A Squeamish Male

Before I get into the central theme of this article, I have to assert that I consider myself a pretty “tough” guy when it comes to physical confrontation, in sports for example. Growing up with four brothers, whom I loved as a child and love to this day, you learn how to stand tough in confrontation, and that includes fighting. I have been known to fight much older, bigger opponents, as a youth over the honor of my mother when they called her a derogatory name, for example. I played football and wrestling in high school and literally never feared my opponent, because, regardless of their size I just always considered myself tougher, and certainly more aggressive; always feeling that I would “win” any battle.

Having said that I have to say quite honestly I don’t like to change diapers. Actually I don’t like to have to deal with anything that comes out of a child from either direction. I am not going to mince words, vomit is a +10 on the disgusting scale (that is where +1 is not disgusting at all, and +10 is just, well, nasty, vile disgusting) I’ll give “poop” a +7, but it is still up there.

I remember during the raising of our own three children (two boys and a girl), that I only had to clean up vomit once. My wife was a great “nurse”. She fairly leapt to the challenge when that deed occurred, certainly having great concern for her child (the child was hers for the moment, and she could own it,) and she would bark out orders like, “Get me a bucket of water with some Lysol cleaner”, or “I need a couple of rags here”, etc. I was more than happy to be her “stand off to the side” concerned, but silent, distant-helper.

I remember very vividly, as if it were yesterday, when our oldest son Michael (he was probably 8 years old) was sick with the flu, and so was my poor wife. We were all in bed at night and we heard from down the hall that signal from the child’s room, “oh-oh-oh!” Julie was so feverishly delirious (I knew how she felt, having just recovered from the same disease) that she physically and mentally could not move. I knew I had to move fast. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me to get Michael on his feet and scurry to the bathroom.

Once there, I figured we were home free because the toilet was in sight. At that moment, however, he stopped as if possessed, and just like Linda Blair in the movie, ""The Exorcist (minus the head moving on his neck), he stepped in 360 degree circle vomiting everywhere in the bathroom and missing the toilet altogether. I remember leaving him briefly to go into our bedroom to quietly say to Julie that Michael didn’t make it to the toilet. Julie could barely lift her head off the pillow and whispered, “Pete you’re going to have to deal with it.”

I got Michael cleaned up and changed into new pajamas and to bed. I returned to the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my nose and mouth, and squinting my eyes (because I didn’t have safety goggles) and cleaned up, what I considered the equivalent of a radioactive, nuclear spill.

Now I have more grandkids on the way. Graham is our newest grandson and our daughter and son-in-law's first child.  He is four months old and lives with his parents in Texas. My oldest grandson, Gabriel, is four-years old. I was able to avoid the whole diaper thing for two and one-half years. Whenever he, as a baby, had a “movement”, I also had an deft movement out of the room to “do something important” as Grandma or Gabriel’s Mom or Dad took care of Gabriel's diaper.

I LOVE my grandkids. My grandson Gabriel knows it (as will Graham, as he comes to know me better) and so does the rest of the family. I love to play games, go to the park, watch videos, sled, build snowmen, etc. I even love to baby-sit. But when Gabriel was two and a half , my wife was going to the office with Michael and Rose, so I was the designated baby-sitter for the morning. Gabriel and I had a blast watching his favorite videos and “chilling” on the couch with a bowl of Grandpa’s famous, popcorn.

Gabriel was fairly adept at doing the bathroom thing on his own now. All I had to do was get him into the bathroom, lower his drawers and place him on his potty chair, and “Voila”, everything was accomplished. If there was nothing “solid” in the toilet, we reversed the process:  up with the drawers, wash the hands and we were done. I even remembered that Mom and Dad gave Gabriel an M&M chocolate candy piece for a “Job Well Done” treat. Gabriel would ask me for two M&M’s and I, being the model of restraint, said, “Only one.”

Thirty minutes later, Gabriel would announce, “I have to go to the bathroom”. Into the bathroom to repeat the above described process, only this time there was nothing in the toilet. After the washing of the hands was over Gabriel asked, “Grandpa, may I have an M&M?” I said, “No, you didn’t do anything” (I knew the game he was playing now—I wasn’t born yesterday). Twenty minutes later, “Grandpa I have to go to the bathroom.” I said, “Are you going to DO something this time?” “Yes,” came the reply.

We repeated the process once again, and success, actual “poop” this time. I had to add wiping his tiny tush to the ordeal, but that wasn’t too traumatizing (for me that is). An EXTRA special washing of hands followed all of this, and then, “Grandpa, may I have an M&M?” I said, “Yes, and you may have two this time.” It took awhile because he couldn’t decide what his favorite colors would be.

When Mom and Dad and Grandma returned for lunch, I told them about our great morning. I announced that I even remembered to give Gabriel an M&M for a reward for successful bathroom accomplishments. My son Michael said to me, “Dad, Gabriel was ‘playing you’.” He continued, “We haven’t given Gabriel ANY M&M’s as a reward for the bathroom for the last six months.”

OK, Grandpa was “out of touch” here. And, now, by Christmas we will have everyone home. Gabriel will be almost 5 years old, Graham will be 10 months old, and we will have Elijah, who is to be Gabriel’s little brother, and Tony and Erin will also have a baby (the same age as Elijah, four months); as yet un-named. What a great time we will have! Maybe there will be a little snow on the ground, or ice on the sidewalk that Grandpa can deal with when the “diaper detail” begins.

The Committal

“If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to serve as a horrible warning.”Catherine Aird

I saw this statement on a plaque, which I did not buy, in a shop of my birthplace, Stoughton, Wisconsin. I laughed when I saw it, and realized there are aspects of probably everyone’s life, if accentuated, that could serve as a “horrible warning”. Hopefully, when we die, people will remember the good things we did; not the “stuff” that creates the horrible warning.

There are enough “horrible warnings” in every family that will keep you titillated when you hear the stories (and I heard some from my aunts and uncles that certainly raised my eyebrows, once or twice). This is the opposite, or flip side, to that kind of story. If you like, need, or desire a good feeling at the end of the day, read on.

When my wife Julie and I attended the committal of my father’s ashes to be buried in Stoughton, Wisconsin, next to the ashes of my mother who died only four months earlier, I was with my three brothers. We all gave “testimony” about Dad and the significance of his life.

My brother Jim (named after our father James Lloyd Paulson) said most aptly, that his parents had been married for nine months more than his own life of sixty-two years. My brother’s conception happened as a honeymoon event of my parents wedding togetherness. My brother was born on February 28, 1948 and my parents were married on June 7, 1947, and if you count the months until Jim’s birth it equals eight (nine months for a pregnancy).

My mother always said, “That we were married on June 7 (the beginning of the month), and Jim was born on February 28 (the end of the month, and that he was due in March) therefore he was a ‘honeymoon’ baby”. We accept that point, and “who really cares”, as they say. He was conceived in love and raised in love, and that is all that counts. Jim said, “…and now they (Mom and Dad) are together again”, referring to the final resting of Dad’s remains next to Mom’s ashes. As my wife often says, “This was their (his, her) story”.

All the brothers, James, John, Peter and Philip, spoke the words at the graveside service. Many spoke of the significance of Dad’s faith and the importance of the legacy he brought to many as a United Methodist minister. Dad loved God and Christ, his wife Vina, his boys, family, continual reading of books, knowledge, discourse and discussion of ideas, the ocean (any body of water), the sand, his new cars, movies, and laughter. It was uplifted, in many accounts, that Dad (and Mom) had faith in God and Christ, and that it was important to persons having a vibrant existence in this life, to know that there was a true hope in an eternal life after this earthly time was ended.

But there is a legacy that continues, for us that go on in this life, which must be uplifted which is hugely important. That is the love between the remaining brothers. Dad and Mom loved us of each equally. Yes, we are typical of any psychological discussion about “birth order” in that our oldest brother was to be the most responsible, the middle children “scrambled for attention”, and the youngest seemed to have more privilege, etc.

However, we have transcended the norm, severed the grip from the obvious, and are freed to continue a relationship together which has been forged by love. This love of brothers began by caring for each other since we were children. Jim was our “protector”. He would mete out “justice” to anyone who would be lording over another younger brother with a vengeance.

John and I were the best buddies because we were so close in age. John was always more athletic; better at everything (from rolling newspapers, to wrestling, strength endurance, etc.). We challenged each other, but he was always gracious and magnanimous in my defeat.

Phil was the endurance expert. He became the epitome of athletics. He would not yield to any pain inflicted to him by an older brother by ever yelling, “Uncle” (a word you would utter to let the other person know that you had surrendered to their will). Phil was strong; we all came to respect that.

And through it all, when we do disagree on something, we have argued, bartered, screamed at each other (that is the way of the Paulson family; we are a loud bunch), and then when we finish an argument, it is OVER. Whenever we have an argument it is over an issue; it is never directed at each other personally. We have learned to be respectful of each other as a great person of worth, talent, and independence. At the end of it all we are still brothers. We respect each other. We know each other’s strength. And above all we love each other.

We don't argue much. When we encounter each other, we hug. We are huggers, and we learned that from our Grandfather Carsten Paulson. When we were teenaged boys, and reluctant to show affection at family gatherings, our grandfather would shake our hand, and then pull you close to give you a hug, and say, "Come here!", and squeeze you in an embrace as if to say undoubtedly, "I love you so much!"

But, we learned to love each other, that is EVERY brother, from our parents. What a legacy! Thank you, Dad and Mom. The committal service is over, but you will live on visibly with your sons, the brothers. We will try our best to live up to what you taught us, and do our best, by example, to pass it on to others.