Are Realistic Dinosaur Pajamas Too Much to Ask?

Sometimes when I dress the baby, I choose clothes I know my two-year-old will like.

That means dinosaurs. Lots and lots of dinosaurs.

My son loves it when I bring his baby brother out in something covered with cute pictures of ancient murder beasts.

I blame Don Bluth. Ever since we first watched The Land Before Time, the only movies we get to see anymore must have dinosaurs.

The kid's obsessed.

And he can school most adults in paleontology. Most days, he'll tell you his favorite dinosaur is Brachiosaurus. He won't go to sleep at night without his stuffed Tyrannosaurus rex. And he can make a seriously legit Spinosaurus out of Play-Doh.

The only thing he doesn't know about dinosaurs is not to look so happy with a Spinosaurus in the room.

But for all he knows about dinosaurs, my son still can't identify some species on his little brother's pajamas.

I'll give him a break, though; they didn't exactly make it easy. Like, what the Cretaceous is this thing?

Or this thing?

I want to believe that last one is some kind of Saurolophus, but I don't have enough faith in the clothing designers to think it's actually anything more than a huggy T. rex with an overbite and tumors on its back.

And really, did an Apatosaurus and a Stegosaurus have a baby, or something?

What is going on?

I probably shouldn't care so much, but my child expects me to have answers. If I can't tell him what kind of dinosaur is on his brother's pajamas, he might not come to me with the important questions later.

These adorable, irresponsible designs make me look inept in front of my toddler. Are realistic dinosaur pajamas too much to ask?

My son watches Thomas the Tank Engine. I'm sure he can handle an accurate scene of Jurassic carnage printed on pajamas.

But then . . . there is Carnotaurus. . . .

Latin for "Holy snowballs, I've soiled myself."
Image credit: Primal Carnage Wiki

On second thought, cute is nice. I'll go with cute.

What I Love About Childbirth

In case it wasn't obvious, I haven't posted in a while. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, but it'll likely take some time.

In other words, I can't promise frequent blog posts right away. I will try, though.

But I owe it to you at least to share a little bit of what's been keeping me so busy.

So, this happened:

Babies = busy.

But we adore this little guy. To everyone's surprise, we ended up going with something normal and named him Andrew. Not even I saw that one coming. But hey, maybe next time I'll get my little Azog?  

I'm kidding, dear. When you reach for that kitchen knife, I'm kidding. 

Anyway, minus the extreme pain and discomfort for my wife, and the drive to the hospital, and waiting all night for anything to happen, and the feeling, as a man, of being utterly, utterly useless, I love childbirth. I've witnessed it three times now, and I'm always awestruck by the magic of the moment.

I've watched a person come into the world.

And my wife is so dang awesome. She just brought a person into the world. I can't even do that with a d20 of Summoning. 

Though it inevitably happens by the time the little person turns two.
Image credit: Meme Generator

It's all I can do to keep my head from exploding when the nurse first puts that tiny baby in my arms. Once I build myself back up from the initial cuteness overload, my erratic internal dialogue goes something like this:

Hello there, little person! Welcome to your life! 

I'm Dad and I'll be your guide on this adventure. Man, I can't wait to give you chocolate! It will blow your mind. 

And there are so many other things I'm excited to show you! Like, we've got this thing called music here. We're going to listen to so much of it! 

And then there's pizza. Oh my goodness, pizza. You will thank me.

Ooh, the doctor was from Houston. The first hands that touched you were Texan hands! I'll have to take you to Texas sometime, too. But not Houston. Noooo, not Houston.

So, I didn't print a syllabus or anything, but we've got a lot to cover later on. You'll learn how to walk, and use a spoon, and poop in a toilet. Trust me, those are all important things. We can't skip them.

Gosh, I love you so much!

And now your mother wants you. Okay, baby, have fun! We'll cuddle again soon!

Seriously, I love being a dad. My boys are my whole world.

And every time another one is born, that moment when Heaven touches Earth gives me the chance to really think and ask myself how I am doing as a father, as a husband, as a man.

That moment, when I first hold my newborn child, always makes me want to be a better version of myself.

In that moment I promise my baby I will never let him down.

I promise him I will always be there.

That we'll read books together, play catch in the backyard, go swimming in the summer.

I promise him the world, and everything I am.

I promise him I'll exercise and eat more healthy foods, so he will never have to worry about losing me.

I promise him a happy home where he can always feel safe.

And as much as I can try, I inevitably fall short on most the promises I make.

That's part of being human.

But when I stand in that delivery room, I make those promises again.

That's the other thing I love about childbirth: the way it makes me want to be a better man.

And maybe it's a subtle difference. Maybe no one else can see it through my poop-stained shirt and five-day stubble.

But I wouldn't be the man I am if it weren't for my rowdy, wonderful boys. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Even if it means I have to set aside my writing.

So, I'll try to keep the blog updated. But in case I don't, you'll know where I am.

Here's a funny video about childbirth:

Harry Potter Taught Me Magic Really Does Exist

I used to think Harry Potter was so dumb.

Because I can't be an adult and take responsibility for my failings, I blame my elementary school librarian. Try as she might, her description of this "great new book" just didn't sell me.

A young boy lives with his abusive aunt and uncle in England and then finds out he's a wizard. Then he goes to a school where he learns how to use his newly discovered magic powers.

Yawn.

I didn't want to read about some dorky-looking boy in England.

I certainly didn't want to read a story about going to school.

And what kind of name was Harry Potter?!

"You know what this cover needs? A kid morphing into an animal." --Ten-year-old me
Image credit: Wikipedia

I sneered over the top of my Goosebumps book at the kids in my class who pulled out Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone during silent reading time.

They wouldn't know good literature if it latched onto their faces.

Ha.
Image credit: Wikipedia

Luckily, I had the world's best fifth-grade teacher.

The best.

Before I could get too big-headed about my classmates' poor taste in books, she made the first Harry Potter novel assigned reading.

I groaned.

But I was hooked before the second chapter.

Harry and I grew up together. The release of every new installment in the series lined right up with my July birthday. Spending time with my best literary friend became a highlight of my summers.

I truly saw him as a friend.

He felt so real to me. His world, his friends, his teachers--when I escaped into those books, I jumped into another life.

Before I realized sharing spoilers made a person worse than Voldemort, I rehearsed entire plots to my ever-patient mother.

I gave her play-by-plays of Harry's Quidditch victories.

I reported the latest doings of Peeves the poltergeist.

I complained about Dolores Umbridge as if she were my own oppressive teacher and had given me detention.

I still shudder.
Image credit: Harry Potter Wiki

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released the day before my eighteenth birthday. After all the memories we made together, Harry and I were finally all grown up.

It hurt to say goodbye.

Love for Harry Potter sounds so cliché I rarely mention it when I am asked about my favorite books.

But that series made a difference in my life. It taught me so much about friendship, diversity, trust, the list goes on. I learned that even the best people aren't completely good--and that the worst people, too, can be redeemed.

I am a better person because I read Harry Potter.

Nine years have passed since I last held a brand new Harry Potter book. But earlier this month, when I picked up the latest Harry Potter story at my library, that familiar electricity returned.

Image credit: Pottermore

I don't know how long I held onto Harry Potter and the Cursed Child before I opened it. I drank in the anticipation, the magic that had occupied my birthdays through my teenage years and shone like starlight every summer.

I couldn't rush that moment.

My heart pounded like it would if I were actually meeting a dear friend I hadn't seen in ages.

That's a lot of pressure to put on a book. Expectations can be dangerous . . . and perhaps that's also why I couldn't bring myself to open it.

But I finally did.

And for a while there, I got to be a kid again. Got to catch the train at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, got to explore the sprawling Hogwarts grounds, got to ooh and ahh once more at magic spells--not just the kind that shoot from wands, but the kind, too, that shoot from writers' pens.

That's why I love reading.

That's why I love writing.

Because there is a real magic in this world: the way a letter joins others to create a word; the way a word, once read or spoken, births a thought; the way a thousand words inspire depths of feeling that, ironically, no words exist to illustrate.

J.K. Rowling is a great magician.

She is one of many.

And, if I keep practicing, perhaps someday I'll wield magic just as well as they do.

A Tribute to a Muddy River

Utah is a great place for creative minds.

Whether it's our high mountains in the east, our desert in the west, our red rock in the south, or our abundant forests, lakes, and streams, there's something here for every mood.

West Desert, 2008

Ever since I was a kid, my writing and the Utahn landscape have had a spiritual connection. My best ideas come wrapped in the stillness of a forest, the fire of a desert sunset, the whispered notes of mountain winds.

Henry's Fork Basin, 2007

You could say growing up in Utah is a reason I'm a writer.

And I have lots of favorite places here.

Some Salt Lake natives might not feel the way I do about it, but I especially love the Jordan River.

Like its namesake in Israel, Utah's Jordan River connects a large freshwater lake and a salty inland sea. It runs right up the middle of the Salt Lake Valley--and, conveniently, just beyond the fence of my apartment complex.

An urban park and trail system roughly forty miles long makes the Jordan River an ideal place to break away from city life even for just minutes at a time.

Jordan River, 2016

I fell in love with it in high school, thanks to brilliant teachers who knew how to turn the land into a classroom. The mile walk to get there from the school rewarded us with lessons much more real than a lecture.

A creative writing teacher used to take my class down to the river. He scattered us along the bank and for the rest of the class period we wrote poetry beneath the trees.

Since then I can't go to the river without taking inspiration home with me. It fuels my writing like the mountains do, and I'm glad I live so close.

Yet even though the Jordan River gives me words, I don't have words to write a worthy tribute to it. This little blog post is too short for what I really want to say.

But I still think about that river every time I say God dropped me into Utah so I could be a writer.

That Time I Drove My Car into a Wendy's

Fast food chic has taken my hometown by storm.

Almost every restaurant around here now has updated its look. Arby's, Burger King, and even KFC feel more like hip cafés than greasy fast food joints.

Nice try, KFC. I can see right through you!
Image credit: Obllique

I took my family out for lunch at a classy restaurant last week then realized we'd walked into McDonald's. That was embarrassing.

I'm not against the redesigns. I actually appreciate the new elegance of fast dining; at the very least, I don't feel gross now until after I've eaten.

But do you really need a table by a granite fireplace? You're eating Taco Bell.

Last year the local Wendy's jumped onto the bandwagon. They changed everything: swapped out cushy booths for minimalist tables, added flat screen TVs, replaced the outside bricks with windows. It looks nice.

Image credit: Business Insider

I picked up dinner there on my way home the other night. Amid the host of restaurant updates, thankfully the Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger remains its same delicious self. I couldn't wait to dig in as the takeout bag filled my car with its warm, inviting scent.

Eeeeeat meeeee.

But I couldn't keep away my sadness in the drive-through as I stopped to look at Wendy's' new glass walls.

Windows where red brick once stood. And on the brick--only in my memory now--a streak of paint.

My paint.

Years ago I drove a beat-up Mitsubishi without air conditioning or cup holders. We called it the Sly Pig car, because it bore my nickname on its license plate (immortalized here on the blog).

That car had some personality. I got into all sorts of trouble in that thing, and when it died it left this world in a glorious, raging fireball (but that's a story for another day).

I ate more fast food then than I do now. My daily afternoon commute typically involved a pickup window somewhere.

One day I chose Wendy's for my post-work freedom celebration. I'd had a rough shift at the warehouse where I shipped small kitchen appliance orders, and I approached the Wendy's drive-through thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

I had so much on my mind that I forgot I had no cup holders.

I ordered a large root beer.

I paid for my meal and proceeded with a giant cup clenched between my legs. But I didn't get far before the trade-off between my clutch foot and my gas foot tipped the drink onto its side. Reflex forced my eyes down to the root beer pooling in my seat.

Ahhh!

I grabbed the cup just as the car lurched over the curb.

AHHH!!

I jerked the steering wheel to the left--too far--and sent the car across the drive and past the other curb. With a thud and a crunch, the car wedged itself between a bush and the restaurant's outer wall.

Well, great.

My face went hot. The engine screamed as I shifted to reverse and tapped, then floored, the gas. The car didn't budge.

Seeing no escape unless she helped me out of my predicament, the person coming out of the drive-through behind me got out of her car and pushed with me. Two onlookers jumped in, too. But even the four of us together couldn't move my car.

Time to face the public.

By the time the door swung closed behind me in the Wendy's dining room, a crowd had gathered at the counter to complain. The drive-through hasn't moved in fifteen minutes! If they just had looked outside they'd understand.

Here went nothing.

I cleared my throat and shouted over the commotion, "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A TOW ROPE?"

Every eye in Wendy's fell on me. Then, as one, they looked outside and saw my car. I don't know how anyone could have missed the red sedan with its nose pushed practically against the window. But I won a little bit of sympathy.

A big guy in a cowboy hat approached me from his table. He looked the type I should be grateful didn't end up stuck behind my car in line. "I've got a tow rope," he said, pulling keys out of his pocket. With the power of his pickup truck and my first three volunteers assisting, we finally pulled my car away.

I thanked my rescuers then drove home and changed my pants. I didn't go near that Wendy's again for months.

Several years passed before I let my parents know what happened. By then the humiliation had worn off and I was happy to point out the streak of paint I left.

Every time I saw that mark I smiled. For years the Wendy's drive-through bore the symbol of my wild youth, whispering to all who passed that Nathan Cunningham was here.

A small piece of me died with the remodel. I still search for my old paint mark when I visit.

I'll have to be more careful now the walls are made of glass.