I learned a very cool thing about my new coworkers, yesterday.

I was watching over one coworker’s shoulder, while she instant messengered another coworker. I saw the guy she was talking to had a 20-sided die as his IM icon image. (I noted that the die was showing 11 instead of a natural 20.)

“Oh, he’s a gamer,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “one of many around here.”

That statement intrigued me. There were many other gamers at this company? Cool. Now how can I find out who without seeming like a nerd asking around? We went on with our work.

Later, when back at my own desk, I added the gamer coworker as a contact in my IM list. I then sent him a message to say, “Hi.”

During our brief introduction, I asked him, “Why is your d20 icon on 11 instead of natural 20?”

“My birthday is on the 11th,” was his answer. “No one else has ever asked that question before.”

“Well,” I wrote, “I’m a gamer, too. So I notice that kind of thing.”

“Cool. Tom, Doug, and I play D&D with some other folks on Monday nights,” he wrote.

A little while later, again, the original coworker (whose shoulder I had been looking over) was in my office. I asked her if Doug was at our lunch gathering on my first day.

“Yes,” she said, “he was sitting beside me.” She apparently figured out why I asked, because she added, “Those guys play D&D together. And my husband plays, too, but with a different group.”

Amazing. I’ve joined a company full of gamers — and the company has nothing to do with the gaming industry. How freakin’ cool is that?

Bullgrit

This passed Sunday morning Cowgrit and I woke up just before 7:00. We were both immediately surprised. This never happens. Calfgrit4 always wakes up before 6:00.

We laid there for a few minutes, knowing the still and quiet morning time was too good to last much longer. By 7:15, Cowgrit was starting to worry about Calfgrit4. “Is he sick?” she wondered. “I think we should check on him.”

“I’ll wake him up,” I said. I rolled over and snuggled up to Cowgrit. On cue, the boys’ bedroom door opened, and the still and quiet time was over. They have a sense for that kind of thing.

Bullgrit

If I was a billionaire, I’d open a auto shop that specialized in customizing normal cars into real-life Hot Wheels. A car owner could bring his or her car into the shop, show us his favorite Hot Wheels car (based on his stock car), and in a couple weeks, the shop would give him back the real-world version of his toy.

The full-size vehicle would be fully functional, but style and replication would trump street legality.

The shop would charge for the customization only as much as the base stock car sold for new. But the contract for the work would include a clause that required the owner of the car to always allow any child to get in or on the car, at any time.

If the owner can’t bring himself to accept that stipulation, then my shop just won’t make his fantasy car. No kid should ever be denied a chance to touch, climb on, or ride in a real-life Hot Wheels toy.

Bullgrit

Our first Calfgrit was a week and a half over due. He was supposed to come on Christmas Eve, but came 4 days into the new year. His first day in the world was normal, but his second day started down a very worrisome path.

The nurses had given Cowgrit and me a break from newborn duty over night and when they wheeled his little bassinet into Cowgrit’s room, we were ready for our first full day of parenthood. After a few minutes, though, we noticed the tiny little guy was breathing strangely. He was breathing very fast.

I didn’t know if that was normal or not for a newborn, but it just looked wrong. Cowgrit (with newborn and pediatric medical experience) knew it was, indeed, very wrong. We called the nurses to our room.

Over the next few hours, the nurses and a doctor watched and examined Calfgrit. They didn’t know what the problem was. The doctor talked with us and gave some very disturbing possibilities. We called our parents to tell them what was happening, and our mothers came rushing back to us.

In the next couple of days, Cowgrit was released from the hospital, but Calfgrit was staying in the newborn intensive care. He had a dozen wires and tubes attached to him — it was a heart-breaking thing to see. He was a big (8 pounds 11 ounces), healthy-looking baby, especially compared to the couple of premies also in the intensive care unit. But he was very sick, and for the first few days we didn’t know why. He just was breathing very rapidly.

We were allowed to visit him as often and as long as we wanted. Cowgrit was at the hospital for several hours every day, and I was there for a couple or so hours after work every day. Eventually, they found the problem on an x-ray.

When we were both in the intensive care unit, the doctor showed us the x-ray and explained the problem. He had pneumonia. “Thank God,” we both said.

I know the other parents in the nursery thought we were terrible for having that reaction, and we laugh at it now. But of all the potential problems we were told the fast breathing could be, pneumonia was the least troublesome — it was completely curable, and would have no lasting effects on Calfgrit.

After seven days in intensive care, Calfgrit came home with us for the first time. He was completely healthy and we were so very happy.

Bullgrit