Return of the Blog

My kids are pretty fucking amazing.

I mean, I know your kids are pretty cool too, but seriously, my kids? Total rockstars.

Now sure, I realize that feeling is probably some kind of genetic response to insure I actually take care of my kids, and that every sane parent feels that way (and certainly even some of the insane ones). This of course is not uncommon knowledge. The fact that parents loooOOOooove their kids is pretty well documented throughout the course of history. Excluding that Abraham guy. Man, what a douchebag. (and if that story didn't make you scratch your head a bit when you first heard it, well, God wants you buy some magic beans. Fortunately, I have some! leave your banking information in the comments section)

So yeah, everyone knows parents love their kids, but the issue is how many non-parents understand it? It pains me to ask that question, because there is nothing that screams "asshole" to me more than a parent who avoids a conversation about their parenting with some variation of "you couldn't understand unless you have kids". The one that really gets me is "you'll understand when your kids are older". Recently, however, I've been starting to see the nugget of legitimacy in the middle of that steaming pile of avoidance.

For instance, we recently had CPS called on us. Yes, really. It was total B.S. and was ruled to be an unfounded claim. Get the story in all its hilarity at the link above. When I told my boss I needed to go home to deal with this and meet with the CPS worker, it was pretty clear I was only getting to leave because he knew he couldn't not let me go. Sure, I know its a hassle, but CPS is serious shit man!

A more pertinent example involves my wife, Jess. More specifically, my wife's psychologist. In diagnosing her with post-traumatic stress, he stated in fairly direct terms, that it was completely abnormal to still be thinking of Joel on a daily basis close to two years after his death. (Again, you can get the full details at her blog) Now sure, my wife was there for a reason, but am I crazy for thinking that it's ridiculous to suggest we shouldn't still be thinking of Joel?

Yeah, we realize days of intense sadness shouldn't be the norm, and they aren't by any means, but NOT think of him? We do kinda have two walking, talking reminders running around this place. It should be no surprise that every milestone we celebrate for Jules and Blair is accompanied by the reality that we will never celebrate these things for Joel.

I mean, he is our son. We have pictures. His ashes, clothes and blanket sit in our bedroom. We keep a lock of his hair (seriously, dude had some thick, curly hair). We do not deny or ignore him; we accept and celebrate our lost son. Our loss is a fact of our lives. His death and the experiences surrounding it quite literally changed our lives. To not think of him, I believe, would be insane. I think most people could "understand" that. Not like we expect you to completely empathize, or that we should never have to explain or explore how we're feeling. But yeah, I think its understandable.

So here we are, heading into his second birthday. Tomorrow marks two years he since we were told Joel had died. It would be two more days before he was born. I've probably said it a million times at this point (but hey, its a blog reboot, so I can repeat some things), I know how difficult those days were for me, and though I was right there the whole time, I couldn't begin to imagine what it must've been like for Jess.

So if we're little off, here at the end of May, you'll have to forgive us. Maybe let us know you "understand", or give a smile (or a bottle of booze).

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N ow, lets talk about YOU. If you're new here, go play in the archives. There's plenty more about the wonders of being a DB Daddy. And some funny too! (honestly, if you want the funny, start with The Quest, cause my balls are hilarious) With any luck I'll get back in the habit of updating more often. Probably with shorter entries and varied subject matter. As for now, my lil rockstars are demanding an audience.

Don't need any wipes...

Cause I ain't done shit. (Somehow that seemed clever in my head, but if its enough to get me rolling, I'll take it) But really,Ive been abnormally lazy these last few weeks. Jules 3rd birthday and Christmas or Krismas or Yule or Mega-Mega-Present Day (we'e having a bit of an identity crisis) went great, then we all got sick...and were dumped on by old man winter. It was the perfect storm to create a wave of lazy that I am just now fighting my way out of.

Of course I have a ton of things to be doing (as if that ever changes), but Blair is conked out on me right now, so why not blog?

First, the kiddos: Jules and Blair are both huge. Blair at 6 months is roughly the size of a 1o month old, and Jules is measuring at the height of a nearly 4 year old! Plus they are pretty great together.

I'm still trudging through grad school for... some reason. It certainly has led me to decide that while I do enjoy my job (what I do every day in the classroom)
but I cannot stand my career (all this extra shit). I've rally got to strt pushing to be a stay at home dad.

Doing more stand-up this week. Basically the same set, just going to try and rework it a bit, strengthen the delivery, not suck, etc. This too is a source of some anxiety but also some "oomph" to get me off my ass and start producing.

To assist with said production of, well, anything and everything really, I'm going to blow Jess' savings on a smartphone...and a replacement wedding band. Yep, I'm "that guy" in yet another way. I have no clue where it went or how I lost it, but it is gone. Sadness and shame abound (mostly shame).

So if you follow me here or on twitter or facebook (all 5 of you) then you can look forward to me pummeling you with useless crap more often once I gets me into the new millennia with one of them phones. And hopefully that will also lead to some quality work as well, which is my real hope.

Restless Spirit

I'll just be honest here: I've spent what I feel like is a whole helluva lot of time helping Jules sleep. He is a restless kid, always has been.

In the hospital, just hours into the light and the pollution, his eyes held focus on everything. It was the general comment from all his onlookers: "he's so...aware." Aware. Always noticing things going on, even when all he could do was wake up or squirm in response. Noise he never seemed to mind (except our voices or the animals), but light, commotion; these things stirred him.

He never slept in the car; he was either content or cried. And by cried I mean wailed; torturous cries that made you think something horrible was happening back there. He was persistent in these cries. Unrelenting and inconsolable; no pacifiers, no bottles, no songs or rubs: just get me the fuck out. It was this way until past his fist birthday, really.

A sleep schedule? Only in the past few months have we established something resembling a sleep schedule. On average he takes an hour to bed down without being held and rocked. He tends to just keep going: tapping fingers, rubbing legs, fiddling with his hair (many a late, late night I've wanted to shave that pretty little head) or, my favorite, just sitting straight up as I do my best Splinter Cell out of the room, even after he fails to respond after I raise his arm the third time, and THEN slowly count to 60 to make sure he is out cold.

Before he was a person -- you know, back when he was just a squirming mass of cute and chub, sucking in as much formula and information as possible -- getting him to sleep required this ridiculous amount of stimulation: patting, rubbing, walking, bouncing. I developed what I came to call my Rastafarian dance; this long-strided bounce paired with deep toned humming of song while patting and rubbing my easily bored offspring. It was the only thing that ever would get him to sleep in less than 20 minutes. Seriously, he could be dead tired, and still to this day, when the lights go out for bed, he's awake.

On average -- even now, with his willingness to go to bed, and a two storybook a night habit -- he takes about an hour to get to sleep. I don't mind it. It has certainly become easier. And he's sweet about it all.

He still hates the state of being asleep though -- or maybe its the state of grogginess that he hates: if he moves towards conciousness at all, he becomes pretty upset (something else we've slowly worked on). He'll cry out, or lumber into the hall, "Daddy hol' me". Yeah, its pretty damned heart melting.

Thing is, this is all preface. This is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about tonight's storm. One of those classic, summer night, thunder and lightning extravaganzas. Rumbles as if Great Cthulhu were rising and flashes so bright you can't help but to get the feeling stepping into their light would reveal some truth of the soul. Yes, the kind of storm that makes you get all crazy on adjective porn.

Whatever it is in me that wants to stand in the rain felt especially strong tonight. Like there were layers of filth that needed not only to be washed off, but burned away in the blinding spark of that summer lightning. I guess you could say there's something a bit wild to it; something primal.

"Daddy hol' me"

and like that, I don't need the lightning, or the thunder, or that swell of ancient Viking spirit to reveal any truth to me. The dirts still there, perhaps somethings buried inside, but for now, I'm good. Very good.

Guess that's what 'Daddy' is all about.

Ask a DB Dad: Why does God have big, clumsy feet?

**Note: I've been dancing around getting this written for what seems like an eternity, my apologies to any of you who may have been waiting for it.

Sometimes the "grace of God" ain't so graceful...

off topic observation: usage of the word ain't to create a playful tone. Is that indirectly mocking those that use ain't in normal speech?

which reminds me that I need to re-teach some students that in (or just n) is not the correct spelling of and.

moving on...

Being in the unfortunate position of having a dead child, one quickly discovers that most people have no idea what to say to you. In that case, they turn to religion. Okay, so perhaps that is a gross generalization, but living in the upper portion of the Bible b elt it is a pretty good one. So let's keep in mind that I know a lot of what I am saying is based on generalization because otherwise I'm going to be here all day covering a gazillion bases.

It was what should have been Joel's first holiday season; obviously, we were a little down. You'll find holidays are just another part of the year where you spend extra time remembering your child, which just makes everyone else not remembering sting so much more. (for more on this subject, read every DB blog out there)

I was actually a little hopeful when we received a package, a gift for our first son, from a family member.

I'll save the family issues for now, but its worth noting that this family member has suffered a loss as well; a miscarriage. Of course, at the time, the family directive I received was to not speak of it. When news of Joel's death hit the wire, this person was one of the first to call and she offered to talk since she'd been through something similar. We really appreciated that, even though we never took her up on the offer; we just weren't ready to talk to someone just yet.

So yeah, the package. Included was a card; a religious card. Now I never received any Muslim words of comfort, or Jewish or Hindi (at least I don't think so...) so I can't say what kind of stuff they might say, but I know Christianity is always good for throwing out some quotes without a whole lot of thought for how they'll be read (how did it take me this long to get to my thesis??).

Of the card in question, it is long gone at the time I'm finally writing this, so an exact quote I cannot give. The basic idea, however, was letting the Lord take our earthly sorrows, although I occasionally remember it as "small, earthly troubles". Thing is, we only had one earthly sorrow, which we didn't find to be small at all, we certainly didn't consider it merely 'earthly', and, to be perfectly honest, we already had a bit of a bone to pick with the guy that was supposed to make it better!

I know what the sentiment was, but the words, they just weren't right. Kind of like, "you're child is in the arms of Jesus" Well thanks Jesus, but I'd prefer to be holding him; I'm not keen on strangers holding my baby, and no offense, but they didn't have a lot of Purell in Nazareth, so if you would be so kind...

"God works in mysterious ways" What? like Batman? Sorry, even Batman wouldn't kill my baby.

Now it isn't that I'm some angry Atheist or just mad at God or something. In fact, I understand and believe that religion can be quite a comfort. The thing is, religion is just like the rest of the world: it can be good or bad, depending on how you use it.

I certainly like to believe that everyone who misspoke or did something to add salt to our wound had the best of intentions. However, it is undeniable, and probably unavoidable, that there are a great and many things that occur once you enter the DB-parent club that send the message, "hurry up and get the fuck over it." Or there are the dismissive items, like the card in the gift. My apologies to Anonymous, but sometimes the thought just doesn't count; sometimes shitty gifts/words are just plain shitty.

Some of the people who comforted us most did not throw scripture at us, they simply "walked the walk" and acted like good Christians, which, believe it or not, is the same way a good Muslim, Jew, Hindi (...I think), or any other religion (Pastafarians included) would behave: they were nice to us. The real 'grace' came from the kindness of the people we were around. Those that found ways to comfort us and show their care sometimes by doing nothing more than acknowledging our pain and offering to be there, or just being respectful.

One may choose to believe that scripture is the absolute Word of God, and they have that right, but words are still words, with multiple definitions, connotations, interpretations and other -ations. So if you find yourself in the unenviable position of needing to comfort a grieving parent, maybe, just maybe, it is better to follow the instructions instead of trying to hand them out.

Ooops, I forgot... *updated*

What seems like a long, long time ago, I gave you permission to get a snack as you read through what I suppose amounts to my manifesto.

The details of that post, and all the private conversations and exchanges it refers to, have been a great source of my pain, sadness and anger over the past few months (although obviously not the greatest). In the times that I cannot help myself but to think about my family, I have no regret for my actions or my words. Maybe somewhere along the line I could've tried a little harder, but I don't feel that it would have made a difference.

I am happy to report that I have had some positive contact with a few family members during these last few months. I truly appreciate those kind and understanding souls that have reached out with even the simplest of contact.

But a little birdie came along recently, a well-intentioned birdie looking to protect its nest, and it reminded me of some things.

In particular, it reminded me of slander, liable, and harrassment.

Now, the little birdie and I must agree to disagree, and I think in the birdie's references, the above-mentioned vocabulary means nothing.

BUT (and this will finally bring us full circle) in my little manifesto (see link at top, lazy) I made mention of a wonderful email I received from my Uncle...an email I thought I'd left a link to with the manifesto. Instead, I posted the link in a second less-noteworthy blog.

So for those of you in the here and now, and anyone concerned with the birdies vocabulary in regard to my Uncle, here is his "open letter" (which would mean it isn't private and can be shared) to me where he fully expresses his desire to be punched in the face.

Why even insert a jump... (click the pic if you want to see the full email)


I don't know if that falls into any of the little birdie's vocabulary, and I don't particularly care because I'm not the litigious type, but I think this covers that anything I said in my original comments about good ole Steve were fair and at best no more slanderous that Conan O'Brien's Kirstie Alley fat jokes.

And for the record, I never acted upon any of the items listed on that Facebook poll, not because I didn't want to, but because I realized that I could never say or do anything to Steve that would be any worse than what he has already spent 50 + years doing to himself.

As for the rest of my family: as I've said before, Steve's email, and my conversation with my sister, confirmed a lot of things. I know they have simply expressed what everyone else was thinking and saying behind our backs. If that weren't the case, the other members of my family would've stepped up and said otherwise. I've had only one person do that, and that person wasn't even involved in this maelstrom to begin with.

I hate that along with the greatest tragedy of my life, I also lost the family I grew up in, but I am sooooooo happy to be rid of their bullshit. So these instances where it pops up again, well, I hate to say that at least with this one, I'm thankful for it. It reminds my sentimental little candy-ass of why I pulled my family away from that twisted patriarchy. It reminds me of the odd behavior they trigger in me (behavior I always find myself realizing to be wrong, and apologizing for over and over and over and over again...I should really work on that. )

So look, I posted this to address the supposed legal implications of my response to my Uncle, but through the course of crafting this post, I've come (through various means, but monstly my own. [ no, really]) to this statement (because while implied, both internally and externally, I don't think its every been quite clear): As I feel that Steve speaks on behalf of my family, and I thank him for offering himself up as that lightning rod, my feelings for him are greatly the same as my feelings for other members of my family who are perfectly happy to let him do so.

More direct? okay, just for them:

I am just as disgusted with you as I am with him.

I hope you don't misconstrue anything as a desire to forgive or forget. Even those whom I may not consider to be responsible for certain things are still being held accountable for their own actions (or inactions).

You may cry for me and pray for me, and I kindly ask you to stop; save the tears and the desperate prayers for yourselves, you clearly need them.
Fix your family, don't try to fix mine.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get ready for Vegas...

Grab a snack, this is going to take a while.

Something in me says, "this is self-destructive behavior." Acknowledging that I am on a path that i can't turn back from.

Then something else in me asks, "Is it really destruction if you are tearing it down in hopes of rebuilding it?"




Lots of time alone in ratty apartments can certainly be unhealthy, but it does allow one a lot of time to examine one's own character. Amongst a myriad of observations, I did come to understand one thing about myself, my personality, and perhaps most importantly, my relationships. See, I came to recognize that I don't have much of a backbone. Lots of thoughts, opinions and snazzy words, but never really the willpower or courage to do something about much of anything.

I used to reason to myself that it wasn't a lack of backbone that made me a man of inaction, but that I was reasonable and often saw the multiple sides of an argument or situation. I still think I have a knack for understanding opposing views, but honestly, I know that I just never wanted to step on any toes or make anyone unhappy. I was a "pleaser": a lot of things to a lot of people, but not really much of any one particular thing. ( Except 'a clown', which kinda works into that whole 'pleaser' thing....and 'one helluva lay', also in the pleaser category.... sorry Ladies, taken)


I looked back at my relatively short adult life and saw a series of moments where I wouldn't even stand up for what I wanted because I didn't want to disappoint. ( On the upside, I did see a lot of great self-depricating humor sprout from the demotion of my own wants and needs. ) Let's just put it out there, I enjoy teaching, but the only reason I went that route is because I didn't want to be some disappointing "dream chaser" or some such shit; I had to do something practical. It isn't necessarily something I regret, but hey, I'm being honest here, right?

There was one thing I always wanted that I never downplayed; maybe because it is a simple, practical dream, or maybe because it is one of the first things I can ever remember wanting: a family of my own. A wife, a kid or three...pets, oh..a house too. I also dreamt of being a super-hero, so don't get too worried about my childhood, okay?

That dream came true for me, and I built it with my best friend: a woman that share's my horrible sense of humor, oft-bad timing, and self-important need to write about our feelings. She also has a backbone. Honestly, she has enough for both of us...and all of you reading this.

Really, it seems like a bad combination, doesn't it? A man who seeks to please and a woman who bows to no-one: let's watch Adam get abused! But I'd actually already went through that relationship 5 years before. My wife, strong-willed as she is, wouldn't let me be 'the pleaser'. Sure, she enjoyed some perks, but generally she saw right through it and would call me out on it. She wanted a husband she could respect, not one she just bossed around ( although, you know, that still kinda happens... stupid 'foot rubbings' )

So, why all this exposition? What, my dear Culver, set you on this line of thought? Well, this apparently has just been the prologue. Geez, maybe I should break this into a series??

Well, this week I stood up for myself and my family. Okay, so maybe it isn't the first time I've spoken up or defended myself, but I put my foot down in a pretty big way.

Originally I wasn't going to blog about this; I thought, "this...this I will keep to myself" because honestly (there's that word again) I didn't quite know how I felt about it. Over the past few years, I've been at odds with my parents about, primarily, my wife. In actuality, we were at odds over how I'd changed, but the real problem, the reason I was speaking up, was how it materialized in their treatment of my wife. It was clear that while their problem was with me, they squarely blamed her.

I've already explained how I think I've changed. For them, I guess when 'the pleaser' isn't always trying to please anymore he is considered "stuck-up, too good for his family, etc." I remember seeing it flash across my mother's eye in the dim evening light when on vacation, on a beach-house deck, I told her of my intention to graduate college then move to Boston to try and be a comic with my friend. I really don't even know what the hell thats supposed to mean. Like, how is that being such a bad guy? Stupid? sure. Crazy? probably. But c'mon, at least just tell me, "but Adam, you're really not that funny" instead of a dead look of "where is my son?"

So when I got married, they had their outlet. They had found what must have changed me. Since I've already written a lot, I'll skip the details and say that during the 3+ years we've been together, there have been a lot of shitty moments on the part of my family. Plenty of arguments where I would plead the case for them to just be nice. Even more times where she was just ignored; treated as a second-class citizen. This was never acceptable, but I suppose at least bearable until we had a child.

How could we stand to let our son grow up seeing his mother treated this way? Thinking it was okay to treat her this way? Ignored, set aside, scoffed at. So I fought harder to fix things. The harder I fought, the more they resisted. The more they resented the fact that I stood up to them when we'd never had a cross word in the past. ( we had crosswords, lots of puzzles actually, but no arguments... )

As time went on, we didn't see much of one another. We all regretted that, but hell, if they couldn't play nice... you know? Then the time came that we found out we would have a second child. I think I've noted their reaction before, but if not: they weren't happy. They didn't hide it. In fact, my father went so far as to say, "it's like he isn't even part of the family." We basically quit speaking after that. Some lame attempts at communication, but my parents still never asked about how my second child, their third grandchild, was progressing. Didn't ask if it was a boy or girl. Didn't ask what the due date was. They did not care.

Eventually, Joel died. Born without a heartbeat on May 28, 2009. I spoke to my parents for the first time in a while on May 26, when we found out we would not be bringing Joel happily into this world.

Through the time at the hospital, the days waiting until the memorial, then through and after the memorial itself, my parents never apologized for not being there through the pregnancy. They never apologized for the pain. In fact, they seemed to expect things to magically be better between all of us. Except for when they would become stand-offish and visibily uncomfortable (to the point of rudeness) in the presence of my in-laws, making the death of our son even more painful and uncomfortable; placing more pressure and work upon myself and my wife, trying to keep the peace. I had thought, for a time, that that was all there was to it.

Since then I have learned that my father, on the day of our son's memorial, was busy taking calls from his renters, and took offense when my father-in-law disapproved. My mother, whom I saw clutching the piece of paper with my mother-in-law's phone number, left it crumpled in their driveway when they left. But to top it all off, I found out that at the hospital, while my wife lay in a bed laboring to deliver our dead son, my father spoke to my mother-in-law, stating that he and my mother had had to “drop” me because of a blow-up we'd had, and how he and my mother never approved of this midwife, going on to insinuate that my wife's decision to use a midwife was the cause of our son's death.

I put my foot down. For my son, and for the family I've built, I put my foot down.

I sent an open letter to my family. Emailed, actually, after a converstaion with my sister ended with her critiquing my wife's behavior on the day of our son's memorial, saying that she ought to have been more social.

I don't feel bad sending that letter because the conversation with my sister confirmed a lot of things I had feared. Basically, that every conversation and argument I'd had with my parents to try and make things better had been ignored. It was a retrospective of every complaint my parents ever laid out, that I had explained and apologized for, put out there as if it were brand new. I had never had any impact on my family's perspective; my words and time had been meaningless.

Two days after sending that open letter, where I also call out my Uncle Steven Tibbs for being a jerk at our son's memorial, I received an email from my uncle. He really let me know that I had made the right decision in sending out that letter. He bombarded me with some amazingly juvenile insults (he called me a candyass... really??? 50 odd years on this planet, and 'candyass' is the best you can do?) He insulted my wife and prophesized the end of our marriage (something he has experience with). But worst of all, he openly mocked Joel's death and our memorial for him.



There are really no words to describe just how I felt when I awoke from napping with my son to be told about that email by my wife (he wrote his and hers emails. very considerate). I have, however, thought of sending him a Thank You letter. Thanking him for justifying my decision to separate myself from that part of my family. I haven't decided what to send with that Thank You, but you can help me decide! Eventually, I'll send it to him at this address, Steve Tibbs
120 Summers Street Bluefield, WV 24701. No particular reason I made his address available to the Internet... no reason at all.



My uncle opened his email by referring to me as a 'formerly Culver'. Hell, even Jess and I joked about changing the last name ourselves, out of shame, but I've always been very proud of my name. At this point, I don't know what might remain of my ties to the family I grew up with, but I know I've smashed it up what good. The name 'Culver' is soiled. Myself, I feel a bit pathetic that it took my son's death to finally make me stand up for something. Now that I'm up, I have more to do. For the grandmother that taught me what love and care really are, for the woman I made take the name, and most of all for my sons, I'll make it a name worth having again. My son, Joel, was very very real. His was a life of consequence; as short as it was, it meant something and it made an impact. I hope to do the same with my time.



self-destructive? No, no... just laying some foundation.