Horrible streak of illnesses leads to realizations

http://www.limaohio.com/story.php?IDnum=50385
Horrible streak of illnesses leads to realizations
David Trinko - Mar. 10th, 2008
The last place in the world I want to be is the hospital — unless one of my children is there. Then it’s the only place I want to be.
For five days in the past two weeks, our 7-month old spent time hooked up to IVs and monitors at one of the local hospitals.
For five days in the past two weeks, I spent time reflecting on how completely and totally unimportant everything else was.
The good news for the youngster is she appears to be mostly healed from her brush with a nasty strain of influenza. I’m not faring so well. These are the times you realize being a father is really the most important thing you do all day long.
I don’t mean to minimize my job and chosen career (which, by the way, includes a tad more than writing this column once or twice a month). But I learned an important lesson years ago, when I was younger and cared more about my living. Even if you love your job, she cheats on you with your co-workers on the weekends.
I don’t know what it was about the job description for fatherhood that appealed to me:
“HELP WANTED: Caring man sought to provide a male role model to children. Must have capacity to love existing and future children. Fun and humor encouraged. Other duties and requirements as assigned.”
It sounded kind of easy, to be honest.
I wasn’t a father for more than a few months before I realized there’s nothing easy about it. Things that sound easy, such as getting dressed, making dinner or even getting in the car, can be an ordeal making the production of a daily newspaper seem like child’s play.
It’s that “other duties and requirements as assigned” that will tear you down. I should have read more about the benefits first:
“You must be available to work as a parent every hour of every day. While there is vacation time, it actually requires more time with your children, for them to argue and fight and make you crazy.”
Trust me, driving me crazy is a very, very short trip.
Then there’s the section on sick time.
“Sick time is available, assuming all the needs of everyone else in the house are met first.”
Two days before the baby went to the hospital, a doctor diagnosed my wife with pneumonia. Our 6-year-old had strep throat.
They required a fair amount of care as they stayed home together for most of the week. I picked up a second job that week, becoming the primary caregiver for food, care and compassion, in addition to the nine or 10 hours a day I spend at work. I’ll admit, I was better at the food part than the other two.
While running errands for them one morning, I ran into someone I knew. She kept asking if I was all right, since an infection in my throat left me barely audible and an infection in my ears left me barely able to hear.
The answer was simple, also hidden in the small print of the job description of a dad:
“There will be plenty of time for me to be sick when everyone else is healthy.”
Fortunately, everyone is healthy now. We can laugh as we tell stories of the miserable previous two weeks and wonder aloud how we made it through with everyone in the house ailing at the same time.
Now I can answer why I accepted this dad job in the first place. The wage for this job is incredible:
“The pay is all you’ll ever need. It’s a hug on a rough day. It’s a peck on the cheek when you’re feeling down. Even a simple ‘I love you Daddy’ or a grin on a baby’s face is all the compensation you’ll ever want.”

There’s nothing mini about choosing the minivan

My family purchased its first minivan recently.
The sentence, as it read right there, doesn’t look nearly as daunting as the decision to buy one was. When you’re young, a car is more than a way to get around. It’s a reflection of you. And the reflection I get when I imagine driving a minivan around is more like a funhouse mirror to my still-young soul.
Reality finally set in on us, though. When I drove my wife’s car in the last six months, my knees stuck into my chest as the baby seat pushed the driver’s seat so far forward. Our dreams of driving a Mustang with the top down to the beach will have to remain dreams until the kids are grown. We needed space, and we needed it soon.
So we went to a local dealer and bought the minivan. It’s a necessary evil. Even though we have a 6-month-old now, a new sibling will join her in September.
I can hear the question already: Was it an “oopsie”? Of course not. We knew what we were doing when we drove to the dealer. We bought that minivan on purpose, even if it was against our will.
I felt the shame of a father when we started walking through the lot. An eager salesman asked what feature we most wanted in our next vehicle.
I would’ve liked to say a V-6 engine. Or maybe fuel economy. Or perhaps a cool front panel that made it look like I was piloting the space shuttle.
I didn’t get a chance. My wife blurted out the top priority first: A DVD player for the kids.
And that’s how we picked our tricked-out rectangular box on wheels. It has everything I never thought I’d need in a vehicle, such as an electronic key, powered sliding doors on each side and a side window that goes up and down.
I guess as a nonminivan driver, I’d taken windows that open and close for granted. It’s apparently not a standard feature in most minivans. Apparently, we’re quite lucky that ours do.
Unfortunately, one option we couldn’t find was our youth. For both my wife and I, the minivan was the last in the collector’s series of a Norman Rockwellesque life. We already have the four-bedroom house on the edge of town, the big backyard and those 2.2 children. Now we have the minivan.
Don’t get me wrong; we want those things that go with the “good life.” We just cherished our youth and independence so much, it’s sad when your life becomes the cliché for a family.
Each of the cars I’ve owned said something about my personality at the time. My 1978 Toyota Corolla said high school and college student struggling to get by, much less around. The 1994 Chevrolet Beretta said recent grad coming into his own but still using someone else’s cast-offs. And that 2002 Dodge Neon, my first new car, said confident man with the flash and stability of a decent and exciting job.
Now there are two cars in my name, the minivan and a middleaged man’s sedan. Neither of them says anything I predicted a car would ever say about me. They both say stable, comfortable family man doing all right for himself — and for his family.
The built-in DVD player entertains our 6-year-old daughter. The sliding doors make it easier to get our 6-month-old girl in and out, and it’ll have that same benefit when Baby No. 3 comes along. The heated seats are for my loving wife, who always feels a chill.
And it’s OK that there isn’t anything in there for me in particular. One realization I’ve had as I get older is I’m not the most important person in my life anymore. These days, I rank somewhere around No. 5. That’s a good thing. I’ve grown up enough to care about my family more than myself.
That’s not to say I’m not still a little vain about things, even the new minivan.
As I drove the minivan that first day, I told my wife how cool the front of the vehicle looked, with all its lighted gauges and touch screens. We’re talking about satellite radio, a hard drive for music and videos, everything. I’m convinced they put those gizmos in there to keep the guys feeling like they’re operating a lean, mean, high-tech driving machine.
I can feel completely cool in it, as long as I never look back.

Living life ‘on the record’ can be strange

Living life ‘on the record’ can be strange

David Trinko dtrinko@limanews.com - 01.07.2008

Our relationship seemed destined for strangeness the first time she asked me, “Is this on the record?”
Most people don’t have to answer that question on a date. It goes with the territory when you’re in the exciting and somewhat stressful world of journalism.
“On the record” is journalism talk for “it’s OK to tell everyone.” When you speak to a reporter or an editor, you run the risk of telling the whole world, if that person merely deems it important enough to tell the world.
This “on the record” question becomes more complicated each day I’m married to my wife.
I only covered one story involving Jessica when I was a reporter, and that was long before our first date. We’ve both grown to have a bit of sway in our workplaces, despite the other’s career.
Now I’m a mid-level editor at the local daily newspaper. She’s the nursing home administrator and county administrator in Putnam County, one of the nine counties we cover.
To some people, this might make us a power couple. From where I sit, it only makes a powerful headache.
There’s a perception that any time the newspaper hears about anything that happened in the county where she works, she must have leaked it to me. There’s no credit offered for the sources I developed in nearly two years working that same beat. There’s also little credit given that I still live in that county and see people daily.
There’s a sense that she tells me the county’s deepest, darkest secrets every day, and I cover them up so they’re not stressful for her. There’s no recognition that much of what we print about her bosses, the county commissioners, is less than positive about them.
I’m reminded of a question someone asked her before she received her current job: “Do you ever talk in your sleep?”
I’m also reminded of a snide remark I’ve heard both ways in the village where we live, that she works for The Lima News or that I work for the county.
This relationship makes for interesting conversations, no doubt. What most folks fail to realize is these conversations aren’t so different from the ones you have with your spouse.
We talk about the people we work with and what they’ve done to stress us out. We talk about funny things occurring in the workplace. We giggle about people who should know better when they say something out of line. It’s more gossip-driven and personality-driven than anything, just like the conversations you have with your spouse.
There are occasions when the “on the record” part comes into play. She’ll playfully ask if she’s talking to husband David or newspaper David. Occasionally I’ll jokingly query, “Can I quote you on that?”
There are times she plants an idea for a story. I’d lie if I said that never happened. It’s handy to hear how things work from the other side. It helps me direct a reporter on how or where to gather a piece of information vital to the public’s right to know how its government represents it.
I’ve never found myself hyping or silencing a story simply because she is involved. In fact, to the chagrin of my bosses, I refuse to read stories that include my wife’s name before they appear in the newspaper. I won’t say where I think a story affecting her or her bosses should appear in the newspaper.
It’s a simple thing called ethics. Ethics isn’t just my unwillingness to accept a lunch for something I cover if the public can’t get that same thing. It’s living a life that, hopefully, people will laugh if someone ever suggests I’m dishonest or unfair.
It’s accepting that I live a life that’s always on the record, even if everyone else doesn’t.