Hurricane Earl currently has Cape Cod in its crosshairs and the impending pandemonium of this peninsula’s populace is perturbing indeed. Not to mention the barometric pressure is causing severe alliteration as well. People mob gas stations and supermarkets, buying up all the water and non-perishable food items as if they’re headed into a bunker for the next two years. Some stay at their oceanfront homes and tempt fate. Others board up their windows and flee for higher ground. A small percentage of lunatics actually enters the churning sea to surf.

And some of us, well…some of us really go nuts.

Happy Hurricane everyone.

For more than a month now she’s just been sick as hell. She feels nauseous, her asthma is horrendous, she’s sore and she can’t sleep at night. Because she’s stubborn as all fuck a trooper she didn’t want to go to the doctor’s to see what’s wrong. But finally, worn down from all of her ailments, I convinced her to go so we could both face whatever is afflicting her.

Well, today we found out. And the news is startling to say the least. The good news is the doctor identified what’s wrong with her, but the bad news is aplenty. I’m not a doctor or a medical expert, so please excuse my lay terms, but she’ll be facing a variety of complications. In a nutshell, she’s suffering from an internal parasite that is affecting all aspects of her life. It is literally feeding off her insides, making organs such as heart work twice as hard. It has a host of other side effects as well. She’s been neurologically impaired quite a bit because of this. She has memory lapses like you read about, and her hand-eye coordination (which wasn’t great to begin with) is affected as well. Not to mention the doctor said she can expected swollen joints, and significant weight gain in general.

To be honest, I was floored. Hearing the news that your wife is being eaten away from the inside by a parasitic force that is slowly debilitating her body and mind is, well, alarming.

And absolutely fantastic!

Yup, that’s right. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to give you the first glimpse at Baby G 2.0. We’re 7 weeks along, the heartbeat is nice and strong and I couldn’t be happier. MJ couldn’t be sicker, but her pregnancy with Will went way too smoothly so she was due for some morning sickness. He or she (we’re not going to find out the sex ahead of time) is due Dec. 31. C’mon New Year’s Baby!!!

But wait, there’s more…

Since you all know nothing in my life happens without some sort of drama, I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you the story of this morning’s ultrasound.

MJ and I are sitting in the waiting room, when I noticed a Barnstable police officer walking around in the back. The office employees had strange looks on their faces. Some appeared tentative, others were laughing but all of them were intently focused on something going on outside my field of vision. And since I’m a reporter, I was not going to just sit there while something interesting was going on.

That’s when one of the women told me it was a raccoon. A raccoon had gotten in through one of the skylights the night before, and terrorized the office. There were raccoon footprints all over the walls, it ate some leftover food, it tore down a curtain in the exam room and it tried to eat “Buddy,” the staff’s beta fish. And then it barricaded itself in one of the doctor’s offices, where it climbed up into a shallow bank of windows near the ceiling and fell asleep.

I promptly swung into action, because I have a nose for news and I know there’s nothing people love more than animal stories, especially when the animal is doing something wacky and quirky.

I interviewed the ultrasound technician, our doctor, the secretaries and the police officer in charge. In fact, I jumped into “reporter mode” so quickly that I temporarily forgot all about MJ who was about to view the heartbeat of our second child for the first time. It wasn’t until I heard “HEY IDIOT, CAN YOU COME IN HERE FOR A SECOND?” that I snapped back to reality and tended to the most important business of all.

But yeah, here’s the story I produced that eventually turned into a front-page package complete with photo and video. Just goes to show, you never know where stories will arise.

And for the record, I’m already nicknaming this kid “Rocky” in honor of our raccoon friend.

Paul Blackmore, Cape Cod Times

Today was a good day!

Today is my mom’s birthday, which gets overshadowed by Mother’s Day every single year. Then when I got married and became a father, her special days were obscured even more by the fact that Mother’s Day became mostly about MJ (and rightfully so). And unfortunately, since I’m pretty broke these days, I don’t have a real gift for her. Which is pretty awful since she gives us EVERYTHING and has since we were kids.

So I’m baking her a cake, which is miraculous because the idea of me baking anything scares most people to death. And maybe there’s something to that because I cooked the cake with olive oil instead of vegetable oil. I thought they were interchangeable. What can I say? I’m no Emeril or PJ at RMDM.

But even though she’d be happy with just seeing her kids, I felt I needed to do a little more. So mom, this blog post is just for you. Happy Birthday and enjoy the list of Things My Mom Taught Me:

“There’s no such thing as being too involved.”

My mom was at every single thing I ever did as a child. I’m not exaggerating either. There isn’t one practice, game, performance or event I can recall that didn’t include my mom. Sure she baked cupcakes, made cookies and did all the usual mom stuff, but she also took it a step further. She drove the bus to my away games in high school. She directed my senior class play, and in a stunning act of nepotism cast me as the lead. She volunteered to chaperone every dance and field trip we had. She found creative ways to help a stressed out, nervous wreck of a kid with math homework. An employer would look at her resume and deduce she took 20 years off, but nothing could be further from the truth. No one has ever worked harder at being a dedicated parent. I got pretty pissy as a teenager because she was around all the time, but now as a parent I see how much good it did me.

“You can never be too corny.”

My mom is cool, but she’s uncool if you know what I mean. As in she’s so gullible and naive and cute that she actually comes around full circle back to cool. And she never hesitated to shower us with love. Not even in front of our friends. She demanded hugs and kisses and refused to let us off the hook when we were teenagers, and giving your mom hugs and kisses was the dorkiest thing a teenage mind could fathom. And even though sometimes she’d get mad because I’d give her all the trouble she could handle, I knew nothing I did would ever cost me her love. And looking back, there’s just no substitute for that kind of reassurance in life. It’s corny, but true.

“Always be on time.”

My mother taught me to always be on time and to value other people’s time. Granted, she accomplished this in a fairly unorthodox manner, because she is and continues to be the most tardy person on the face of the Earth. We were late to everything growing up. My poor brother was late to school 63 times in one term! It might have something to do with the fact that my mom’s cell phone, her watch, her alarm clocks and the clock in the car are all fixed to different times. I’ve never quite figured out the system she’s supposedly using, but I know it doesn’t work. I guess the idea is to set the clock ahead say 10 minutes so you hurry because you think you’re running late. Only when you point this out to my mom she says “It’s OK, that clock is 10 minutes fast.” And then we end up running late. So even though she did it via a circuitous path, my mom is the reason I’m on time or early to every single thing in my life.

“Sacrifice is important.”

I can’t think of too many other people who sacrificed as much as my mom. And it’s not just the big things like being a stay at home parent despite having all the skills in the world to be successful in the workforce. It’s the little things that came with being outnumbered 3 to 1 in the gender department. Take the TV for example. My mom didn’t get to watch anything she wanted. Figure skating, Lifetime, and her favorite movie, The Cutting Edge. We overruled her at every turn in favor of sports and R-rated movies. And when we went on vacation for a week, we’d always get our way for six days, and mom would get one. We liked amusement parks and baseball stadiums. Batting cages, bumper cars, go-carts and everything else boys are into. And we’d go crazy all day long while my mom literally sat there, holding our stuff and watching us. Then, when her one day came, she’d always want to do something like drive through Amish country. And instead of being grateful for our six days and respectful of mom, we’d make sarcastic and snide comments while complaining the entire time. Looking back I’m surprised she didn’t smack us, but I also feel bad we acted like spoiled brats.

So there it is, just a few of many reasons my mom is the shit. I can’t possibly thank her for all she’s done over the years, and all she continues to do now as the World’s Best Grandma. All I can tell her is I appreciate it. Now more than ever. And despite all the teasing and poking fun, I love her and literally have no idea what I’d do without her.

Happy birthday mom.

With the exception of the Derek Zoolander quote, I’m still all those things. But on April 3, 2008, I gained a new and more important identity: Dad.

We didn’t know if you were going to be a boy or a girl when you were born. Well, scratch that. MJ didn’t let the ultrasound technician or the doctors tell us the sex, so technically we didn’t know. But I knew. I knew I was having a son. I was on record from the very start that I’d have a boy and I never wavered. But because we suffered through two miscarriages, I didn’t really care what you were as long as you were healthy. And a boy. So when MJ delivered, I honestly forgot to check whether you were a boy or a girl. I just stared slack-jawed at the doctor holding you, desperately trying to process what had just occurred, while simultaneously being extremely thankful there was a guardrail on MJ’s bed because that was the only thing holding me up after my knees went weak.

The doctor’s voice was the only thing that snapped me out of my trance as he said “Congratulations, dad. It’s a boy.”

Dad? Dad. Whoa…that’s me.

Time passes strangely in a house with a baby. Sleep comes in two-hour intervals. Parents walk around like the  Thorazine-riddled patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s a confusing time when everything is in flux. So despite not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do with you, I did the only thing that came naturally. I loved you. Deeply. Like crazy. Sure I made some mistakes, but I dove into fatherhood head first and I never looked back. Because the feeling that swept over me when I watched you sleep or played with your little hands and feet, was something otherworldly.

As you grew, so did I. Six months brought crawling, mimicking and general joyousness. In my brief stint as a dad I gained confidence and skills. I could change diapers like a NASCAR pit crew. I could dress you with ease, although matching your outfits was a different story. I had no problem taking you in the car or out in public, just the two of us. Looking back I realize what a great age that was, because you could only crawl a little and there was no walking. No opening doors. No climbing things. But despite being limited physically, you were gearing up toward your first word and discovering new things about yourself everyday. And getting a front row seat was the most entertaining thing on the planet.

When you turned 1, your accomplishments were coming fast and furious. You had already been walking for three months. You were talking and signing up a storm. And you were frickin’ fearless. Seriously kid, nothing scared you. You may look like me, but I was petrified of everything when I was your age. If something was difficult or scary, I would run away or return to something familiar. But not you. You have your mother’s tenacity and determination. Sure you get frustrated when faced with a difficult problem, but you stare it down and concentrate until you solve it. I admire that and it makes me so proud I could burst.

No longer a baby, but a certified little man. Talking in short sentences, gaining dexterity and hand-eye coordination and grasping concepts left and right. You became decidedly more difficult to contain as you raced to explore the world around you, but I relished the fact that you did it with reckless abandon and without an ounce of hesitation. Not to mention you were the cutest goddamn monkey on the planet for Halloween.

On Saturday you turn 2. Two years old. In some ways it doesn’t seem possible that that much time has gone by. A tick of the clock ago you were a fragile newborn who threw my entire life into upheaval. But in other ways, it feels like you’ve been around forever. Because I truly can’t remember what life was like before you, nor can I possibly picture it without you. When I started dating your mom I fell in love with her instantly. I asked her to marry me because she was the only woman I ever met who made me feel like she had been there all along, and without whom I would cease to exist.

That’s what both you and your mom — who I’m also wishing a happy birthday to on April 4 — are to me. You’re air. You’re food and water. And while it’s not all flowers and pie, being a dad has been the experience of my life so far. Both the good and the bad. But there’s been so much more good. And the gifts you give back to me only increase as you get older. The smiles, the laughter, the “Hi Dadda” comments and the random hugs and “Love yous” are what keeps me going on a daily basis.

I know it’s corny but you’ve made me a better man. And while I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, you make me want to be the best dad possible. You bring joy to everyone you meet. Even strangers. You’re only 2, but I’m so proud of you. I’m in awe of you everyday. And I love you with a depth I didn’t know was possible. And even though I don’t deserve you or your mother,  it is a privilege to be your father.

Happy birthday buddy (and MJ). You’re the best.

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY OVER AT DAD-BLOGS AND IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR A BIRTHDAY GIFT FOR WILL, HE’S ASKING FOR OPENING DAY TICKETS TO THE RED SOX ON SUNDAY!

My grandmother died this year so this Christmas was a little tough because it was the first one without her. But when she was alive, we liked to tease her mercilessly about her John Wayne obsession. She adored the man and had all of his movies. Not only that, she had likenesses of him that adorned the walls of her apartment. And whenever we’d get fresh with her, she’d say “You just wait. When I kick the bucket I’m leaving all of my John Wayne pictures to you.”

So yesterday, as we finished our Christmas dinner and silently expressed our lingering sadness over her absence, my uncle pulled out something that’s going to affect our lives forever. It’s a painting of John Wayne. Not only that, it’s an awful picture with his mug and horses pulling wagons. And it’s painted on a piece of wood and the sides are tree bark.

It is truly hideous.

My family is big on board games of all kinds, and we routinely play them after we’re done with holiday feasts and present-opening. But this year, we decided the winner of our games would be entitled to more than just bragging rights. From now on, whichever household wins the game will also get to pick one of the losers, and that loser will have to hang the ugly John Wayne picture somewhere in their house for an entire year until the following Christmas.

My grandmother would’ve appreciated the thought of any one of us grudgingly hanging a picture of her favorite actor in our homes.

This year my Aunt Val, Uncle Arthur and cousin Bradley won. And despite my incessant lobbying for them to send the picture home with my brother to Baltimore where he would have to explain the “art” to his girlfriend, they did not choose my brother. I think you can see where this is headed.

The Duke is currently hanging in my living room for the next 363 days. And somewhere, my grandmother is laughing her sick, twisted ass off at me. She always told me I’d end up with John Wayne in my house. But I guess it’s fitting, because none of us could ever say no to her anyway.

However, getting saddled with John Wayne was not my favorite part of Christmas. In fact, my favorite part of Christmas wasn’t even on Christmas Day itself.

On Christmas Eve I ended up spending time at my parent’s house while Will and MJ were visiting with her dad (Papa) and his girlfriend Donna (Grammy). Little did I know, that meant I had unwittingly volunteered myself to help assemble the present my brother bought Will. What was the present you ask?

That’s right, a 125-piece wooden train table set. And that’s in addition to the dozens of Thomas the Train Engine gifts that Will received for Christmas this year. But Nate’s present was easily the largest in both size and generosity. And while I appreciate the obvious amount of thought that went into the gift, I soon realized actually giving it to him was going to be easier said than done.

You see, Gouveia men are a lot of things. Witty, intelligent, handsome and humble to name a few. However, the one thing we are not, is handy. In a nutshell, we’re mechanically deficient and putting things together or assembling anything even remotely complicated is not our strong suit. Not only that, but we’re also all extremely argumentative, short-tempered and sarcastic.

Not exactly a winning combination.

Things started off…well…poorly, to say the least. The instructions had no words, just pictures. And not all the parts were labeled correctly. And did I mention this thing had 125 FRIGGIN PIECES?!!?!? Not only did we have to assemble the table, but once that was done we also had to build the multi-level train track. The first half hour left me convinced the night would end in bloodshed.

But then a funny thing happened.

We connected a few of the pieces and started working together, knowing it was all for Will. Then we kept on working, but we also were talking and kidding around. The next two hours featured some testiness, but mostly laughter and good-natured ribbing while my mom cooked delicious smelling Christmas food and the speakers played some Christmas tunes. It may have taken awhile, but in the end we got it done and Will absolutely loved it.

And, strangely enough, it ended up being the best part of Christmas.

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