Stay at Home Writer

*I wrote the following essay as a sample of what I am capable of as a newspaper/magazine columnist. Feel free to forward this and my contact info to any publishers or editors you may know. My wife would appreciate it if I could generate some income this decade.

Moments ago, I sat down to write an essay about the ups and downs of pet ownership. I was feeling inspired (and a slight stinging sensation) after having my hand bitten—again—by our pet bird Chi-Chi, a parakeet who apparently didn’t get the memo about not biting the hand that feeds him. I had just typed the title to this future masterpiece when I was interrupted by the ear-splitting screams of righteous indignation coming from my three-year-old son Truman—a phenomenon more common than parakeet pecks and often much more painful. I set aside my laptop, meted out some swift justice to Tru and his older brother Alex (the party who frequently claims to be the victim, but more often than not is the victimizer), and settled back into my work station/easy chair to resume writing. But the moment was gone. The pain from the bird-bite had dissipated, as did my inspiration to write about my feathered and furry friends. I’ll admit that I was tempted to pack it in and postpone writing until the boys’ bedtime, but I decided instead to write this piece about a day in the life of a writer/stay at home dad.

Just while I was typing the above paragraph, several distractions occurred that would derail most professional writers. The phone rang while I was responding to yet another domestic dispute, causing me to threaten Truman with a great deal of bodily discomfort if he refused to cease his screeching long enough for me to say, “Hello.” As I greeted the caller, he resumed his caterwauling, which forced me to repeat my initial cordial “hello” with a more irritated one. The caller turned out to be a telemarketer, a fact that removed any guilt I may have had for sounding particularly rude. She wanted me to pass along a message to my wife Bethany that her eyeglass prescription was now expired and that she should come in to get new glasses as soon as possible. First of all, I didn’t know glasses had an expiration date. Do they get all brown and mushy like bananas or are they no longer legally valid after two years like, say, a driver’s license? I was tempted to ask the caller these questions, but opted instead for the old stand-by, “I’ve got a screaming kid here. You understand. Have a nice day.” Click. Minutes later, another squabble ensued as did another phone call—this time from Bethany, who was “just checking in to see how everything was going.” I kept my response short and sweet, which she correctly interpreted as “It sounds like you’re busy.” She was right of course. She usually is. Oops, I mean she always is.

Although my kids can derail the creativity train that runs within me at the drop of a hat, or the taking of a toy, they provide me with a wealth of material to write about—if ever I can find the time. Take this morning for example. I was drifting in and out of sleepyland at about eight o’ clock, dreaming about peeing in the Pope’s Jacuzzi (I wish I was making this up, but it is unfathomably true) when I heard the toilet lid go up in the master bathroom. I pried open an eye in time to see Tru getting on the potty like a big boy. I was pleased to notice him dabbing a stray droplet or two off the rim with a square of toilet paper. What a conscientious little fella! When he finished, I instructed him to get a clean pair of underwear from his room, which he set out to do without argument. I was a proud papa.

Moments later, Tru returned to inform me that he couldn’t find any underwear in his dresser, and so I begrudgingly crawled out of bed—an unheard of act for a dad who is accustomed to staying in bed and “watching” TV with his kids in the early morning hours (until Sesame Street is over at the very least.) I dug up a pair of skivvies that were as yet unpacked from a bag of clean laundry following a week’s vacation and put them on my curiously smelly child. No sooner had I pulled up the Thomas the Train tighty-whities, than I spotted the source of the offending odor. An instantly recognizable brown streak was making its way from Truman’s nether-region to his ankles. I sprang into action, fully awake, putting aside all thoughts of how I would explain to the Pope why his hot tub was defiled and ran at a dead sprint with filthy child in hand to the bathroom.

Upon re-entry into the bathroom, I flipped on the light. The horror! My first thought was something along the lines of how relieved the Pope would be that I didn’t do that to his Jacuzzi. Poo was everywhere, and I don’t mean the Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, jammies, and toys that were scattered about the house. Real, non-Disney poo. I set Tru on his feet in the middle of the room and like a CSI detective, I began to piece together what had happened. Judging by the brown streak on the side of the tub, Tru must have leaned against it as he stripped off his diaper, which was protruding from the trashcan like a brown and white flag of surrender. From there, the trail led to the toilet where it became apparent that the boy had not been dabbing a few drops of pee that errantly landed on the rim. If only. Instead, as he hoisted himself up to the seat, he very obviously smeared a British Petroleum sized slick all over the commode.
I peeled off his fresh underwear only to find that it was—not so fresh anymore. I began to clean up the bathroom fixtures while my patient but stinky child stood motionless and eerily emotionless in the middle of the floor. He seemed to be completely unaffected by the whole affair, unlike his father who was alternately gagging and holding his breath while depleting the disappointingly limited supply of wet wipes in a vain effort to remove the now tacky substance from the boy’s, well, boy parts. The only remaining course of action was a hasty shower, one that left no time for proper preparation or the securing of a washcloth. That unfortunate fact left me no choice but to use soap, water, and my bare hands to extricate the thoroughly stuck-on poo from Truman’s little “peanut butt” as his mama calls it—a cute name for a portion of his personage that was anything but cute at that moment.

After some serious scrubbing, Tru was his old self again. I sent him back to watch his cartoons while I took a shower that I hoped was hot enough to sterilize my hands and burn away the nauseating memories from my mind. I guess I only succeeded on one of those fronts. And for that I’m somewhat glad. Without these types of experiences to draw upon, I would have very little to write about. Oh, I could make stuff up and call myself a novelist, but in regards to my life I’ve found that the truth is much more entertaining than fiction.

Fun in the Sun

Having retired for the second time just over two years ago, I am living the dream. Of course I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. You may remember that I formally declared the first summer of my retirement as the Summer of Travis. But the summer of 2010 is making a strong play for the title. In the past month, I have gone fishing many times, spent a lot of time with my boys, and visited friends and family in Colorado, Philly, KC, St. Lou, and most recently the Riveria Maya in Mexico.

This was my second vacation south of the border since 2005 and proved to be just as much fun as the first. I drank muchas tequilas, toured Mayan ruins, spent an afternoon zip-lining (including one run hanging upside down), and laughed myself to tears too many times to count. Accompanied by my beautiful wife, John & Kristen Briscoe, and Grant & Brenda Barnes, I had one of the best weeks of recreation and brain cell culling in my life. And I made some new friends in Mexico, both American and Mexican that I'll never forget. Grant and John accused me of developing a "bromance" with a bartender named Rodolfo who plied me with Don Julio shots throughout our stay. They may be right. We exchanged email addresses and I am thinking very seriously of asking him to become my first Mayan facebook friend.

The Summer of Travis version 2.0 continues next weekend with a reunion of the families who adopted kids through our agency, Children's Hope International. Also, next month will be my 20 year high school reunion, although I contend that most of my friends have failed to mature mentally past an eighth grade level. Both of these reunions will be fun--in very different ways of course. Hopefully I will see you at one of these events, but if not, don't be surprised if you hear a knock on your door at three in the morning followed by, "It's Travis Naughton. Remember me? I was the captian of our co-ed naked bingo team. I think. Let me in please. It's the Summer of Travis! And I gotta pee."

Good Medicine

If ever you find yourself so overwhelmed with the responsibilites, boredom, and/or chaos of being a stay-at-home parent, then I recommend taking a few days off to reconnect with your former, pre-parental self. Last weekend I did just that.

One of my very best friends in the universe, Troy Lepper, and his best gal Anita (a muy caliente Latina that Troy affectionately calls "Brown Sugar") got hitched in the scenic but chilly mountains of northern Colorado. I was blessed with the opportunity to attend said nuptials sans familia. Bethany agreed to take some time off from work to spend a long weekend with the kids while I was given a rare furlough from my incarceration at the Hartsburg Sanitorium. My friend Rob Scott accompanied me on the epic road trip to Ft. Collins in anticipation of a three day wedding celebration that we were certain would rank as one of the most fun of all time. We were not disappointed.

On Thursday evening, Troy and Anita held a backyard movie night at their home for thirty or so of their favorite people. Apparently, Rob and I qualified. Everyone let their hair down, enjoyed various intoxicants, and laughed until it hurt. The highlight of the evening was an unforgettable burlesque show performed by a very close friend of the happy couple named Lady Ginger Licious, a lovely and unique woman I had had the pleasure of meeting once before.

Friday night involved a fantastic rehearsal dinner at the mountain resort that played host to the wedding festivities. Troy convinced several members of his family that Rob and I were a gay couple, and we enjoyed keeping them guessing for the rest of the weekend. (If you don't know Rob, I'll tell you that he is about 6'4", 240 pounds to my 5'7" 147. An odd couple if there ever was one.)

Saturday was the big day, and I have to say it was one of the neatest ceremonies that I had ever attended. Troy and Anita's good friend Brandi procured a ministerial certification from the ad in the back of "Rolling Stone" magazine and officiated the ceremony as the Right Reverend Brandi Wine. Spirit wands were waved by members of the audience as a blessing of the union. The bride wore a stunning white gown with a rainbow patterned bow tied around her waist which looked absolutely perfect. The bride and groom shook their groove thing while exchanging vows that included the promise to "love, honor, and get funky" with their counterpart for as long as they both shall live.

The reception featured great toasts by the best man Steve "The Fonz" Winkler and the maid of honor/burlesque dancer Ginger. Troy thanked the wedding guests for sharing the big weekend with him and Anita and his speech left the crowd both laughing and crying. As I mingled with the other guests, I realized I had made several new friends over the course of the all-too-brief weekend. Brandi and Ginger are two of them as well as a couple named Billy and Leigh. I spent a lot of time visiting with old friends Ben and Steve and got to know their wives Tara and Rachael quite well. They are now officially friends of mine, too.

Last weekend was just what the doctor ordered for me. I had been feeling quite impatient, quick-tempered, and exhausted by the never-ending responsibility of my job as a stay-at-home dad. But spending a three day weekend with dear friends made all of my stress melt away and now I feel like a new man (for the time being anyway.) This unique group of friends has the ability to lift my spirits unlike any other circle of friends I have had. Each of them is a very positive person who lives life to the fullest while marching to the beat of their own drum. They remind me that it is okay to be myself and not worry about looking or sounding foolish. Troy especially has been a colossal influence in my life and has helped me through many a rough patch during my younger, self-destructive years.

Troy is more than a friend. As I told him after his wedding, he is the big brother I never had. I am the oldest of four kids in my family, Troy is the youngest of four in his. A few years older than me, I think he considers me the younger brother he never had. Sharing the same height and build, the same first initial, the same hair color, the same tastes in music, and at one point a blues show on Mizzou's college radio station, we have a lot in common. Not the least of which is a love of life and a love for one another that was once again, over the course of three days in Colorado, reaffirmed.

Congrats Dr. & Mrs. Lepper, and much love to you both. Stay funky.

Memorial Day

In Thurdsay's online edition of the Columbia Daily Tribune, a reader posted the following comment; "I always admitted that "W" was a bungler and truly wished we had a better speaker to put forth the conservative ideals that most true Americans hold dear."

I responded with the following:

Most TRUE Americans hold conservatives ideals dear? So if I am not a conservative then I am not a TRUE American? There is the TRUE problem facing our country today. Why can't we have an intelligent debate about issues without questioning each other's patriotism or love of country? I voted for Obama, as did the majority of voters in the last election. Therefore, I don't see how it's possible that "most true Americans" hold dear the values of conservativism.

I am a true American. I support your right to question my patriotism, even if it makes me angry. I support your right to cling too tightly to the belief that yours is the only correct point of view, although in my opinion you couldn't be more wrong. But I do ask you, with all due respect, to please refrain from insinuating that people in this country who disagree with you are not true Americans.

My great grandfather fought for America in WWI. My grandfather in WWII. My father in Vietnam. They fought to preserve your right to say incendiary things like proclaiming that you, and not their own descendant, are a true American. I hope that you and every true American remembers my ancestors' service to this great country of ours this Memorial Day.

As for this liberal, yet TRUE as they come American, I say thank you to all of the men and women who have fought, been injured, or died so that I can have the opportunity to sit here sipping my coffee, typing on my computer, and listening to my kids playing in the next room--a pretty damn good life if you ask me.

I'm Still Alive

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I have been taking a writing hiatus following the completion of the first draft of my book Naked Snow Angels. I needed to step away from the demands of finding something creative to say on a daily basis, and so yes, I must admit that I have been spending way too much time on the mindless distraction that is Facebook.

All the cold and rainy weather we have had for the past few months has caused me to slide into a very unsatisfying rut of checking email, checking facebook, reading the online version of the newspaper, and searching online listings for classic cars for sale that I cannot afford. Well folks, the sun has come out today, and I am feeling frisky.

Four or five more cups of coffee and I may be ready to start revising my book. I am not sure whether to change it from a non-fiction memoir to a novel, a collection of short stories, or a collection of humorous essays, but I'm pretty sure it will be quite changed in version 2.0. Stay tuned for further updates and excerpts.

And thank you for remaining my loyal and patient fans.