Pb in MA

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I've been meaning to write about this for a few weeks now, but the thought of sitting down and describing the process we've been through lately with lead has been just too draining to contemplate. But enough progress has been made and alcohol has been consumed over the past few weeks to have sort of numbed us to the pain, so I think I can share now. Act I, Scene I You see, in Massachusetts, the state really wants to make sure your children are safe. And Massachusetts has lots and lots of old homes. Old homes like ours. Old homes with lead paint. (That's 'lead' as in 'dead', not 'lead' as in 'feed'.) When we bought the house, we had just about every inspection ever imagined under the sun done on the house. Carbon monoxide. We don't have none of that. Creosote. We had some of that, but we made the seller get rid of it. Termites, dry rot, earthquakes, visible signs of plagues of locusts or frogs: check. None of the above. Towards the end of the process, the seller and I were talking and he said, look, the place was built in 1739, I can't guarantee there's no lead paint in the place. I said, yeah, I know. In fact, I'm guessing there is lead paint someplace, but I'm going to try real hard to teach our children not to lick the walls. This was, after all, right after the seller agreed to rebuild the entire chimney, clean and line all the flues, which is not cheap. And that being said, we signed some papers and moved in. Scene 2: Later that month... Squirmy went to the doctor for a kind of baseline, we're-back-in-the-U.S.A., let's get checked up test. I refer you back to that statement about the Massachusetts state legislature caring a lot about whether or not I'm letting my children chew on leftover bullets after I go to the shooting range. Actually, the state only cares if your child is under 6. After that, apparently it's fine. Which means that part of the local standard battery of tests if your child is under 6 is a lead screening. Squirmy pinged 'high'. Not 'poisoned' high. Not even 'you might want to take away the mechanical pencil refills' high. Just 'hey, you may want to check and make sure he's not using the apron from the Fisher Price E-Z-X-Ray playset as a safety blanket' high. We had a good conversation with the doctor about likely causes: maybe he found a stray chip of paint lying around and thought it would make a tasty addition to his cheerios. Or maybe it's just dust. Dust from the windows opening and closing an blowing around in a kind of toxic zephyr. It's a one-off, though, and we'll keep an eye on it. Or you can pro-actively get your house screened, and see how you might address it. Also, the doctor has to let the state know the results of the test, and now, our phone is ringing off the hook with state agency people who want to help us by telling us stories about how our child might turn into a drooling drain on society if we don't let them come out and do a screen. But, oh yeah, if we let the State do it, we have to address any issue they find, whereas if we pay for the inspector ourselves, we can choose what areas we focus on. With about 30 seconds of Google-fu, I found this story. Holy crap. I think I'll pay the inspector myself, thank you. Scene next: Man with lead gun shows up... We brought out an inspector who showed up with this really cool looking Star Trek-esque ray gun. He walked around our house for several hours, pointing it at pretty much every exposed surface, and spouting off numbers to his assistant, who diligently wrote these numbers in long columns on his clipboard. Turns out, about the only way we could have more lead in our house is if we started making home-made battery acid for the entire 18-wheeler fleet of New England. There's lead on the windows. There's lead on the door frames. There's lead in the floor paint. There's lead on the fireplace bricks. There's lead with a fox. There's lead in a box. There's lead in a boat. there's lead on the goat. I do not like lead here nor there. I do not like lead anywhere. So lead-gun man walks us around the house and points out all the places where the lead paint has turned up. Of course, some of the places are the inside of cabinet doors, 6 feet off the ground. Not likely to be chewed on by your average toddler, and therefore less critical to address. This is why we hired our own inspector, so we could focus on things like, say, the window ledge next to the crib, rather than the underside of the attic storage cabinet or whatever. Still, that leaves a whole lot of house to address... End of Act I. Join us tomorrow to see how our heroes rant and rave and feed their son liquid iron and fight off the evil lead. Also. There is drinking involved.
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One step closer to crotchety curmudgeon

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As a note: this is the worst and most self-indulgent kind of blog entry. I am about to rant about the good old days. I am groaning right along with you already, just thinking about it. My Bride and I have disagreed for years over what the kids are supposed to call other adults. It started with our own family. Growing up, I called all my aunts and uncles by their first name. It wasn't "Uncle Raland." It was just "Raland." Except with my aunt Paulette. We called her "Aunt Potty." Partly because one of the cousins came up with that as a toddler-friendly version of her name. And because it was "Potty." And that's a name worth copying. My Bride, on the other hand, grew up in a large Filipino family, where every relation and close family friend gets a title. Older brother Fred? That's Kuya Fred to you, kiddo. Aunts, Uncles, next door neighbors, the guy at the grocery store that you've known for years, they all get an honorific tacked in front of their name. What started to confuse me was that your aunt became your kid's grandmother, and your uncle is your kid's grandfather. Or at least they were all called by the same title. But there's something generational and respectful about the habit, and while it confuses my white-bread mind, I can get behind it. So I didn't object too much when my brother became "Uncle Paul" rather than just plain old "Paul." (But my head spun when one of her cousins called me "kuya" for the first time). So you'd think, based on this, that my Bride would be the more traditional between the two of us about extending this type of traditional social honorifics to those outside our family circle, wouldn't you? Yeah. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong. Not to make myself sound too old (though I know that's hopeless when I start any sentence with "when I was young") but when I was young (see? told you) my parents were insistent on a few rules for how I spoke to a grown up. It was always "Mr" or "Mrs", and it had better be "Sir" and "Ma'am" unless I was real confident that the person wouldn't mind. And even then, it's a good idea. I tried initially to pass on the first part at least (the Mr/Mrs thing), but my bride wrinkled her nose and informed me I was being old fashioned. Excuse me? This is the same woman who told me that part of why she married me was my vaguely old-fashioned Southern upbringing (except, you know, without the Jim Crow, but with the grits and banjo). I thought this was a good thing. Apparently it is, but only in the retro-can-be-cool kind of way that makes keeping a few last giant pandas around in captivity desirable, but not really worth the effort of getting them to successfully propagate. We've grudgingly compromised on "Mr First Name" when introducing to a family friend. Though the kids do have to call their teachers by Mr/Mrs Last Name. Which is likely enough to keep my father, the Surgeon from clawing his way out of the grave and (politely) haunting me for my failings in the matter. But barely. Just barely. I guess maybe I am old-fashioned. I think the demise of these little courtesies has something to do with the triumph of email over the letter. Remember when writing a note entailed selecting just the right weight and grade of fine paper for your letter, crafting a greeting of "Dear so-and-so" and spending a paragraph or two on meaningless pleasantries before you got on to the topic at hand? Now, with email, the quick note is the rule - Maybe you put the name at the beginning, maybe you just whack them over the head with the subject at hand right up front like a face-smack with an electronic shovel. Do you put 'sincerely' or 'warm regards'? Or do you just hastily jot your name - or worse - a single initial - at the bottom because typing those few extra characters would take an extra three seconds which in the name of all that's holy you do not have? I've sulkily retreated into the corner of my panda cage to cling to "sir" and "ma'am" and plot the resurgence of manners as a social requisite and quietly mourn the slow demise of old fashioned etiquette. My Bride occasionally stops by to pet me on the head and replenish my pile stationary. Someone asked me why I don't 'text' with my cell phone the other day. I muttered something about "damn kids" and "turn that awful music down." Now get off my lawn before I call the police. Sincerely, Cranky Old Man
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One year young

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Dear Squirmy - One year ago today, in a oh-so-slightly gritty NHS hospital, you made me woozy. Since then, you've been doing your best to make sure I stay on my toes. People told me there was going to be a difference between having a girl and having a boy. Something that went beyond the differences in plumbing, I mean. I'm not sure if it's the Y chromosome, or just you exerting your individuality, but there are times that you couldn't be more different than your sister. She's always treasured her sleep, for example, even when she was only a few months old. You seem to be convinced that you're going to miss something incredible and fun if you close your eyes for one second more than you have to. It doesn't matter what time you fall asleep - which you fight long and hard enough to end up asleep in some of the most awkward positions - you're up shortly after The Crack Of Freaking Dawn. Which you definitely did not inherit from me, though my Father, The Surgeon would have been proud. Also, she had monkey-like fur from birth. You are still bald as an egg. I'm not sure it's related to the sleep thing, but it might be. You are, in some ways, the stereotype of Boy-dom. Rough-and-tumble, like getting dirty, complete with random bruises, snips, snails and puppy dog tails, etc. Your sister was always the quiet, serious, contemplative one (and still is). You're vocal, playful and stick-your-head-in-the-lion's-mouth inquisitive. This, son, you get from your mother. You'll learn to your future dismay that I refuse to put my hand in the Sea World touch tank to stroke the star fish, even though little Jenny from 2nd grade just showed me it was safe. Why? Not because it's gross. Gross I can do. I've seen worse things taking up space in your diaper than anything in the Sea World menagerie. No. It's because I just know that I'm going to be attacked by the first recorded man-eating star fish. And I don't want to go down in history as that guy. Also, a beach is like Shoney's Big Boy Buffet sampler for sharks. Don't expect me to go swimming in the ocean with you for more than five minutes at a time. You want brave, call your mother. Your sister and I are going to be the ones sitting on the beach, reading a book, with 911 on speed dial. But most of all, you're just happy. You smile more than any kid I've ever seen. Even when you're upset because I won't let you backwash into my beer (one time I gave you a taste, now I swear you can pick the sound of me getting the bottle opener out of the drawer out of all the household background noise. By the time I make it to the fridge, you're at my feet with an expectant look and a wedge of lime), all it takes is a quick toss in the air and a hug, or 5 minutes of steam-rolling over the dog and wrapping her ears into a pretzel-shaped hat, and you're all smiles. And every time I see you smile, it takes my breath away all over again. You bring joy into our lives. Thank you for being a Grady.
Happy Birthday. Love, Daddy
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