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A year and a half of parenting instills confidence. You know your child’s schedule. You know your child’s cry. You think you know when to comfort. You think you know when to enforce. Still, a little thing like putting your kid to sleep can shake you up a bit.

The wife and I spent the last hour and a half putting our child to sleep tonight. It was a constant struggle of tears and stress for the child and parents both respectively and consecutively.

I know what you are thinking, particularly if you are a parent yourself. An hour and a half doesn’t sound like that long. Kids act up. It happens. Well, it doesn’t happen to us. At least, it doesn’t happen all that often and it is very rarely a fight of any kind. Out of character is an easy description. Strange alien child with a spinning head is another.

We started by going through the checklist. The diaper feels fine. He doesn’t appear to have a temperature. He ate like a beast during dinner. Oragel was already administered as he attempted to gnaw off his hand earlier in the day.

We then went through his list of possible secondary objectives. He wouldn’t be watching a movie on mommy’s bed tonight. That’s a treat, not a habit. Rocking him to bed, normally no-no in the Wootton household, was an option we partially offered. It was accepted until his back hit the sheets.

We then worried about the storm. Thunder and lightning accompanied his attempts to sleep. Somewhere nearby was getting hammered but the fury wasn’t overhead. Rumblings and faded lightshows rarely bother him. I’d be surprised if that was the problem but you never know. He might have inherited his mother’s fear of God’s bowling practices.

I held him and brought him to the window, opening the blinds so he could see outside. “See the lightning? It’s like fireworks. See the trees swaying in the wind? Hear the thunder? It rumbles.”

He didn’t look worried as I carried him back to his crib. He twisted himself to my shoulder and let out an audible burp. His eyes closed. His problem wasn’t food or a diaper. It wasn’t a fear outside his window or hidden motive he couldn’t communicate. It was gas.

He turned over and went to sleep. I watched him rest, wondering how much and how little I really know.

Wow. Quiet was quite a good description. You can almost hear the crickets chirping in the distance as the tumbleweeds blow by my poor little saloon on the web. This space has been rather empty as of late. I’ve been gone, sometimes in mind and sometimes in body. Perhaps I should explain.

Let’s start with the body part:
I’ve been on vacation. During the week that crossed the boundary between the months of June and July, the Wootton family ventured to Canada. However, my retreat to another country lasted only a single week, not nearly long enough to explain my extended absence.

That leaves a lot of gaps. What did I do with the remaining time? Did I turn into an international man of mystery? Was I bitten by a radioactive spider, only to discover that I was suddenly a human sticky note? Had I climbed Everest? Had I suffered an emotional breakdown? As always, the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

See, my vacation served as an interesting marker of intense activity. Work has been crushing my schedule and, in turn, any opportunity to write in this space.

I spent the week before vacation largely behind the glass of my office windows, feverishly typing away at my keyboard. Long days became long evenings. Long evenings became mornings.

While normally distressing, this type of workload makes me even more uncomfortable when smacked up against a vacation. My preoccupation with my occupation puts undue strain on the wife. She’s the one left to do all the little things that are required to ship a family of three on a week long vacation to a neighboring country. Glorious tasks such as taking the dog to the kennel, collecting food for the trip, packing, and heading to the city to grab birth certificates fall on her plate. I’m left with little time to help.

In turn, I miss out on some of the anticipation. Part of the fun of a vacation is counting down the days until you leave. Marking the calendar makes it feel like you have some place to go. You aren’t rushed out the door at the last minute.

Since returning from our neighbor in the North, my workload has not decreased in a significant way. There’s more work to do and I’ve been working on doing it. I can, however, see the light at the end of the tunnel. It shouldn’t be long before my schedule opens up. It shouldn’t be long before I get my change to decompress from my vacation.

I should mention that the fact that my vacation was sandwiched between two weeks of heavy work didn’t sully the experience at all. I worked, I played, and I worked again. It does, however, mean that my opportunity to blog about it has been delayed. I hope to rectify that in short order.

Things are going to be quiet around here for a couple weeks. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll have some things to talk about when I return. But, then again, probably not.

In today’s news, people can’t seem to keep their mouth shut. We have Jimmy Kimmel cracking a joke about Detroit in this corner. We have Larry Bird talking about race in basketball in the other. I’m not going to touch Bill Parcell’s comments, other than to say the “Pearl Harbor plays” might be a much better name.

Let’s start with Jimmy. My problem with the outrage caused by his comments about Detroit’s flair for celebrations is that I found them pretty funny.

C’mon. It is. Isn’t it?

I’m not a fan of the man — an interview he did on my local radio station a while back didn’t sit well with me — but you have to give someone credit when they rip off a good one. It’s not like the joke isn’t based on fact. It is inappropriate and it is a little off color but that’s comedy for you. If all humor were prim and proper we wouldn’t have blond jokes. How could we survive without blond jokes?

Mr. Kimmel shouldn’t be surprised about the backlash caused by his comments – a Detroit affiliate yanked him off the air. That’s what happens when you pooch your chances at a national spotlight. That said, there are places outside of Michigan where a joke can be funny. His apology proves some of them may be from his home town of L.A.

Mr. Bird, it’s your turn. Let’s chat about race.

Magic Johnson, I should mention, didn’t shy away from basically agreeing as well.

Bird did, of course, catch some flak about this. But, in this case at least, people seem to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a legitimate star and earned the right to speak his mind, particularly when he takes great pains to balance his comments about race. Oh, and he’s right.

Well, he’s right to a point. As Phil Taylor of Sports Illustrated points out, members of an underrepresented group can make quite a splash in unfamiliar territory. Think Tiger Woods. Think Eminem.

I’m of the opinion that an important part of being a fan is the ability to fantasize about being on the court, field, or rink. I could do that better. I would have caught that ball. I would have made that basket. There are other factors, mind you, but race is a significant one.

Where Bird’s reasoning falls short is in the current game of basketball itself. If I want to see someone shoot less than 50%, I’ll pick up a ball myself. If I want to watch an 18 year old learn the game of basketball, I’ll go visit my local high school. The game is plodding at best and full of interruptions at worst. The pro game needs to match college game in terms of excitement and I haven’t even mentioned what it really lacks: stars.

I can’t say that a white Michael Jordon wouldn’t make me more interested in basketball. I’d bet it would. But I can say that the game needs some legitimate stars that rise above the others. Greatness has its own way of generating excitement about a sport, no matter the color, race, or creed.

A couple of scientists recently pointed out that the dirty bomb supposedly planned by a terrorist suspect would have been a complete failure. They then mention what he could have done to correct his mistakes. My response is typical. Shhhh. Let’s not read the how-to guides to them, gents.

A couple months ago, I spent the entire day gaming. When I say the entire day, I mean it. I started at about 9:00 am and finished up around 11:00 pm. I took short breaks for lunch and dinner but nearly every minute of my day was spent staring at my computer monitor. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one; about twelve guys stationed to all around me did the very same thing. See, I was invited to my very first lan party. My activities were encouraged.

While LAN gaming surely isn’t the necessity it once was — broadband access can make it seem like thousands are right there in your living room (hey no crumbs on the couch, please) — it’s still a worthy exercise. The camaraderie of close quarters provides an experience that the solitude of my office desk cannot reproduce. Something can be said about hearing the cries of your victims from across the room.

What surprised me about the event (outside of the absolutely incredible setup the host of the party possessed — network cables and power wires seem to lurch from every crevice of his basement) was how several moments of the day have become solidified memories. I’ll attempt to describe a couple here. If you can imagine a room lit only by the glow of computer monitors, the sounds of running computer fans, and occasional scream of anguish while you read below, so much the better.

My most prized moment of the morning sprung from a match of the Battlefield 1942 mod, Desert Combat. After some intense battles on the Weapon Bunkers map, our team was falling on hard luck. Two of the map objectives, which involved blowing up bunkers of weapons, had been destroyed, leaving only the last objective, a third bunker, left standing. The problem was that our tickets — and tickets are what determines the winner and loser of the match — were rapidly approaching zero. I raced to the third bunker, with very little hope that anything could be done. Upon arrival, I rapidly laid explosives, noting that the bunker was already smoking and heavily damaged. My immediate problem was that much of my team had been wiped out by staunch defenses and I could see the enemy approaching from all sides. I would never make it down from the bunker alive to flip the switch and time was very nearly up. I made a snap decision and pulled the plunger, sending both the bunker and myself sky high. We won the match by a single ticket.

Another Desert Combat map left me with memories of a furious tank battle. Throughout the match, two of teammates and I fought to keep control of one of the map’s two capture points. It was a long battle and the hectic activity required to raise a proper defense gave me a sniff of that “in the bunker” feeling. The three of us shouted locations of mined entrances at each other. One of us was always directing the others towards the direction of the latest attack.

At one point we were all ousted nearly simultaneously, leaving the base in the enemy’s hands and the three of us respawning in front of pretty new tanks back at our home base. Those three tanks left the base at full speed in an effort to reclaim our lost prize. The result was a glorious exchange of gunfire as all three tanks rolled into and then recaptured the lost base. The only missing was the music from the “Ride of the Valkeries”.

Unreal Tournament’s Leviathan provided the parting shot of the party, at least from my perspective. This vehicle seats about 5 and is pretty powerful even when used for a leisurely drive around the battlefield. Its main weapon — which must be deployed in a special sequence, leaving it immobilized, is something to behold. I wasn’t prepared for the massive explosion that could erupt from this lumbering beast. Neither was the other team.

All in all, the event was a blast and something I very much hope I get a chance to repeat. If there was any doubt, gaming is better as a community experience, especially without the convenience that the internet provides. It’s even better when you control the Leviathan.

While sitting by the campfire at Cherrystone Campground in Cheriton,Virginia (found along the Eastern Shore, on that little piece of Virginia found to the East of the Chesapeake Bay), I got the distinct feeling that I wasn’t camping, really. There was a fire at my feet and an empty beer by my side but something was amiss. The campground was too alive, particularly after the sun had long ago settled behind the bay.

The occasional engine of a monster truck sounded off a few rows over. The family across the road from us had no clue how to work their car alarm, leaving its serenade for all to hear over and over and over). The campsites were tightly packed, with few patches of land and few trees to separate one neighbor from the next. It didn’t feel particularly private and it didn’t feel much like camping.

A closer look at the pamphlet might have revealed the problem. The word “Resort” is prominently displayed and resort might be a much more fitting description. After all, there were four pools. A pool for kids (incredibly cold), two pools for everyone (incredibly crowded), and pool for adults (closed at 6:00 pm, incredibly early) were scattered about the campground. The camp store was the size of Walmart (without Walmart’s prices, of course) and sported beer (this was actually a good thing). There were boats to rent and a fish-cleaning pavilion to bring your catch. The pavilion wasn’t hard to locate; simply follow the smell carried by the morning wind.

The positive parts of the trip were brought with me. In order, that would be my family, my friends, and my DVD player. From what I understand, A Mighty Wind is just as entertaining under trees as it is in my living room. Good company can make up for a lot and, in this case, it was needed.

I should mention that the trip home was pretty entertaining. We would spend the morning and afternoon navigating Memorial Day traffic north to Baltimore and over the Bay Bridge. A traffic jam in Easton was solved by my lovely wife. A 50 mph trip around Easton is a whole lot better than a 5 mph trip through Easton. A second detour around traffic led us a community lake, complete with ducks for my son to chase. The two portable potties served their purpose after a long drive. It’s odd to say I enjoyed the trip home. My son was an absolute angel strapped down in his car seat and the detours we took not only solved our traffic problems, they provided welcome diversions to a long, 5 hour trip home.

It shouldn’t be surprising that the wife and I didn’t think much of the Cherrystone Family Camping Resort. Every thought of Cherrystone brings sounds of car alarms to our ears. My gracious offer to teach our neighbors exactly how to use their alarm was ignored, leaving a ringing first impression that serves as an unwelcome warning against a return visit.

For the record, the wife and I spotted two cicadas on our house earlier this week. This officially marks the end of my cicada-free lifestyle but, apparently, it also seems to mark the end of them.

The wife surprised me with one of these when I walked in the door from work today. I was quite pleased. No, it doesn’t smell wonderful and, no, I don’t need a vase or water to keep it alive. But, you know, flowers of the pedal kind aren’t my thing. Cool pieces of technology — now that’s some horticulture I can rally around.

Word to the wise: know how to keep your man happy. Women aren’t the only ones who appreciate the unsoliticed gift now and then, even if it requires a TV to bloom properly.

The wife and I attended the annual Wine in the Woods a couple of weekends ago and we noticed that Brood X was just beginning to make themselves known. Shells were beginning to litter the trees as the restless insects streched their legs for the first time in 17 years. I returned home and inspected the tree in my backyard. No cicadas were found.

Shortly afterwards, I began to hear the serenade of the cicadas as I pulled up at work in the morning. I remember the first morning I heard them clearly. The weather was nice and the T-tops of my car were in the trunk. The spaceship landing behind the building made an impressive amount of noise. I returned home in the evening and listened for their mating calls. There was nothing to hear.

This weekend the wife, my child, and I attended the birthday party of a friend’s daughter in Howard County. A walk to their newly purchased swing set brought the crunches of shells under my feet. A sea of red eyes stared at me from the treetops. A multitude of shells cut Cambell’s playtime a touch short. I didn’t fancy him playing in a sea of bugs. I returned home anxious for their arrival. The woods nearby remain quiet. My trees remain bare.

At first, I was a little disappointed by this turn of events. In an odd sort of way, I’ve been looking forwards to seeing the little buggers. I’m a bit fascinated by the phenomenon. I remember their last visit faintly. The prospect of bugs (friendly bugs, mind you) on a biblical proportion sounded interesting.

But that’s begun to change (and not just because of the first hand experience I received at my friend’s home). I’m finding it strangely silly that I’ve seen literally zero cicadas at my house. It’s like there is some kind of protective basket around our neighborhood, shielding us from the plague that much of the neighboring counties are experiencing.

I go to the mall, I hear them rustling. I open the windows on the beltway and I can hear them calling. I come home and all is quiet.

I’m starting to think that Glen Burnie might want to place some advertisements in the Sun and maybe change their name over the summer months. “Tired of cicadas? We’re right next door.”

We’ve wondered about the cause. Our neighborhood was built in the seventies, so it couldn’t have been a recent turnover of the soil. We’ve joked about the possibilities, including scenarios with government officials walking around in white lap coats (Come to think of it, why does the mailman wear a radiation suit?). But I’m mostly perplexed. I’ve started to invite friends over just to offer proof.

Of course, we are braced for the inevitable. We don’t expect this string of luck to last. They’ll be by soon enough, more than happy to take over one of the last vestiges of the state. While it lasts, though, I’ll continue to think of it as a reverse theme park. In this case, the thrills are outside the gates.