Reason for living

My wife and I haven't gotten much sleep lately. Sophie, who is coming up on 6 weeks old, is sleeping only a few hours at a clip. And much of the time, when she does sleep, one of us is holding her. 

We sleep when we can, but for this nightshifter, I've seen more daylight hours than usual. I'd forgotten that many people start their day at 7 a.m.; I was reminded by the sound of the traffic while singing "This Old Man" to Sophie. 

But here's the thing: I don't mind the lack of sleep. Every parent goes through it. Sooner or later, Sophie will sleep more than two hours at a time. 

It occurred to me last night as I held her against me while we rocked in the rocking chair: I'm the happiest I've been in my life.

In my arms was my little girl. She is my reason for living. And, as she wiggled a bit and gurgled before snuggling in against my chest, I realized there's no better reason. 

SMELL IT!!!

When I was little, there were times I'd be sitting on the couch watching television with my younger brothers, Nick and Steve.

We were silly, juvenile boys, so when a commercial would come on, invariably one of the three of us would take his foot and shove it toward the face of the nearest brother and yell, "SMELL IT!!!"

As we've gotten older, we've talked and joked about those times. And when Nick had a little boy of his own, of course Uncle Steve and I taught him "SMELL IT!"

We received frowns teaching it to Devin and warnings not to teach it to his sister, Ezralynn, or my daughter, Sophie. 

We'll see.

But poor Devin on Sunday broke his leg. He's in a cast that starts above his knee and will be for a good portion of the summer.

Nick, though, found a way to make things a little bright. On the foot of the cast, he used a magic marker to scribble, "SMELL IT!!"

Then he took a picture and texted it to me. I laughed aloud.

I talked to Devin over the phone later that day. 

"Did you get the picture my dad sent?"

"Yes, I laughed," I told Devin.

"Hey, Uncle Joe," he said.

You could hear the mischievous lilt in his voice, like a commercial had just come on the television. 

"Yes, Devin?" I replied.

"SMELL IT!!!"

You can't always get what you want

I was voter No. 237 in Precinct 1-2 of South Abington Twp. on Tuesday.

The woman handing out the ballots, noting that I was registered non-partisan said, “Oh, we only have 35 people like you” in the precinct.

She said I was No. 8 to vote.

I told her there was no way I was going to miss this vote. It’s one of only two times in my life I’ve been able to vote in a primary.

Thanks to the Lackawanna County commissioners and a local businessman, there were some countywide questions to vote on.

Ignoring the politics behind the ballot questions (let’s just suffice to say it seems to me to be more Lackawanna County politics as usual, just in different clothing), there’s the bigger issue of not being able to cast my ballot for judge, sheriff and a host of other county row offices, as well as a few municipal and school board seats.

The simple answer is, of course, I’m not a Republican or a Democrat, so I don’t get to pick who represents that party in the general election come November.

But the real answer is, actually, I’m not being allowed to truly pick my representatives in government.

Why?

Because, in a lot of these small races, the only candidates running are in one party. By the time November rolls around, I only have one choice.

The other reason has to do more with the demographics of primaries.

Ask any political science major and you’ll hear about how the “base” of the party turns out to vote at primaries. 

Total countywide turnout is usually no more than 20 percent. That means the reasonable, rational candidates are shunted aside and the extremist, who matches the base’s extremist views, are the ones that make it on to the next round.

Then, who's left for me to vote for?

Partisans.

I don’t want partisans.

I’m tired of partisans.

I want compromise. That’s the way government works. In fact, loyal patriots, that’s the ONLY way it’s worked since 1787.

Why?

I answer that by quoting the great 20th Century philosopher, Mick Jagger:

"You can’t always get what you want. But if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.”

josephdeinlein@gmail.com   Sign out

View in: Mobile | Desktop

©2012 Google

Show me that smile again

Today, my four-week-old daughter, Sophie, smiled at me. 

She looked right into my eyes and cracked a grin. And it lasted a while, too. 

Now, I realize it was probably gas. The professionals say that babies aren't able to smile for happy reasons till they're a few months. 

However, I had a friend tell me her kids logged smiles at six weeks. 

Then again, I tend to smile when gas comes out of me, too. 

Whatever the reason, I'm marking this day down. My kid, whom I helped create, did a very real human thing, beyond just pooping or crying or sleeping (or not sleeping).

My baby smiled at me. 

I feel both awesome and humbled at the same time. 

No smoking aloud

The printed photograph was of a sign that had a cigarette with a slash through it.

The sign read, “No smoking aloud.”

“Shhhhh,” I said, as I pinned it up in my work space.

If nothing else, working for a newspaper offers the opportunity to laugh at linguistic and grammatical mishmash.

As with all human beings, I am far from innocent when it comes to such errors. When typing quickly, I’ve confused “it’s” and “its” and “your” with “you’re.”

And I’ve rightly taken my lumps.

That doesn't stop me from giggling at the quirks of language. It has also made me realize just how important knowing the basics of language, grammar and syntax really are.

Here’s an absurd example that’s made the rounds:

"Let’s eat, Grandma," is not the same as "Let’s eat Grandma." Punctuation saves lives.

I point this out because, recently, a family member or two has taunted me for being a “grammar nazi.” I take some umbrage, as I’m not some sort of tyrant about it.

Believe me, if I was asked to diagram a sentence, I’m not sure I could do it. Maybe when I was in sixth grade.

My concern has more to do with knowing my family members have benefited from an upbringing similar to mine, and I’m sure our parents would be sad to know the money they spent on 12 years of Catholic schooling bounced like a brick falling off a highway overpass.

A basic understanding of the rules is all I’m asking for; I’ve been trained to write for the masses at a fourth-grade level in hopes everyone will understand what I’m trying to say. The least the masses can do is live up to that fourth-grade education.

And maybe try to take some pride in their upbringing.

Newspapering is an abusive relationship

I’ve often said that the newspaper business is an abusive relationship.

We love it. We defend it. We live for it.

But it beats us down. It treats us badly. It slowly kills us.

Yet, every day, we go back in.

I once had a journalism professor, Larry Lain, say that it’s the newsprint itself. The ink that ends up staining your fingers seeps into your bloodstream.

In truth, he tried to get away from the industry. He started out at a small Midwestern newspaper, but grew tired of the crazy schedule. He became a high school English teacher.

The principal made him adviser of the student newspaper.

Then he decided to get his master’s and his doctorate in communication. 

After becoming a professor at the University of Dayton, he was made adviser of the student newspaper.

“You can’t get away,” he told us the day the 2000-2001 Flyer News staff gathered for the first time.

Little did I realize, as I took on the mantle of editor in chief that year, he was right.

I’ve tried to leave it. I’ve applied for jobs outside of the industry.

But then I get assigned a story that sends me hunting down experts and documents. Or the emergency dispatcher comes across the scanner calling out a three-alarm structure fire. Or, as of late, I’m told to design the cover of the newspaper, with popping graphics, splashy photos and prosaic prose.

That’s why I disagree with Dr. Lain about the ink being what gets in you.

I think it’s the instant gratification.

I pour my soul into a piece of work, then I have to wait less than 24 hours to see the results. And not only do I see the results, but tens of thousands of others across the area get to see it, too.

I love it.

My work day starts when the sun is setting and isn’t over until there’s an hour or less till last call. My schedule changes weekly, depending on who else on the copy desk has vacation, or if there’s an election or major catastrophe that requires all hands to be on deck.

The pay... well, it’s better than it was when I was a reporter, but it certainly doesn’t match my friends who are engineers and actuaries and college professors. I’m certainly the poorest of my college friends, financially.

But I love this job and I keep hoping it will love me back.

There are a few flickers.

The boss says, “Good job with that story.” A source sends you a thank you note. The publishers provide free food.

And I’ll be back at the desk tomorrow, ready to take on the next assignment.