggie blue but with bloody, smeared handprints on it. A buddy from high school said, "I think they should probably put a new coat of paint on this," and I replied, "I think they keep it that way as a warning." (Incidentally, in real life a couple years ago, I went to a concert on the USU campus where a semi-local punk band was playing. A student coordinator told the crowd a dozen times to stop moshing. It was a pretty considerate mosh, so I felt a little bad about wearing steel-toe boots.)
• After the concert, a good friend from middle school asked if he could use my phone. I said yeah, but only if he promised not to laugh. I then produced my flip-phone, and he laughed. It was set to extra user-unfriendly mode, and I showed him how to unlock it. He said, "Ha! No button does what it's supposed to do," and I said, "They do what they're designed to do -- they were just designed by an idiot." Which says a lot about my feelings toward my phone.
• In line for food, a friend started mashing greasy food onto his brand-new T-shirt. Somehow I knew that he had several T-shirts with him and was planning to cycle through them throughout the day. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, "This way, I can be sure to have a shirt with food stains on it this early in the day."

Now I know how Dylan must have felt.

Motherhood: Fact or Fiction?

A magical unicorn ride through the fields of gold. Swimming amongst the stars on the backs of dolphins. Dreams about shopping sprees where everything fits and you always look fabulous. These are ways I would NOT describe motherhood.

I love my little poop machine. I wasn't so sure about her for the first month (as described earlier, I felt sure that her real mother would come along and collect her ) but as time's passed, and her little personality starts to shine through, I like her more and more. However, I don't know why I thought magical was synonymous with motherhood. It's not magic friends, it's spit, grit and hard work.

You know how humans are biologically hardwired to perpetuate the species? As a girl, I thought about being pregnant and having babies since I was like 12. It's so natural, yet so unnatural at the same time. Nothing about pregnancy was really magical or normal to me. I was really depressed and physically ill the first three months, cried three or more times a week (often everyday) and if it's so natural why was I so upset about gaining weight and watching my body change?? I really thought it would just be the best not to have a period every month. Well, it's more like having one for nine months.

Then labor and delivery. I was assuming I would be like the women around the world who work through the pain, squat down, have a baby and are in love instantly with the purple mini-human. Nope. Not even close. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain of contractions, and then lose my lunch. It also took that unexpected turn of emergency c-section, which is not natural at all but I'm so grateful it's available.

So then you have a baby. Time for the baby to eat! Breastfeeding was one subject under which I was the most disillusioned. It's not quick, easy or natural. It's a skill you both learn, like some sort of piano concertist or fixed-gear biker. I really thought it was just an easy, natural thing you both intuitively knew how to do. Wrong, wrong and wrong.

I'm trying to strike a tone of realization more than complaint. I am forever grateful to have the chance to carry a new and beautiful baby girl and to have the opportunity of watching her grow and develop. It's amazing! However, it's a far cry from what I assumed was an easy, natural change in a woman's life. I would say not "Easy as childbirth."

Things I've learned about Charlotte

• Charlotte's favorite music is the blues. Specifically blues-rock with heavy beats and loud guitar riffs. How I know this: Once she was fussing, and I played Catfish Blues by Jimi Hendrix and she got very still and quiet and her eyes got big. Later that day, she started fussing again when I listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I switched to T Model Ford and she quieted right down. She also likes Led Zeppelin, including (don't tell Sarah) the Immigrant Song.

• Charlotte is capable of trick poops. This is like a trick shot in the circus, where a shooter can throw a deck of cards up in the air and put a bullet specifically through the card you picked (though that sounds dangerous now I think about it). In Charlotte's case, you can wrap her up in a diaper then swaddle her in a blanket then wrap the blanket in Saran Wrap then hold her way out away from you with Inspector Gadget extendo arms and she can still get poop on your shirt. I may be exaggerating slightly, but she does experience diaper containment failure on a regular basis.
• Charlotte likes eating sugar, much to Sarah's chagrin. Before you call social services on us, we found this out in the NICU. While she was on the cooling cap, sometimes the only way to quiet her down was to give her sucrose drops. If you put it on her lips, she would suck her top lip way down into her mouth. If you put it on a pacifier, she would latch on so tight you could probably lift her up by the pacifier if you tried. Which I did not.
• Charlotte has long fingers and is more dexterous than I thought she would be. Exhibit A:

This photo was taken when she was four or five days old.

Wait, Kendall gave the hottest smoochies?

Remember our post, "I give the hottest smoochies"? Now that I'm updating the blog again, I should credit Kendall Pack as Stu's anonymous critic. Click the link above and read it again! It's hilarious!

Kendall Pack, seen here in the middle of an improv sandwich. Photo stolen from Kendall's FB.

Charlotte Kent, born in the futuristic world of 20XX

Fig. 1: Charlotte takes a break from the cool cap to try something different. Taken in the McKay-Dee NICU.

As Sarah mentioned in her post, we had a baby. About a month ago. Now that school is out and I haven't started work yet, I've got a bit more time to update the blog.

Sarah also mentioned that Charlotte had to spend some time in the NICU at the McKay-Dee Hospital in Ogden. Here's what I have to tell people before I tell this story: Charlotte is fine now, and she's done nothing but normal baby stuff except for the first scare she gave us. Sarah is also fine.

The reason for our NICU stay, for those who are curious: Shortly after we arrived at Logan Regional for her delivery, Charlotte's heart rate dropped and they had to get her out via C-section. The doctors aren't sure what caused it -- maybe the umbilical cord was pinched for a while.

Since Charlotte went without oxygen for a few minutes, her pediatrician wanted to send her to Ogden for brain-cooling therapy. (For some of the science and statistics behind the therapy, here's an article from Shirley Wang at the Wall Street Journal. The story told in the article is very similar to ours.)

They flew Charlotte to Ogden and put her in an open-air incubator. A machine chilled water and ran it through a cap on her head. Unlike the therapy mentioned in the WSJ article, Charlotte didn't have a cooling blanket -- only the cap. The open air cooled the rest of her body and slowed her metabolism, while the cap cooled her brain.

When I arrived in Ogden, seeing Charlotte was a huge relief. I'd been crying my guts out on the freeway, alone, because Sarah wouldn't be released until the next day. I kept worrying and wondering what was happening to her. Would there be more unexpected alarms? Would they need to put her back on a respirator? In the NICU, I still felt anxious, but at least I could see Charlotte and if anything went wrong, I'd know it. Her limbs had been purple and grey right after birth, but now they were a reassuring peach color. And it makes me sound like a complete man-child (see fig. 2) to admit, but the blue of her cooling cap reminded me of Mega Man's helmet, and that helped me picture her as a little fighter.

Fig. 2: From Hark! A Vagrant! by Kate Beaton. www.harkavagrant.com

She wore the cooling cap for 72 hours. She would shiver and cry, and then they'd have to sedate her to keep her temperature from rising. The C-section, the NICU and the cooling cap were incredibly stressful, but we feel blessed to have had access to them.

Sarah holds Charlotte's hand in the NICU. This was Charlotte's actual cooling cap. You can see the color  over her ear. There's a white insulating cap over the blue one.

A Farewell to Pregnancy

I can't lie, I wasn't broken up about not being pregnant any more. I tried to enjoy the 10 months (because 40 weeks = 10 months in reality) as much as I could. I tried not to freak out about my changing body, emotional upheavals and lack of wit. I tried to remember that I WANTED this, that it wouldn't last forever and that Steve still loved the blubbering, balloon-shaped crazy woman I often became. But as the days and weeks roll forward from March 28th, I get to relish in the return of me.

My beautiful hunger monster wasn't born the way I had imagined. We went to the hospital at 3 p.m. and she was born at 4:12 p.m. via emergency c-section. I've never had any type of surgery before. The closest thing I'd ever had done was having my wisdom teeth out. I was wiggin' out.

In the following week, Steve and I went through a myriad of emotional, spiritual and physical ups and downs. I had surgery, we were down in Ogden and Charlotte was in the NICU. She's a normal, growing baby girl now but I was so overwhelmed in those first days – it was like living someone else's life for a while. But, almost more crazy than the way she was born is how she has, unknowingly and with no ill will I'm sure, made our lives all about her.

I think listing a few of the thoughts I had about her BEFORE she was here will set up her non-hostile takeover of our lives:

– I was praying and hoping for a calm, happy and SLEEPY baby. I need sleep. I can hear so many people saying "Well so do I. Everyone does, stupid." No, no, no... What I mean to say is I NEED SLEEP. I've had struggles with anxiety and depression for years but one of the best preventative measures and remedies is sleep. Consistent, mostly uninterrupted sleep. So I was hoping she was sleepy and that somehow no one would get bludgeoned by a crazy she-demon.

– I have always assumed that the moment your baby is born, your heart cracks open and creates a new chamber labelled "my sweet angel baby." Not so. Not even close. First of all, I didn't get to see her for an hour after she was born, then I held her for about 20 minutes and didn't hold her again for three days. Not a great start to bonding. Then it was the ultimate surreal experience when I did see her – to think she was MY baby, like, she came out of my body where she'd been growing for months. I'm still pretty new to the idea that I am a mother and sometimes I still wait for the real mom to come in and say she's back from shopping and I can go home. It's really weird. I love her, for sure, but it's like entering the lottery, talking it up for months and months and then standing with a check in your hands saying "What do we do now"?

– When I was younger, I just assumed six was the magic number of children. My mom had six kids, so obviously that was the best number. My aunts had families of four and six, respectively, and lots of my friends came from families of four, five, six or more. It was the magical time of having big families, I think. Well, the magic is gone. I knew I wanted to have Charlotte, I really felt like I should be pregnant, but let me tell you that the more I was pregnant, the closer I got to actually having my own baby the more I realized that the wheel of family planning had been mistakenly set absurdly high all of those years and dialed back to a reasonable one.

Charlotte after a bath.

I am currently living day to day, not knowing when I'll be doing anything, barely able to plan trips to the doctor, the store or even outside of my house. Steve and I are tired, happy, frustrated, blessed, worried and in love all at once. It's the craziest and most time-consuming adventure I've ever started, but I know that we were supposed to have our baby bundle of joy. I try and remember that feeling of assurance when she's crying because she had a blow-out that barely missed the opposite wall and I haven't showered in a month (which is a lie, but I feel it sometimes).

Obligatory cat post

Shortly after the creation of this blog, I promised you cats. I'm sorry we got so far behind, but we'll make up for it now. Here are some cats and their real cat problems.

King Mars, seen here in a file photo from 2010, obsessed over the recycling. "You can't put that pizza box in there," he would tell his roommates. "It's got cheese and stuff on it. They'll have to throw it away and you're wasting valuable time and resources. Scrape the cheese off and wash the box with vinegar using a magic sponge." King Mars disappeared three months ago. His roommates say they don't need help searching for him.

Last March, Tessercat was struck by lightning down by the Old Mill fishing hole, and now he thinks he can speak to plants. He's on his way to visit his friend Magron the Benevolent, who is a tulip bulb.

This is Marlvolio. He worries about his wife and kids sometimes. Other times he worries about violence and poverty in Africa. Most of the time, though, he sees shiny objects or bits of string and can't look away.

Linda found out her husband is a hitman working for the Cat Mafia. She's afraid to confront him about it, but she doesn't want him endangering their son Meatball. When she sees him lick himself or shred up the screen door, he's the same old Mr. Socks, and she can't understand how someone so normal could lead such a dangerous life. He makes a nice salary, though, and the longer Linda eats Fancy Feline Souffle with Salmon Filet cat food, the less she thinks about her husband's job.

Dating advice is for suckers

The Utah Statesman is starting a staff blog about dating. There's only one post so far, and it's mine. It would fit well in this blog, but alas, you'll just have to read it on the Statesman site. We've got some good posts coming, though -- and hopefully one titled, "How #DateTavin ruined my love life."

Keep Calm and Carry On

I really like that mantra. I've only recently heard of it (although I've confusedly seen all sorts of stupid rewrites that I'm sure someone thinks are clever) and Steve explained it was used by the British government during WWII on encouragement posters. It must have worked because the country didn't tear itself apart as far as I know.

When living life you sometimes get hit by the reality of big decisions you've made, such as: marriage, pregnancy, paying bills, attending school or pretending to be an adult. By hit I mean your heart may race, you lose precious hours of sleep and you devote countless hours of time/energy to worry, "What the what am I doing?"

When I was first married (like first few days and weeks – I'm still first married, really), I thought I had to do things in a certain way so that I could be a successful married person. Have a schedule, be in charge of house things, be REALLY productive, have awesome meals that I just magically knew how to cook, all sorts of ridicules stuff like that. After a few breakdowns and loving words of comfort from Steve, I realized that I could pretty much keep on being me, living life, but now with my awesome hot best friend to give me the hottest smoochies. This was fortuitous, because I was gearing up for a big freak-out with all my silly notions of myself being married.

Fast forward to a few days ago. I'm pregnant and starting to worry about being a mother again. I have been regaled again and again by every mother within 15 miles of me about how "Your life will never be the same," "You'll be busy all the time" and "You'll join the living dead club of mothers who never sleep," and such sentiments of that nature. I very much dislike (hate) when I think or perceive that others are trying to tell me how MY life is going to be, but I was letting it get to me. They're right,  I thought, it's all over now. I'll have to devote my life to Charlotte, stop exercising, eat out of cans and wear mu-mus...
But wait! I'm in charge here. I'm still going to be me, living life, but now with my super hot best friend Steve and a cuddly baby girl named Charlotte. This is going to be awesome. 

So I'm fond of the phrase "Keep Calm and Carry On" because it's exactly how I try to live my life. I trick myself into thinking everything is going to be different and I'll never get to do what I need to when another phase of my life starts. This, however, has NEVER happened. If it's important enough to me, I do it. If it isn't I don't and I start doing something else. I like being 23, married, pregnant and adult-like. It's awesome. My life only happens one day at a time and I can do anything for a day.

Steve gave our brother-in-law a shirt saying "Now Panic and Freak Out" (one of the witty rewrites) for Christmas last year, and though funny, I'm going to try and do the exact opposite of that. Although I think a shirt with both sayings on it might just sum up how I react in real time.

The hearing-loss blues

I don't know exactly how I converted to the blues. My favorite song when I was 6 was "Bad to the Bone" by George Thorogood. I'm fascinated by the idea that a musical style can embody an emotion, but I'm not usually a fan of subtlety. Here's a list of blues songs so loud you don't have to guess at what the singer is feeling.

Rockin' Daddy by Howlin' Wolf

I started listening to Howlin' Wolf my junior or senior year of high school. I first heard of him on the "Screamin' and Hollerin'" station (now defunct) on accuradio.com. I couldn't believe there was an artist who called himself "Howlin' Wolf" and I'd never heard of him. What's more, the name fit the singer perfectly. He sounded like some big cartoon wolf, growling his lyrics and even howling on choruses.

For a few months, I thought I was the only person on the planet who had heard of him. (That's changed now. A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to "Smokestack Lightning" in the office and a co-worker identified it as "the song from the Viagra commercial.") Fortunately, I wasn't the only person who heard of Howlin' Wolf. He influenced blues-rock giants like Cream and the Rolling Stones. This track, done for the Howlin' Wolf London Sessions, was recorded with Eric Clapton on lead guitar, Hubert Sumlin (one of Howlin' Wolf's guitarists) on rhythm guitar, Ian Stewart and Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones on piano and drums, respectively, and Phil Upchurch on bass. Howlin' Wolf shows a lot of fight for a man in his 60s, and the bass and piano really carry the track.

Act Nice and Gentle by the Black Keys

Shortly after I discovered Howlin' Wolf on Accuradio, a friend told me about Pandora. I tested it out, and it was either on "Howlin' Wolf Radio" or "Ball and Biscuit Radio" that I heard the Black Keys. The music's texture hooked right into my guts. The lonesome slide guitar wailing in the background, the raw, growling guitar and Dan Auerbach's weary but soulful voice again made me wonder why the band wasn't in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I listened to track previews of Rubber Factory every time I went to Borders, worried that some secret task force of Black musicians would swoop in, snatch the CD from my hands and punish me for appropriating their music. A little while later, I learned with a shock that Rubber Factory had been released the previous year, and the Black Keys were a couple of geeky white guys from Ohio. I still sometimes wonder if Auerbach got vocal chords transplanted from a 50-year-old organ donor.

Hello Operator by the White Stripes

I never thought Jack White was black for a second. That didn't stop me from appreciating his approach to the blues, though. One great thing about the White Stripes is you seldom have to analyze their music -- what you hear is what you get.

The Gospel According to John by the Soledad Brothers

Oddly enough, I eventually stopped worrying about the Black Key's theft of African American music because the Soledad Brothers were much worse. One of their albums has the Black Panthers logo on it. If anyone is trying harder to be black than Eminem, it's the Soledad Brothers.

The vocals on this track (and pretty much on every track by the Soledad Brothers) suck. Someone here is confusing soul with fake southern accents. Thankfully, the guitars are loud enough to drown them out. The Interstate-inspired guitar is as loud as the White Stripes, but less vicious.

Ventilator Blues by the Rolling Stones

If anyone can find another song with double-tracked vocals and slide guitar, please let me know. When I head this song, I thought some indie band like the Shins or Pinback invented double-tracking, but I'm glad I was wrong.

Vampires and Failures by Grandpaboy

Who is Grandpaboy when he's at home, you might ask. It's Paul Westerberg, former punk rocker. In 2002, Westerberg released Stereo under his own name and Mono under the pseudonym Grandpaboy. Ironically, the tracks on Mono are much richer musically. Westerberg doesn't always counterbalance his vocals, and most of the time comes off as the anemic ghost of Tom Petty, but the ground-shaking bass in this track counteract him perfectly. Westerberg opens up the soundscape with echoes and backup vocals. During the last chorus, it sounds like he's cutting someone's hair with electric clippers.

Turkey and the Rabbit by T-Model Ford

Once, as a misssionary in Ishigaki, I knocked on the door of an old woman. We started talking to her about the meaning of life. She didn't seem to understand our broken Japanese, but seemed happy to talk to us. "Hey now," she said, "I'm, you know, I'm--" She paused, and I was sure she was going to say she was an ancestor worshiper and not interested in Christianity. "I'm 105 years old."

T-Model Ford is somewhere between 88 and 92 years old and can't remember his own birthdate. Every once in a while, you meet someone so old you can't understand a thing they say -- but you can't stop listening, either, as if they're chanting some spell to keep you entranced. I'd love to see someone try to tell him to turn his music down.

Pride and Joy by Stevie Ray Vaughan with Albert King

I really can't tell what's different about this version of Pride and Joy, other than the bass is cranked way up. It makes me feel like I'm jumproping with moonboots on. There might be another guitar part, some piano in there, but I can't really hear it. Vaughan exhibits here one of the only things white bluesmen ever invented -- he sings the song exactly the same as he always does.

Catfish Blues by Jimi Hendrix

I never considered the advantages of being a catfish until I head this Muddy Waters cover. While I'm not sure of the logic involved, I've since said I wished I was a catfish many times. Sometimes several times a day (ask Sarah).