It's just Ava and me at home this afternoon. Lori is off with Brennan and Zoe enjoying the first day of Winter break at Skateland. Admittedly, I really like a quiet house in the middle of the afternoon. It's rare, but oh so enjoyable. It is prime time to do one or more of the following (in order of necessity):
1) Work
2) Nap
3) Read
After putting Ava down for her nap, my plan was to progress through that list over a three hour period in the following order: 1, 3, 2. However, 30 minutes in, I realized that none of that was going to happen. It started when she stuck her legs through the slats in her crib and donkey kicked against the wall, sending herself and her crib sliding into the middle of the room (this happens frequently, so I could tell what was going on simply by the sounds coming from upstairs). From there, she began to make a lot of noise - the kind of noise that is both distracting and entertaining. As such, there's really little else to do except ignore my own agenda, and document Ava.
I should preface this by saying that she was clearly tired and I went up to talk to her several times during the course of this performance. Because she was both tired and very entertaining, there's no way I was going to let her get out of taking a nap. So, neglect? Nah. Selfish? Probably a little.
Meowing, loudly. (1:17p)
Screaming, "Can't be mad at me..DAH-DEEEEE!" (1:19p)
Two things were just tossed from her crib. I'm guessing two books - one hard cover, one paper back. (1:22p)
"GO TO SLEEP...KITYYYYY!!!" (1:30p)
"I WANT...YOGURRRRRT!" (1:35p)
"I gonna be mad at you." (1:37p)
"ha ha. nah nah nah. try n' get me. ROARRRR!" (this repeated several times between 1:42p and 1:53p)
"I not asleeeeep, DAH-DEEEE!" (1:56p)
"Good NIGHT! Good NIGHT!" (1:59p)
*singing* "Flushed away. Flushed away. Every day, it's flushed away. You can't pee in my house." (2:02p)
"I'm awake, daddy. I'm awake." (2:03p)
"Come 'n find me, Daddy!" (2:05p)
"Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!?" (2:07p)
"There's a dragon in here." (2:11p)
And then (2:14p), asleep (Ava, not me)**. I feel bad that the last thing she told me prior to slipping into her afternoon slumber was that there was a dragon in her room. However, I'm also fairly impressed. She went to sleep despite the presence of a dragon. Or maybe that was simply the final scene in her performance. "Hey dad, there's a dragon in here. The heroine will slay it and THEN be able to rest knowing the people are safe."
I like that ending. It would have been better 45 minutes ago, but still, overall, a very strong performance.
** I went up to check on her, making sure that 'dragon' wasn't preschooler code for something that should actually concern me.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
sex drugs & rock n' roll
When parents use social media as an outlet to share stories about their children, they are clearly doing so because they are a) proud of their children and b) proud of themselves as parents. Typically the latter is masked in doubt, to signal to the reader that while they want you (everyone!) to know about their decisions, they are also a bit unsure about those decisions. After all, who wants to read about a know-it-all. Especially when it comes to parenting. This post, and this blog in general I suppose, are certainly guilty of that. I'm sorry you don't get to read raw parenting posts that involve Lori calling me a 'weirdo' and me giving Lori the bird. Those stories stay at home, and hopefully deep in the recesses of our kids' minds.
It started with Virginia Ave. and progressed when I put houses on Park Place. Zoe had self-selected into the role of banker so she could be in charge of the money. She sat next to me and likely observed me biting my finger nails every time Brennan rounded the "Go to Jail" corner, one roll away from landing on Park Place or Boardwalk (both of which I owned). I wanted to end the game, and I wanted to end it as the winner.
When Brennan bought two houses for Virginia Ave. he handed the money to Zoe and requested his little green return. Zoe** responded, "Two houses for Vagina Avenue, coming right up!" This of course got just the response she was looking for (uncontrollable laughter) and prompted an unexpected and uneasy sideways glance from Brenno. He was laughing, but he was also a bit nervous. Vagina Avenue was clearly not simply a spot on the board, but something that had recently taken on new meaning, and he implicitly told me that with his glance (then proceeded to laugh out loud).
Then I bought two houses for Park Place (the move that would eventually push Brenno into bankruptcy). "Two houses for Penis Place, here you go!" More laughter and another sideways glance from our son. Now vagina I can understand. It sounds funny. He doesn't have one. Learning about it from friends can be uncomfortable. But penis? He's been hanging out with a penis since day one (aware of it since day three) and typically sees me walking around the house at least twice a week Free Willy. But still the explicit discomfort. Vagina Avenue and Penis Place, once distant properties on opposite ends of the board, had become uncomfortably close. Crossing class lines and railroads. Almost neighbors. Certainly sharing some association. I have no idea if he was thinking about it in this way at all, but I was, and it led to the logical (probably unnecessary) conclusion that a sex talk was in order!
I planned my approach days in advance, knowing the exact conditions and location of my assault. My arsenal included one simple but lethal weapon: Mommy Laid an Egg. I typically read a bit of expert opinion before diving into some facet of fatherhood. With sex education however, I have stayed deliberately distant. Mostly. There are a few sources/people I trust, but for the most part I think everyone/everything else is totally insane. Most people cannot talk about the topic calmly, and it leads to education that is either tense and taboo-ridden, or relativistic and suggestively exploratory. So, I chose the book that has led to the most bans and critiques from the groups I trust the least, and use that as my go to. Mommy Laid an Egg is hilarious, informative, and in my opinion, completely sweet. It starts with a couple of hippies naively teaching the birds and bees to their kids and ends with crayon stick drawings (by the kids) of their parents having sex on a a skateboard. I placed this book in Brennan's backpack prior to heading out to his first real concert (The Avett Brothers).
The concert was great. Brennan got a little tired prior to the end but not before me getting teary-eyed during Murder in the City and Brennan getting his first good whiff of pot ("What's that smell? Is that a skunk? Did you toot?" "I'll explain in the car."). On our way out to the car Brennan asked what he could do on the way home. I told him that I packed a book for him to read. After explaining the smell to him (soccer is great because it usually provides some good material in these situations: "Is that why Maradona got kicked out of soccer?" "I'm sure Maradona smoked marijuana, but he got in trouble for cocaine and hamburgers.") he got into the book. I watched him in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtful. Then amused. Then confused. He read a couple of pages several times. He laughed, then put it away. Then gave me the same sideways Monopoly glance. Then he asked "What?"
What followed was a great conversation about eggs, seeds, tubes, holes, love, marriage, choices, and consequences. We both laughed. He told me about some jokes he had heard at school. He asked me if this is the reason that lesbians have to adopt kids to become mothers ("Because there's no seeds, just eggs, right? "Exactly."). He asked me if sex was bad, to which I responded of course not. That it is special, and fun, and powerful. He made the connection that if it weren't those things, people probably wouldn't do it, and then there probably wouldn't be people on the earth. And the earth needs people. Exactly. We talked about boundaries and unintended consequences.
We talked about a number of other things I won't share, with Brennan gracefully concluding the conversation, bringing us full circle, by asking about the UEFA Champions League. "Do you think Real Madrid will win this year?"
"Yes, buddy. I do. And here's why..."
** later in the evening Zoe would reprise her role as the family's raunchy stand up comic by butting in as Ava sang the ABCs with, "l-m-n-o VAGINA!"
It started with Virginia Ave. and progressed when I put houses on Park Place. Zoe had self-selected into the role of banker so she could be in charge of the money. She sat next to me and likely observed me biting my finger nails every time Brennan rounded the "Go to Jail" corner, one roll away from landing on Park Place or Boardwalk (both of which I owned). I wanted to end the game, and I wanted to end it as the winner.
When Brennan bought two houses for Virginia Ave. he handed the money to Zoe and requested his little green return. Zoe** responded, "Two houses for Vagina Avenue, coming right up!" This of course got just the response she was looking for (uncontrollable laughter) and prompted an unexpected and uneasy sideways glance from Brenno. He was laughing, but he was also a bit nervous. Vagina Avenue was clearly not simply a spot on the board, but something that had recently taken on new meaning, and he implicitly told me that with his glance (then proceeded to laugh out loud).
Then I bought two houses for Park Place (the move that would eventually push Brenno into bankruptcy). "Two houses for Penis Place, here you go!" More laughter and another sideways glance from our son. Now vagina I can understand. It sounds funny. He doesn't have one. Learning about it from friends can be uncomfortable. But penis? He's been hanging out with a penis since day one (aware of it since day three) and typically sees me walking around the house at least twice a week Free Willy. But still the explicit discomfort. Vagina Avenue and Penis Place, once distant properties on opposite ends of the board, had become uncomfortably close. Crossing class lines and railroads. Almost neighbors. Certainly sharing some association. I have no idea if he was thinking about it in this way at all, but I was, and it led to the logical (probably unnecessary) conclusion that a sex talk was in order!
I planned my approach days in advance, knowing the exact conditions and location of my assault. My arsenal included one simple but lethal weapon: Mommy Laid an Egg. I typically read a bit of expert opinion before diving into some facet of fatherhood. With sex education however, I have stayed deliberately distant. Mostly. There are a few sources/people I trust, but for the most part I think everyone/everything else is totally insane. Most people cannot talk about the topic calmly, and it leads to education that is either tense and taboo-ridden, or relativistic and suggestively exploratory. So, I chose the book that has led to the most bans and critiques from the groups I trust the least, and use that as my go to. Mommy Laid an Egg is hilarious, informative, and in my opinion, completely sweet. It starts with a couple of hippies naively teaching the birds and bees to their kids and ends with crayon stick drawings (by the kids) of their parents having sex on a a skateboard. I placed this book in Brennan's backpack prior to heading out to his first real concert (The Avett Brothers).
The concert was great. Brennan got a little tired prior to the end but not before me getting teary-eyed during Murder in the City and Brennan getting his first good whiff of pot ("What's that smell? Is that a skunk? Did you toot?" "I'll explain in the car."). On our way out to the car Brennan asked what he could do on the way home. I told him that I packed a book for him to read. After explaining the smell to him (soccer is great because it usually provides some good material in these situations: "Is that why Maradona got kicked out of soccer?" "I'm sure Maradona smoked marijuana, but he got in trouble for cocaine and hamburgers.") he got into the book. I watched him in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtful. Then amused. Then confused. He read a couple of pages several times. He laughed, then put it away. Then gave me the same sideways Monopoly glance. Then he asked "What?"
What followed was a great conversation about eggs, seeds, tubes, holes, love, marriage, choices, and consequences. We both laughed. He told me about some jokes he had heard at school. He asked me if this is the reason that lesbians have to adopt kids to become mothers ("Because there's no seeds, just eggs, right? "Exactly."). He asked me if sex was bad, to which I responded of course not. That it is special, and fun, and powerful. He made the connection that if it weren't those things, people probably wouldn't do it, and then there probably wouldn't be people on the earth. And the earth needs people. Exactly. We talked about boundaries and unintended consequences.
We talked about a number of other things I won't share, with Brennan gracefully concluding the conversation, bringing us full circle, by asking about the UEFA Champions League. "Do you think Real Madrid will win this year?"
"Yes, buddy. I do. And here's why..."
** later in the evening Zoe would reprise her role as the family's raunchy stand up comic by butting in as Ava sang the ABCs with, "l-m-n-o VAGINA!"
Thursday, November 3, 2011
3 > 32
There is surely a bit of narcissism behind the human desire to procreate. "Oooh, what fun! A little version of me. The world will be thrilled!" Or, "Ooooh, this could be scary. For the world's sake I hope that some of my genes get suppressed." In the former, we are great and should be replicated. In the latter, we recognize that perhaps we aren't so great, but we're excited that maybe we can create someone to share in our seemingly unique quirks. Everyone loves company!
When Lori was pregnant with Ava and we received news that her due date would fall somewhere in October, I'd like to say that her scheduled arrival coinciding with my own birthday had no effect on the aforementioned egoism, but alas, it didn't. I envisioned the two of us together, exuding libra charm as we diplomatically and idealistically floated through our self-indulgent lives. However, when Ava was born the day before my birthday (Oct. 8th to my 9th), it turned out to be a little too close for comfort. For the past three years now I have endured birthday cakes decorated with dogs and princesses. I have to yell, by myself, "AND DADDY!!" right after everyone else sings 'happy birthday, dear Ava.' In short, my shortsighted narcissism has backfired in a very serious way, rendering me obsolete and forgotten. The Fall used to be mine. No more.
In reality, sharing October with Ava is a delight. Much like Ava herself. For the week leading up to the 8th and 9th we'd play a little happy birthday game that could have only two players: Ava and me. I'd say, "Happy Birthday, Ava." And she would respond "Happy Birthday, Daddy." Ava, now that she is three, has found an entertaining new sense of self. She rejects any adjective BUT Ava used to describe her. "You are tired, aren't you?" "No, I Ava." "You are hungry, right?" "No, I Ava." She also keeps her prized possessions in a decorative bird cage that Lori elegantly placed next to her crib. Last night in the bird cage I found a bag of trail mix, a toy walkie talkie, a pocket watch, and a headband. Like something you'd see in Grey Gardens.
Gentzy tends to be my favorite adjective as well. I just looked in the drawer of my beside stand: Toy soldiers. Deodorant. Envelopes. A certificate recognizing my credentials as a minister in the Universal Life Church .
Ava, I love your company.
When Lori was pregnant with Ava and we received news that her due date would fall somewhere in October, I'd like to say that her scheduled arrival coinciding with my own birthday had no effect on the aforementioned egoism, but alas, it didn't. I envisioned the two of us together, exuding libra charm as we diplomatically and idealistically floated through our self-indulgent lives. However, when Ava was born the day before my birthday (Oct. 8th to my 9th), it turned out to be a little too close for comfort. For the past three years now I have endured birthday cakes decorated with dogs and princesses. I have to yell, by myself, "AND DADDY!!" right after everyone else sings 'happy birthday, dear Ava.' In short, my shortsighted narcissism has backfired in a very serious way, rendering me obsolete and forgotten. The Fall used to be mine. No more.
In reality, sharing October with Ava is a delight. Much like Ava herself. For the week leading up to the 8th and 9th we'd play a little happy birthday game that could have only two players: Ava and me. I'd say, "Happy Birthday, Ava." And she would respond "Happy Birthday, Daddy." Ava, now that she is three, has found an entertaining new sense of self. She rejects any adjective BUT Ava used to describe her. "You are tired, aren't you?" "No, I Ava." "You are hungry, right?" "No, I Ava." She also keeps her prized possessions in a decorative bird cage that Lori elegantly placed next to her crib. Last night in the bird cage I found a bag of trail mix, a toy walkie talkie, a pocket watch, and a headband. Like something you'd see in Grey Gardens.
Gentzy tends to be my favorite adjective as well. I just looked in the drawer of my beside stand: Toy soldiers. Deodorant. Envelopes. A certificate recognizing my credentials as a minister in the Universal Life Church .
Ava, I love your company.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
riding into cars with (vietnamese) boys
While riding my bike several weeks ago, I got hit by a car. This post is not about the accident. That story will not be heard by the general public until the insurance claim is closed. However, the accident was significant enough to be included in Brennan's most recent autobiography. He writes monthly memoirs. At 8. God help us if he becomes famous.
If you have siblings you've done it. You have accused your parents at some point of having a 'favorite' child. When I was younger (last week), I was pretty sure that my parents loved Maggie/Kari/Johnny more than me (my parents have four children). As a parent I know I will be accused of loving Zoe more than Brennan and Ava. I was actually accused of this, implicitly, this morning. To defend myself against the explicit accusations which will surely be launched in the future (most likely with this blog being used as evidence - I'm confident there are more Zoe posts than anything else), I would like to propose that I don't have 'favorites,' I simply have 'differents.' Let me explain.
I will frame this post around Zoe, not because she is my favorite, but rather because last week was her sixth birthday. I say 'last week' because it lasted seven days. Zoe has a birthday like an Indian has a wedding. I adore Zoe. I adore how she sprints up to school every morning, as fast as she can. I adore how she smiles and giggles incessantly while playing soccer. (A relevant aside: photos of Lori were featured in our local newspaper no less than 10 times her senior year of High School. Volleyball, graduation, softball, etc. And in every shot, regardless of activity, Lori is smiling and/or giggling. I also found that adorable.) Last night in order to feign abundance despite our current meager circumstances I bought a small container of Dibs ice cream nuggets for the kids to share on our way home from running some errands. I gave the container to Ava so that a) she could be in charge, which she is good at and b) so she could share, a lesson she still needs to work on. She did famously with this little task. At some point I turned around in the car to ask for one, but Ava responded that none were left. I said, "What!?" quite loudly, and before I could follow it up with a "just kidding," Zoe had taken one of the ice cream nuggets out of her mouth and offered it to me. Zoe loves chocolate and ice cream. I adore that despite this love, she loves me more. So, a confession: I probably do adore Zoe more than Brennan or Ava. It doesn't mean that I love her more; I love her differently. I admire Brennan, and I revere Ava. I'm ok with these distinctions (until they lead to therapy) because to love them all the same way would be disingenuous, denying them of their individual uniqueness. It simply means that I like hugging Zoe more than I like hugging them. Which is convenient, because unlike the other two, Zoe hugs me back.
The downside to this adoration is the need I feel to protect - something adorable also has the tendency to be treated as vulnerable, or weak. Like a bunny. Have you ever seen a cat kill a bunny? I have. It's awful. I fear that as her father, and as the result of her being as adorable to me as she is, I will feel the need to intervene when I should otherwise allow Zoe to exercise her own power to overcome whatever obstacle she is facing. Lori and I would do anything to make life easier for our children; but in so doing we may rob them of the chance to exert their own influence, develop their own confidence, and harness their own strength.
Last week during the annual Fall festival that is Zoe's birthday, we took brownies into her kindergarten class. The kids were excited about the brownies and the singing, so as soon as we walked into the room they jumped up and got a bit rambunctious. Zoe, adorably, told everyone to sit down and wait until the brownies were handed out. They all listened. She then, adorably, chose a quiet little girl sitting towards the back of the class - not one of her good friends - to help pass out the brownies. After the brownies were passed out and the song had been sung, the kids left the brownies on their desks and began to mill around a little bit, paying their individual respects to Queen Zo Zo. I noticed that one boy, I'll call him Josh, was paying a lot of attention to Zoe. I was sure it was due to the general attention she was receiving, but I was intrigued nonetheless, so I kept watching him. He finally called out her name, and when she looked in his direction, he blew her a kiss. If it had been one of those sweet little kindergarten kisses that kids blow to their parents, it would have been fine. But no. Josh's kiss to Zoe had, "I learned this from a Ke$ha video" written all over it. It was dirty, and I wanted to break his pinkie toe (scary specific, I know). Zoe was clearly (thankfully) unimpressed, so my worries were assuaged. She can take care of herself. She is, and will be, fine. We've taught her how to deal with twerps like Josh.
I can let Zoe be adorable AND strong. I can let her grow and get hurt, and I can detach when my emotional over-involvement would lead to unnecessary pain, resentment, control, and anxiety. I can do this. Even for our little Zo Zo.
I may or may not have put a booger on Josh's brownie.
If you have siblings you've done it. You have accused your parents at some point of having a 'favorite' child. When I was younger (last week), I was pretty sure that my parents loved Maggie/Kari/Johnny more than me (my parents have four children). As a parent I know I will be accused of loving Zoe more than Brennan and Ava. I was actually accused of this, implicitly, this morning. To defend myself against the explicit accusations which will surely be launched in the future (most likely with this blog being used as evidence - I'm confident there are more Zoe posts than anything else), I would like to propose that I don't have 'favorites,' I simply have 'differents.' Let me explain.
I will frame this post around Zoe, not because she is my favorite, but rather because last week was her sixth birthday. I say 'last week' because it lasted seven days. Zoe has a birthday like an Indian has a wedding. I adore Zoe. I adore how she sprints up to school every morning, as fast as she can. I adore how she smiles and giggles incessantly while playing soccer. (A relevant aside: photos of Lori were featured in our local newspaper no less than 10 times her senior year of High School. Volleyball, graduation, softball, etc. And in every shot, regardless of activity, Lori is smiling and/or giggling. I also found that adorable.) Last night in order to feign abundance despite our current meager circumstances I bought a small container of Dibs ice cream nuggets for the kids to share on our way home from running some errands. I gave the container to Ava so that a) she could be in charge, which she is good at and b) so she could share, a lesson she still needs to work on. She did famously with this little task. At some point I turned around in the car to ask for one, but Ava responded that none were left. I said, "What!?" quite loudly, and before I could follow it up with a "just kidding," Zoe had taken one of the ice cream nuggets out of her mouth and offered it to me. Zoe loves chocolate and ice cream. I adore that despite this love, she loves me more. So, a confession: I probably do adore Zoe more than Brennan or Ava. It doesn't mean that I love her more; I love her differently. I admire Brennan, and I revere Ava. I'm ok with these distinctions (until they lead to therapy) because to love them all the same way would be disingenuous, denying them of their individual uniqueness. It simply means that I like hugging Zoe more than I like hugging them. Which is convenient, because unlike the other two, Zoe hugs me back.
The downside to this adoration is the need I feel to protect - something adorable also has the tendency to be treated as vulnerable, or weak. Like a bunny. Have you ever seen a cat kill a bunny? I have. It's awful. I fear that as her father, and as the result of her being as adorable to me as she is, I will feel the need to intervene when I should otherwise allow Zoe to exercise her own power to overcome whatever obstacle she is facing. Lori and I would do anything to make life easier for our children; but in so doing we may rob them of the chance to exert their own influence, develop their own confidence, and harness their own strength.
Last week during the annual Fall festival that is Zoe's birthday, we took brownies into her kindergarten class. The kids were excited about the brownies and the singing, so as soon as we walked into the room they jumped up and got a bit rambunctious. Zoe, adorably, told everyone to sit down and wait until the brownies were handed out. They all listened. She then, adorably, chose a quiet little girl sitting towards the back of the class - not one of her good friends - to help pass out the brownies. After the brownies were passed out and the song had been sung, the kids left the brownies on their desks and began to mill around a little bit, paying their individual respects to Queen Zo Zo. I noticed that one boy, I'll call him Josh, was paying a lot of attention to Zoe. I was sure it was due to the general attention she was receiving, but I was intrigued nonetheless, so I kept watching him. He finally called out her name, and when she looked in his direction, he blew her a kiss. If it had been one of those sweet little kindergarten kisses that kids blow to their parents, it would have been fine. But no. Josh's kiss to Zoe had, "I learned this from a Ke$ha video" written all over it. It was dirty, and I wanted to break his pinkie toe (scary specific, I know). Zoe was clearly (thankfully) unimpressed, so my worries were assuaged. She can take care of herself. She is, and will be, fine. We've taught her how to deal with twerps like Josh.
I can let Zoe be adorable AND strong. I can let her grow and get hurt, and I can detach when my emotional over-involvement would lead to unnecessary pain, resentment, control, and anxiety. I can do this. Even for our little Zo Zo.
I may or may not have put a booger on Josh's brownie.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
barbie Q princess and the silver lined slippers
I should have just left them in the local grocer's freezer. Not typically a sucker for frozen food allure, the eight frozen crab cakes for $5 just felt right. I could probably convince the kids they were chicken nuggets and Lori and I would get a quick and mildly appealing (if not novel) meal. Oven preheating at 450, I went back into the living room to watch Rio with the kids.
After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.
What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.
Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."
Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)
When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.
This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.
The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!
And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.
* thanks Mel.
After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.
What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.
Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."
Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)
When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.
This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.
The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!
And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.
* thanks Mel.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
(b)old and spicy
Spicy by association. Lori and Zach provided a nice, hot smoke screen. I slipped in undetected. Thanks for the bone anyway, Mags. And I hope you do great with NAVY. May it be everything and more that Buster experienced with ARMY. Just run in the opposite direction if they ask you to do some work with the SEALS.
On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.
First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.
My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.
Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.
Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.
Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).
And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.
On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.
First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.
My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.
Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.
Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.
Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).
And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
spontanuity. and my girls.
Mimi and Papa just bought a cabin in the woods of Minnesota. Their plan was to save some more money, then ease into the Minnesota woods, building a cabin on the land sometime in the next 5-7 years. That all changed when we descended upon Minnesota last week, only to discover the perfect cabin in the woods, up on a bluff, less than a mile from the cemetery where my Minnesotan maternal grandparents were laid to rest. I love the continuity. Our family will continue to build ties to the north woods. And I love the fact that the continuity came about by spontaneity...it had to be that way. It's how we roll. Plans shmans. Reckless precision.
the kiss of death
I love trying to get kisses from Ava. Every time is like a music video for Ben Harper's, "Steal My Kisses." She doesn't give them away easily, and I typically have to sneak my way into her affection. A couple of mornings ago, I figured she would be groggy enough to submit to my smooch, but when I asked for the kiss she turned away, and quite loudly, and teenager-ly yelled, "Kiss my back!" She's going to yell such mean things to me as we age, I have no doubt. I have a good friend whose older sister was competing in a cross-country meet in high school, and when her father overdid his encouragement as she passed by, she yelled "f&*k off, dad!" I am prepared for these outbursts. And a bit excited, I must admit. I can respect tenacity and passion. (Kirstin and Nancy, please correct me if I have misquoted what was yelled at Wane.)
zoe. spot on.
The Champaign public swimming pool has a great water slide. It's steep enough to be moderately exciting for kids (kids ride with adults on a two-person tube), yet short enough that the line keeps moving along quickly (which is important to me). The only downside is the end. And not because it's over, but because it dumps you into the lazy river. And while the lazy river isn't the problem, its inhabitants are. Upon being shot out of the slide into the river, the slide riders glide across the water into the people who are lazily drifting by. Groups of teenagers. Old, lazy river people. Giggling girls. The couple in their 40s on a first date at the public pool. The entire J.V. basketball team at Champaign Central HS. The single guy who hangs out in the river because of the chance that something lovely will glide into him. You get the point. Groups of people that don't want intruders, yet have no choice when the slide spews forth its phlegm. It's just uncomfortable for everyone. Conversations are stopped. Odd body positions are struck to avoid physical contact with a stranger. On separate occasions, I've heard at least 3 people fart during the human log jam. I was two of those people.
On Saturday while we were at the pool, Zoe asked to go down the slide, and I gave in without any objection. The place was HORRIBLY crowded, and I was excited to get out of the main pool area. We headed down the slide without incident, Zoe screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time, making the glorified slip and slide feel like a roller coaster. As we approached the end, I surveyed the humanity we would soon be joining, and realized that if the main pool area was HORRIBLY crowded, the lazy river was the lawn at my last Dave Matthews concert (it was SEVERAL years ago, for the record). I braced myself for contact and farts, and glided across the water towards an older couple, 4 teenage girls bound together by intertwined arms and legs, and three 10 year old boys. Butt cheeks clenched, gripping the tube, I was at a loss for something to say or do. I wanted to hand paddle my way to open water, but there was none. Not typically a guy who's at a loss for words or actions in a crowd, I froze. And then, I got outdid. Before we glided to a stop, nestled amidst our fellow river rats, Zoe yelled, "AWWWWKWARRRRD!!" So appropriate, so well-timed...so Zoe. Tension cut, people began to laugh and point at my lovely little daughter. We became one with the river crowd. We drifted along. The water bubbling two separate times below my trunks, just for good measure.
the kiss of death
I love trying to get kisses from Ava. Every time is like a music video for Ben Harper's, "Steal My Kisses." She doesn't give them away easily, and I typically have to sneak my way into her affection. A couple of mornings ago, I figured she would be groggy enough to submit to my smooch, but when I asked for the kiss she turned away, and quite loudly, and teenager-ly yelled, "Kiss my back!" She's going to yell such mean things to me as we age, I have no doubt. I have a good friend whose older sister was competing in a cross-country meet in high school, and when her father overdid his encouragement as she passed by, she yelled "f&*k off, dad!" I am prepared for these outbursts. And a bit excited, I must admit. I can respect tenacity and passion. (Kirstin and Nancy, please correct me if I have misquoted what was yelled at Wane.)
zoe. spot on.
The Champaign public swimming pool has a great water slide. It's steep enough to be moderately exciting for kids (kids ride with adults on a two-person tube), yet short enough that the line keeps moving along quickly (which is important to me). The only downside is the end. And not because it's over, but because it dumps you into the lazy river. And while the lazy river isn't the problem, its inhabitants are. Upon being shot out of the slide into the river, the slide riders glide across the water into the people who are lazily drifting by. Groups of teenagers. Old, lazy river people. Giggling girls. The couple in their 40s on a first date at the public pool. The entire J.V. basketball team at Champaign Central HS. The single guy who hangs out in the river because of the chance that something lovely will glide into him. You get the point. Groups of people that don't want intruders, yet have no choice when the slide spews forth its phlegm. It's just uncomfortable for everyone. Conversations are stopped. Odd body positions are struck to avoid physical contact with a stranger. On separate occasions, I've heard at least 3 people fart during the human log jam. I was two of those people.
On Saturday while we were at the pool, Zoe asked to go down the slide, and I gave in without any objection. The place was HORRIBLY crowded, and I was excited to get out of the main pool area. We headed down the slide without incident, Zoe screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time, making the glorified slip and slide feel like a roller coaster. As we approached the end, I surveyed the humanity we would soon be joining, and realized that if the main pool area was HORRIBLY crowded, the lazy river was the lawn at my last Dave Matthews concert (it was SEVERAL years ago, for the record). I braced myself for contact and farts, and glided across the water towards an older couple, 4 teenage girls bound together by intertwined arms and legs, and three 10 year old boys. Butt cheeks clenched, gripping the tube, I was at a loss for something to say or do. I wanted to hand paddle my way to open water, but there was none. Not typically a guy who's at a loss for words or actions in a crowd, I froze. And then, I got outdid. Before we glided to a stop, nestled amidst our fellow river rats, Zoe yelled, "AWWWWKWARRRRD!!" So appropriate, so well-timed...so Zoe. Tension cut, people began to laugh and point at my lovely little daughter. We became one with the river crowd. We drifted along. The water bubbling two separate times below my trunks, just for good measure.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
can't you smell that smell
Last week I commented on Facebook about my showering habits. This fueled a vigorous discussion led by my good friend Sam, who, during finals week of his last semester at Harvard Law School, went 100 hours without showering. He’s the smartest, stinkiest guy I know. I don’t take many showers these days. And occasionally I smell. I don’t care. I take that back, I do care. However, I know when and why I care and I shower accordingly. The rest of the time, I don’t care. Sorry guy in the library next to me. And thank you guy in the library behind me – your stench is a reprieve from my own tang.
As I sit here smelling myself, my olfactory senses whisk me back in time to the paternal smells of my childhood.
Regularity. Dad's bowels moved (your welcome, grandma) at precisely the same time, every day, for the first 17 years of my life. This coincided with my morning shower. I remember being shocked when using shampoo my first week of college. “Wait, shampoo smells good?”
Smoke. The people dad worked with, both his co-workers and his clients were surely chain smokers. All of them. And as my father listened to their problems, and said ‘yes’ to them more often than he should have, he also absorbed their smell. Every night, like clockwork, Dad came through the back door at 5:14pm. While my friends’ fathers were beginning their evenings at the bar, Dad came home smelling like one.
Wood. My father, as far as I can tell, has three real passions in his life. Family. Church. Wood. We’ve always had a wood burning stove in the northeast corner of the kitchen. And that stove is fueled by wood, which my father cuts with his own two hands (and a chainsaw). Because this love of wood was always preceded in priority by the first two passions, Dad only got to spend a handful of Saturdays a year in the woods for a marathon chainsaw fest. I didn’t join him on enough of these Saturdays, but when I did, or when I rode in his truck after one such marathon, the smell was wood. I have no idea what kind of wood (although I’m sure he told me…many times…in many different ways), but the smell was thick and delicious, and I never cared that I usually had saw dust in my eyes and was always WAY too hot in the kitchen during the coldest months of the year.
Sweat. When I had a job that required showers and suits, the kids would beg me to get out of my work clothes when I got home. They wanted me in a t-shirt and jeans, because that meant fun. My dad was the same way. I didn’t want the smoke. I’d already had my daily dose of poop. I could go to his truck for the wood. Sweat meant that Dad was home. The shirt was probably pulled from his gym bag where it had accompanied him on a sweaty dash ‘up’ the stair-master at the Jacksonville YMCA earlier that day (Exercise: passion number 4). No logos. Some holes. A mark where the pocket used to be. Relaxed and alive, Dad was home, and he was ours. And after he mowed the lawn, the sweat mixed with fresh cut grass to produce an earthy fragrance which to some would certainly be malodorous, but to me was life.
To the best of my knowledge, my father’s body has never been polluted by cologne, aftershave, or any anti-bacterial body wash. If it’s not a bar of plain Ivory, or Dr. Bronner’s magic, wordy, Jesus soap, Dad won’t touch it. His aura and his aroma are inextricably connected. And his aromas will be forever with me. A feat I may be unwittingly passing along to the next generation of Franz children. As it should be.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
As I sit here smelling myself, my olfactory senses whisk me back in time to the paternal smells of my childhood.
Regularity. Dad's bowels moved (your welcome, grandma) at precisely the same time, every day, for the first 17 years of my life. This coincided with my morning shower. I remember being shocked when using shampoo my first week of college. “Wait, shampoo smells good?”
Smoke. The people dad worked with, both his co-workers and his clients were surely chain smokers. All of them. And as my father listened to their problems, and said ‘yes’ to them more often than he should have, he also absorbed their smell. Every night, like clockwork, Dad came through the back door at 5:14pm. While my friends’ fathers were beginning their evenings at the bar, Dad came home smelling like one.
Wood. My father, as far as I can tell, has three real passions in his life. Family. Church. Wood. We’ve always had a wood burning stove in the northeast corner of the kitchen. And that stove is fueled by wood, which my father cuts with his own two hands (and a chainsaw). Because this love of wood was always preceded in priority by the first two passions, Dad only got to spend a handful of Saturdays a year in the woods for a marathon chainsaw fest. I didn’t join him on enough of these Saturdays, but when I did, or when I rode in his truck after one such marathon, the smell was wood. I have no idea what kind of wood (although I’m sure he told me…many times…in many different ways), but the smell was thick and delicious, and I never cared that I usually had saw dust in my eyes and was always WAY too hot in the kitchen during the coldest months of the year.
Sweat. When I had a job that required showers and suits, the kids would beg me to get out of my work clothes when I got home. They wanted me in a t-shirt and jeans, because that meant fun. My dad was the same way. I didn’t want the smoke. I’d already had my daily dose of poop. I could go to his truck for the wood. Sweat meant that Dad was home. The shirt was probably pulled from his gym bag where it had accompanied him on a sweaty dash ‘up’ the stair-master at the Jacksonville YMCA earlier that day (Exercise: passion number 4). No logos. Some holes. A mark where the pocket used to be. Relaxed and alive, Dad was home, and he was ours. And after he mowed the lawn, the sweat mixed with fresh cut grass to produce an earthy fragrance which to some would certainly be malodorous, but to me was life.
To the best of my knowledge, my father’s body has never been polluted by cologne, aftershave, or any anti-bacterial body wash. If it’s not a bar of plain Ivory, or Dr. Bronner’s magic, wordy, Jesus soap, Dad won’t touch it. His aura and his aroma are inextricably connected. And his aromas will be forever with me. A feat I may be unwittingly passing along to the next generation of Franz children. As it should be.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
alive
I never want to intentionally scare my children. I want them to fear me a little, but I never want to put any of our children in a position where they are scared for their lives. This doesn't make me a good dad. Rather it's proof that I have at least evolved to caveman: preserve and protect your progeny. We dashed this to pieces last week when, in an effort to serve our kids a good ol' fashion slice of Americana, we carted them off to Six Flags. We started out slowly: Thunder River. Log Flume. Kiddie Coaster. Then we progressed to the more aggressive rides: Ragin' Cajun. Lunar Blaster. And then, the Screaming Eagle. Brennan was already nervous in the line. He was watching people closely, trying to determine if they were preparing for death, or there to have a good time. He arrived at no conclusion by the time the safety bar snapped into place. As we click, click, clicked our way to the summit, Brennan refused to look right or left. He responded to my questions ("are you scared?" "see how small the people are?" "you know people don't fall out of these, right?") with a strained nod of the head, every muscle in his body rigid. As we screamed down the first descent, Brennan's face looked like this. After a quick jaunt up, during the second free fall he looked like this. I was fighting all of the Gs, straining my neck so that I could witness the horror I was inflicting upon my son. After the corkscrew, I was convinced that our relationship was damaged beyond repair. I don't even have an image for that face. We had progressed beyond horse in the car and swamp warrior holding a baby (ok, I'm definitely better than those parents). The ride didn't scare me a bit. I was too scared of what the ride was doing to my relationship with Brennan to notice that my stomach was inside out.
As we came to the screeching halt, and eased our way back into the port, I nervously looked over at my typically confident, completely sure of himself, son. He was white as a sheet. His hair was wind blown straight up. His eyes were as big as a cartoon owl's, and they were filled with tears. I said nothing. I waited for him to make the first move. Would it be anger? Regret? A tirade about me pushing him to do things beyond his ability? Whatever, it is, just let it be...I can't stand the silence! Without turning towards me, or changing his expression, he opened his little mouth, and uttered, "I feel so alive." Sigh of relief. Sweet victory. That's my boy! "See! Isn't it great to overcome something difficult!? Just doing it! Yes!" "No," he replied. "I feel so alive, because I'm not dead. And I really thought I was going to die." "Oh. Right. Yes. It is good that we are not dead." More silence. Then he looked at me and smiled. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the head. I felt so alive.
I would include Zoe in this post, but she didn't provide anything exploitable. She got on every roller coaster her 43 inches would allow, and simply rocked it, screaming and smiling the entire time. Including The Demon, which caused me to almost puke, and walk around dazed for a good 10 minutes afterwards. While upside down on The Demon Zoe had the gumption to look directly at me and laugh out loud, hysterically. She too was alive. Just a different kind of alive than her older Brother.
As we came to the screeching halt, and eased our way back into the port, I nervously looked over at my typically confident, completely sure of himself, son. He was white as a sheet. His hair was wind blown straight up. His eyes were as big as a cartoon owl's, and they were filled with tears. I said nothing. I waited for him to make the first move. Would it be anger? Regret? A tirade about me pushing him to do things beyond his ability? Whatever, it is, just let it be...I can't stand the silence! Without turning towards me, or changing his expression, he opened his little mouth, and uttered, "I feel so alive." Sigh of relief. Sweet victory. That's my boy! "See! Isn't it great to overcome something difficult!? Just doing it! Yes!" "No," he replied. "I feel so alive, because I'm not dead. And I really thought I was going to die." "Oh. Right. Yes. It is good that we are not dead." More silence. Then he looked at me and smiled. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the head. I felt so alive.
I would include Zoe in this post, but she didn't provide anything exploitable. She got on every roller coaster her 43 inches would allow, and simply rocked it, screaming and smiling the entire time. Including The Demon, which caused me to almost puke, and walk around dazed for a good 10 minutes afterwards. While upside down on The Demon Zoe had the gumption to look directly at me and laugh out loud, hysterically. She too was alive. Just a different kind of alive than her older Brother.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
i go. you go. we go. mexico.
We are indebted to wonderful family and friends who made our vacation a reality by taking the time to stay with our kids, feed our kids, and cart our kids to and fro. We are also grateful for such good kids; other people tend to like them ok. Or at least that's what we think. Please don't tell us differently, it would ruin the gratitude. The week before we left, we were explaining things to the kids: we are going to Mexico, you will be staying with several different people who will be taking you to several different places. Brennan and Zoe grasped that they were being forsaken. Ava was not willing to let us go so easily. "You take me?" No, Ava. We not take you. However, we will tell you what happened while we were away. Here are some of my journal entries. Front-end apologies for the lack of brevity. As you'll see below, we had no clock, no agenda, and plenty of time to do whatever we wanted to do.
Day 1
flashback
From the instant he asked to borrow my pen to fill out his customs form on the way from Dallas to Cancun, I sensed a shared association. You see, Mormons have a keen sense of their own. Modar is like Gaydar in that the alerts are typically based on peculiar public behavior and curious wardrobe decisions. This guy and his female companion were obviously newlyweds as evidenced by their awkward display of public affection. It was sincere, and in a way kind of cute, but it was new, and oh so Mormon. As we disembarked, I walked up to them and asked if they were indeed newlyweds. After confirming this suspicion, I attempted to impress them with my Modar by asking, "Which Temple?" Without skipping a beat, or acknowledging the sophistication of my nuanced observation, he answered, "Salt Lake City." BYU-induced buzzkill. Everyone's Mormon. Duh.
It was a fun way to start the vacation--seeing an overly green, somewhat naive young couple celebrating the same milestone that Lori and I were commemorating 10 years later. And I'm glad that after 10 years, a look and a smile can say just as much, if not more, than sloppy in-flight French kissing.
enter Tulum
We knew we were in the right place, when, upon entering Tulum proper we stopped by a grocery store for some food, and found the place inhabited ENTIRELY by only two groups: Mexicans and Hippies. The locals lived there, and the hippies, well, they had also been there a while (beds at the Weary Traveler hostel in Tulum can go for as little as $.89 a day). The smell was a nice mix of chorizo and patchouli. I felt right at home. After purchasing plantains and Mexican oreos (thereby revealing our yuppie-bound hippiness), we made our way into the stretch of cabanas where, nicely settled in a patch of Mexican jungle, we found ours - the Robinson Crusoe.
Day 2
buddhists & nudists
Contrary to popular belief, Mormons, like everyone else under institutional constraints, like to break rules. There is a certain amount of satisfaction in being 'bad' but not 'bad enough.' This was not the impetus for our vacation to Tulum; we were there to reconnect and recharge. However, like the scene in Blue Lagoon where Brooke Shields and the dude recognize the implication of their togetherness, our vacation changed slightly when the Buddhist dropped his towel to reveal that the only thing between us and his Dalai Lama was the aforementioned dropped towel.
Nudity is a funny thing. To some it is art. To others, pornography. Regardless of where you stand on it, when you find yourself on a beach where the majority of its inhabitants are naked, the power of norms is a fairly persuasive agent. After the Buddhist, Porky, left with his puppy, a Yorky (not another penis euphemism, he really had a dog), two female nudists came along: one frolicking innocently in the waves, the other walking by nonchalantly. They were more like five year olds in the backyard than tri-Sigs on a Girls Gone Wild video. For whatever reason, maybe it was the private beach and paradisaical context, there was something that compelled Lori and I to want to join in. It just seemed right. And it was just 'bad enough' to be fun, and satisfyingly anonymous enough to be doable. Despite the allure, we refrained *. Me out of fear of an over-cooked bratwurst (back to the euphemisms), Lori due to Catholic girl inhibition. Maybe in the end being surrounded by nudists was bad enough.
* I skinny-dipped once. Weak sauce, I know.
Day 3
los conquistadores
What we did know about Tulum prior to heading here is its historical significance to the Mayan civilization. The ruins here are situated on a cliff overlooking the Carribean Sea. While the settlement was never a booming Mayan metropolis, it was a key port, critical to transportation and trade up and down the coast. A mere 8 km north of the Robinson Crusoe, we decided to discover the ruins on foot. We ran the first 5k on a local road, then ferreted through a fence to gain access to the last 3 km of rocky shoreline leading up to the ruins. We hiked along the rocks for a spell, jumping precariously from each bundle of jagged coral to the next. A fall would have resulted in a deep gash and a 20 ft fall into the ocean. I mentioned this fact to Lori after crossing a particularly slippery portion of the trail. Well, I had already crossed, Lori was still traversing the pass when I mentioned it. She, like the Mormon couple, was not impressed by my keen observation.
Before arriving at a pristine beach where we stopped for a quick dip (the nudists there numbered three: a toddler, the completely naked European, and the topless African), we passed by a cove where a couple - he snorkeling some distance out, she splashing in the shallow water with their son - was enjoying some weekend time at the beach. As soon as he spotted us he hopped out of the water and began yelling something at his wife. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but it felt like, "Be sure those filthy hippies don't snatch our son or the picnic." Lori, accustomed to putting people at ease with her smile and quick kindness, waved to reassure them of our wholesomeness. He waved back what appeared to be a greeting, but felt like, "Just keep on moving, human filth."
After the cove and the beach, we recommenced our journey and could see the top of the ruins in the distance. However, upon closer inspection we realized that our shoreline approach would be impeded by a bit of rock jutting out over the ocean, surpassable only with carabiners and rope...and of course the know-how to use the equipment. We had neither equipment nor know-how. I convinced Lori that we would need to climb up and into the jungle, going around the rock, then arriving at the ruins. She gave me the old, "what about snakes and spiders" look. Her aversion to jungle foe was overcome by her desire for companionship as I slipped into the brush without engaging her concern.
Several mosquito bits and a few leaf scratches later, we came to a pile of stones which were Mayan in appearance. You know the look. I lunged forward like Indiana Jones, only to find that we were being kept out by something a bit more modern than Mayan: barbed wire. While assessing the situation, a guy, no older than 20, appeared on the other side of the wire. In my best Sportuguese I explained that we wanted to "join him on his side." He laughed at my choice of words - me treating him more like a deceased ancestor than a random stranger - then asked how we had gotten ourselves into the jungle predicament. "We ascended from the beach." (You see, in Portuguese I am well-equipped enough to carry on a conversation on just about anything. With Spanish however, I retreat to the gospel talk which is the foundation of my foreign language acquisition. The words in Spanish and Portuguese are strikingly similar, and my confidence is buoyed by the topical familiarity.) He told us to climb carefully through the wire, walk 100 yards to the left, then enter the ruins. We did as we were told, and before I could hug him and rejoice in the "union of our souls," he was gone. Probably to join the other Nephite and Randall Starks (makes three) in doing good and secret deeds.
Our entry into the Mayan settlement went undetected. We slipped through a stone tunnel, cooled by the shade and breeze which constantly passes through. We were sunburned and covered in dirt. Even Lori looked a bit menacing. The inhabitants were well-dressed, mild-mannered, courteous, Native Mexicans. I began to feel guilty. The natives smiled at us and commented on the calor. Little did they know that we - the foreign devils - had gained access to their paradise fueled by a courageous sense of adventure and a religion-laced vernacular. History, rudely repeating itself. And we were playing the part of the offenders. Next time we should just use la entrada.
Day 4
butterflies and a rainbow
The only bugs here on the beach are butterflies. And let's face it, a butterfly is hardly a bug; it's more like a pleasant, beakless, non-chirping, agendaless bird. As I was wading in the ocean this morning, watching the butterflies dance on the sand, I noticed a woman setting up a massage table on the beach. I walked up to check out the rates and assess the legitimacy of the operation. It wasn't. And when I saw the hair in her armpits and the mangy dog that was her pet, I was sold. I toweled off and went over for my well-deserved rubdown (every time I get a massage I tell myself it's 'well-deserved' so I feel like less of a twit). I introduced myself and she responded in kind. "I am Arco Iris." Her name is Rainbow. Oh man, even better. It gets better.
After 20 minutes of the sandiest, most amazing massage I have ever had (honesty check: this is only the third massage I've ever had), I extended the session from 30 to 60 minutes. "Is that ok, Rainbow?" "Yes, it is better for me," she responds. Shoulder. Neck. Back. Head. Calves. Foot. "I sprained my ankle recently. It's a bit tender." " You just relax." "Ok, Rainbow." Arms. Hands. Cheeks (both sets). Lips. Nose. "You know you can fix your big crooked nose with an everyday massage." "Ok, Rainbow. Wait. What?" And then, the pot of gold - Rainbow massaged my ear. We're not talking just the casual flick of an ear lobe, but some real attention-giving squeezes. I swear I can hear better now.
Then, without warning, she stopped, pulled the sheet over my head, and left. What happened next I only know because Lori observed the whole thing from about 25 yards down the beach. I didn't know what Rainbow wanted me to do, so I remained obediently under the sheet. While thus waiting, Rainbow calmly walked away from the table and then started...wait for it...doing vigorous cartwheels and somersaults on the beach. As I lay confused, yet patient under a sheet, unknowingly I had sent the Rainbow into a circus-like fit of satisfaction and celebration. I have made people laugh. I have made them cry. I have made people happy, sad, angry, and annoyed. But I have never, ever made anyone do cartwheels. And here it wasn't just anyone - I made a Rainbow do cartwheels. It's like making Michael Jackson dance, or Pavarotti sing. It's what they do. It goes together. And I was the catalyst. Jesus saves! Rainbow cartwheels!
After a few minutes of breathing my own increasingly tepid recycled air, I emerged from my cotton-poly sepulchre to find Rainbow sitting in the sand petting her dog. I thanked her, gave her the fee plus tip, then went to my chair whereupon Lori told me about the cartwheels. "Of course she did," I pondered pretentiously. I laid back in the chair, smiling, thinking about the things I am, and what I had become today: Father. Son. Husband. Friend. Brother. Teacher. Student. Leader. Follower. Creator of Rainbows. I was disturbed from my self-indulgent exercise by the yipping of a dog and the laughter of a woman. I looked over to see Rainbow rubbing her mangy mutt mercilessly. He yelped in approval and she laughed accordingly. And then without warning, she stopped, turned towards the sea and ran, stopping only to do cartwheels and somersaults. Unfortunate. Made more unfortunate by the fact that this is probably not the last time I will pridefully take credit for someone's Tourette syndrome.
Day 5
time
Sleep. Rest. Read. Eat. Stretch. Swim. Read. Think. Write. Repeat.
Time stands still when there is no time. No increments to adhere to. No requisite rigor. On day 2 my iPod battery emptied, and we have not had a watch or clock since. * We attempt to keep pace by the reach of the tide or the position of the sun, but alas, our midwesterness gets in the way. We have learned to allow our bodies to guide us. We are moved to action only out of biological urge or necessity. Hungry. Eat. Tired. Sleep. Restless. Run. This is so foreign to both Lori and me. Our days are dictated by a clock; or rather, we manage our days through the management of the clock. Our chores are assigned a number, and that number is obeyed, like a ticket in a deli. Failure to abide by the order results in subsequent compromise - the next customer complains.
While this approach breeds efficiency, I fear the possible sacrificial consequence. I hope we are not so rigid that voices fall on deaf ears and feelings on a frigid soul. I hope that spontaneity is given space so that we might experience the joy of those who respond. That we become not creatures upon which time acts, but that we may act despite the constraints on our time.
* the absence of a clock became one of the most satisfying and enlightening aspects of our trip. I really feel it may have created something 'sticky' that brings about some small - yet significant and sustainable - change.
the great empanada chase
Tonight we got hungry. Instead of running to the restaurant for dinner, we decided to locate the girl who had sold us the most amazing empanadas last night. She was riding by on her bike, baskets full of warm breads, pastries, and empanadas. We bought a cheese and veggie empanada to be nice, but almost fell over after the first bite. It was perfect.
I went to the road where we had encountered her and waited. And waited. Less concerned with time, more with the challenge of finding our sun-soaked culinary Samaritan, I took to the beach to discover who she was and where she could be found. Rainbow was just finishing a massage, so I somersaulted over to her table. As soon as I uttered, "Girl. Bike. Empanada," she responded, "Her name is Zarah and she stays at Amoreira." We borrowed a couple of bikes, grabbed our map of the village and tore off to the south, in search of Zarah and her empanadas.
After finding Amoreira (a cluster of rustic cabanas and tree houses) completely devoid of human activity (There was a cat. Lori hates cats. Did you know that, Trina? Please don't like Lori less.) I ventured, once again, down to the beach where we found a group of hippies drinking vodka outside a Kelty tent. I called one of them over - Phillipe - and explained my need for the empanadas (again, using religous terms. But this time justified. These delights were indeed "the filled bread of God."). He laughed, agreed with my assessment, then pulled out his cell phone to dial Zarah. After a 45 second exchange he hung up , assured us she had some remaining goods then told us we could encounter her 2 km down the road on her bike. I wasn't even concerned when he referred to the empanadas as los hombres (the men), even though I should have probably asked for clarification. By that point our focus had become even more singular. We exchanged pleasantries and he invited us to stay at his hotel next time we were in town. It wasn't built yet, but it would be once he secured the right permits.
True to their word, after about 5 more minutes by bike, there was Zarah. We bought 5 empanadas, she thanked us for our efforts, and we assured her that we would have travelled five times as far. "Not since the mannah was deposited in the hands of the children of...oh, nevermind, these empanadas are amazing." On our way back to the Robinson Crusoe, riding beach cruisers on a crude road, under a canopy of tropical vegetation, I mentioned to Lori that if there was a soundtrack to this adventure, it would be Jack Johnson on every track.
We ate the empanadas on our porch, then headed to the shop for milkshakes. As we walked in, we were greeted by familiar lyrics spilling cooly from the speakers.
And there were so many fewer questions, when stars were still just the holes to heaven...
Day 1
flashback
From the instant he asked to borrow my pen to fill out his customs form on the way from Dallas to Cancun, I sensed a shared association. You see, Mormons have a keen sense of their own. Modar is like Gaydar in that the alerts are typically based on peculiar public behavior and curious wardrobe decisions. This guy and his female companion were obviously newlyweds as evidenced by their awkward display of public affection. It was sincere, and in a way kind of cute, but it was new, and oh so Mormon. As we disembarked, I walked up to them and asked if they were indeed newlyweds. After confirming this suspicion, I attempted to impress them with my Modar by asking, "Which Temple?" Without skipping a beat, or acknowledging the sophistication of my nuanced observation, he answered, "Salt Lake City." BYU-induced buzzkill. Everyone's Mormon. Duh.
It was a fun way to start the vacation--seeing an overly green, somewhat naive young couple celebrating the same milestone that Lori and I were commemorating 10 years later. And I'm glad that after 10 years, a look and a smile can say just as much, if not more, than sloppy in-flight French kissing.
enter Tulum
We knew we were in the right place, when, upon entering Tulum proper we stopped by a grocery store for some food, and found the place inhabited ENTIRELY by only two groups: Mexicans and Hippies. The locals lived there, and the hippies, well, they had also been there a while (beds at the Weary Traveler hostel in Tulum can go for as little as $.89 a day). The smell was a nice mix of chorizo and patchouli. I felt right at home. After purchasing plantains and Mexican oreos (thereby revealing our yuppie-bound hippiness), we made our way into the stretch of cabanas where, nicely settled in a patch of Mexican jungle, we found ours - the Robinson Crusoe.
Day 2
buddhists & nudists
Contrary to popular belief, Mormons, like everyone else under institutional constraints, like to break rules. There is a certain amount of satisfaction in being 'bad' but not 'bad enough.' This was not the impetus for our vacation to Tulum; we were there to reconnect and recharge. However, like the scene in Blue Lagoon where Brooke Shields and the dude recognize the implication of their togetherness, our vacation changed slightly when the Buddhist dropped his towel to reveal that the only thing between us and his Dalai Lama was the aforementioned dropped towel.
Nudity is a funny thing. To some it is art. To others, pornography. Regardless of where you stand on it, when you find yourself on a beach where the majority of its inhabitants are naked, the power of norms is a fairly persuasive agent. After the Buddhist, Porky, left with his puppy, a Yorky (not another penis euphemism, he really had a dog), two female nudists came along: one frolicking innocently in the waves, the other walking by nonchalantly. They were more like five year olds in the backyard than tri-Sigs on a Girls Gone Wild video. For whatever reason, maybe it was the private beach and paradisaical context, there was something that compelled Lori and I to want to join in. It just seemed right. And it was just 'bad enough' to be fun, and satisfyingly anonymous enough to be doable. Despite the allure, we refrained *. Me out of fear of an over-cooked bratwurst (back to the euphemisms), Lori due to Catholic girl inhibition. Maybe in the end being surrounded by nudists was bad enough.
* I skinny-dipped once. Weak sauce, I know.
Day 3
los conquistadores
What we did know about Tulum prior to heading here is its historical significance to the Mayan civilization. The ruins here are situated on a cliff overlooking the Carribean Sea. While the settlement was never a booming Mayan metropolis, it was a key port, critical to transportation and trade up and down the coast. A mere 8 km north of the Robinson Crusoe, we decided to discover the ruins on foot. We ran the first 5k on a local road, then ferreted through a fence to gain access to the last 3 km of rocky shoreline leading up to the ruins. We hiked along the rocks for a spell, jumping precariously from each bundle of jagged coral to the next. A fall would have resulted in a deep gash and a 20 ft fall into the ocean. I mentioned this fact to Lori after crossing a particularly slippery portion of the trail. Well, I had already crossed, Lori was still traversing the pass when I mentioned it. She, like the Mormon couple, was not impressed by my keen observation.
Before arriving at a pristine beach where we stopped for a quick dip (the nudists there numbered three: a toddler, the completely naked European, and the topless African), we passed by a cove where a couple - he snorkeling some distance out, she splashing in the shallow water with their son - was enjoying some weekend time at the beach. As soon as he spotted us he hopped out of the water and began yelling something at his wife. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but it felt like, "Be sure those filthy hippies don't snatch our son or the picnic." Lori, accustomed to putting people at ease with her smile and quick kindness, waved to reassure them of our wholesomeness. He waved back what appeared to be a greeting, but felt like, "Just keep on moving, human filth."
After the cove and the beach, we recommenced our journey and could see the top of the ruins in the distance. However, upon closer inspection we realized that our shoreline approach would be impeded by a bit of rock jutting out over the ocean, surpassable only with carabiners and rope...and of course the know-how to use the equipment. We had neither equipment nor know-how. I convinced Lori that we would need to climb up and into the jungle, going around the rock, then arriving at the ruins. She gave me the old, "what about snakes and spiders" look. Her aversion to jungle foe was overcome by her desire for companionship as I slipped into the brush without engaging her concern.
Several mosquito bits and a few leaf scratches later, we came to a pile of stones which were Mayan in appearance. You know the look. I lunged forward like Indiana Jones, only to find that we were being kept out by something a bit more modern than Mayan: barbed wire. While assessing the situation, a guy, no older than 20, appeared on the other side of the wire. In my best Sportuguese I explained that we wanted to "join him on his side." He laughed at my choice of words - me treating him more like a deceased ancestor than a random stranger - then asked how we had gotten ourselves into the jungle predicament. "We ascended from the beach." (You see, in Portuguese I am well-equipped enough to carry on a conversation on just about anything. With Spanish however, I retreat to the gospel talk which is the foundation of my foreign language acquisition. The words in Spanish and Portuguese are strikingly similar, and my confidence is buoyed by the topical familiarity.) He told us to climb carefully through the wire, walk 100 yards to the left, then enter the ruins. We did as we were told, and before I could hug him and rejoice in the "union of our souls," he was gone. Probably to join the other Nephite and Randall Starks (makes three) in doing good and secret deeds.
Our entry into the Mayan settlement went undetected. We slipped through a stone tunnel, cooled by the shade and breeze which constantly passes through. We were sunburned and covered in dirt. Even Lori looked a bit menacing. The inhabitants were well-dressed, mild-mannered, courteous, Native Mexicans. I began to feel guilty. The natives smiled at us and commented on the calor. Little did they know that we - the foreign devils - had gained access to their paradise fueled by a courageous sense of adventure and a religion-laced vernacular. History, rudely repeating itself. And we were playing the part of the offenders. Next time we should just use la entrada.
Day 4
butterflies and a rainbow
The only bugs here on the beach are butterflies. And let's face it, a butterfly is hardly a bug; it's more like a pleasant, beakless, non-chirping, agendaless bird. As I was wading in the ocean this morning, watching the butterflies dance on the sand, I noticed a woman setting up a massage table on the beach. I walked up to check out the rates and assess the legitimacy of the operation. It wasn't. And when I saw the hair in her armpits and the mangy dog that was her pet, I was sold. I toweled off and went over for my well-deserved rubdown (every time I get a massage I tell myself it's 'well-deserved' so I feel like less of a twit). I introduced myself and she responded in kind. "I am Arco Iris." Her name is Rainbow. Oh man, even better. It gets better.
After 20 minutes of the sandiest, most amazing massage I have ever had (honesty check: this is only the third massage I've ever had), I extended the session from 30 to 60 minutes. "Is that ok, Rainbow?" "Yes, it is better for me," she responds. Shoulder. Neck. Back. Head. Calves. Foot. "I sprained my ankle recently. It's a bit tender." " You just relax." "Ok, Rainbow." Arms. Hands. Cheeks (both sets). Lips. Nose. "You know you can fix your big crooked nose with an everyday massage." "Ok, Rainbow. Wait. What?" And then, the pot of gold - Rainbow massaged my ear. We're not talking just the casual flick of an ear lobe, but some real attention-giving squeezes. I swear I can hear better now.
Then, without warning, she stopped, pulled the sheet over my head, and left. What happened next I only know because Lori observed the whole thing from about 25 yards down the beach. I didn't know what Rainbow wanted me to do, so I remained obediently under the sheet. While thus waiting, Rainbow calmly walked away from the table and then started...wait for it...doing vigorous cartwheels and somersaults on the beach. As I lay confused, yet patient under a sheet, unknowingly I had sent the Rainbow into a circus-like fit of satisfaction and celebration. I have made people laugh. I have made them cry. I have made people happy, sad, angry, and annoyed. But I have never, ever made anyone do cartwheels. And here it wasn't just anyone - I made a Rainbow do cartwheels. It's like making Michael Jackson dance, or Pavarotti sing. It's what they do. It goes together. And I was the catalyst. Jesus saves! Rainbow cartwheels!
After a few minutes of breathing my own increasingly tepid recycled air, I emerged from my cotton-poly sepulchre to find Rainbow sitting in the sand petting her dog. I thanked her, gave her the fee plus tip, then went to my chair whereupon Lori told me about the cartwheels. "Of course she did," I pondered pretentiously. I laid back in the chair, smiling, thinking about the things I am, and what I had become today: Father. Son. Husband. Friend. Brother. Teacher. Student. Leader. Follower. Creator of Rainbows. I was disturbed from my self-indulgent exercise by the yipping of a dog and the laughter of a woman. I looked over to see Rainbow rubbing her mangy mutt mercilessly. He yelped in approval and she laughed accordingly. And then without warning, she stopped, turned towards the sea and ran, stopping only to do cartwheels and somersaults. Unfortunate. Made more unfortunate by the fact that this is probably not the last time I will pridefully take credit for someone's Tourette syndrome.
Day 5
time
Sleep. Rest. Read. Eat. Stretch. Swim. Read. Think. Write. Repeat.
Time stands still when there is no time. No increments to adhere to. No requisite rigor. On day 2 my iPod battery emptied, and we have not had a watch or clock since. * We attempt to keep pace by the reach of the tide or the position of the sun, but alas, our midwesterness gets in the way. We have learned to allow our bodies to guide us. We are moved to action only out of biological urge or necessity. Hungry. Eat. Tired. Sleep. Restless. Run. This is so foreign to both Lori and me. Our days are dictated by a clock; or rather, we manage our days through the management of the clock. Our chores are assigned a number, and that number is obeyed, like a ticket in a deli. Failure to abide by the order results in subsequent compromise - the next customer complains.
While this approach breeds efficiency, I fear the possible sacrificial consequence. I hope we are not so rigid that voices fall on deaf ears and feelings on a frigid soul. I hope that spontaneity is given space so that we might experience the joy of those who respond. That we become not creatures upon which time acts, but that we may act despite the constraints on our time.
* the absence of a clock became one of the most satisfying and enlightening aspects of our trip. I really feel it may have created something 'sticky' that brings about some small - yet significant and sustainable - change.
the great empanada chase
Tonight we got hungry. Instead of running to the restaurant for dinner, we decided to locate the girl who had sold us the most amazing empanadas last night. She was riding by on her bike, baskets full of warm breads, pastries, and empanadas. We bought a cheese and veggie empanada to be nice, but almost fell over after the first bite. It was perfect.
I went to the road where we had encountered her and waited. And waited. Less concerned with time, more with the challenge of finding our sun-soaked culinary Samaritan, I took to the beach to discover who she was and where she could be found. Rainbow was just finishing a massage, so I somersaulted over to her table. As soon as I uttered, "Girl. Bike. Empanada," she responded, "Her name is Zarah and she stays at Amoreira." We borrowed a couple of bikes, grabbed our map of the village and tore off to the south, in search of Zarah and her empanadas.
After finding Amoreira (a cluster of rustic cabanas and tree houses) completely devoid of human activity (There was a cat. Lori hates cats. Did you know that, Trina? Please don't like Lori less.) I ventured, once again, down to the beach where we found a group of hippies drinking vodka outside a Kelty tent. I called one of them over - Phillipe - and explained my need for the empanadas (again, using religous terms. But this time justified. These delights were indeed "the filled bread of God."). He laughed, agreed with my assessment, then pulled out his cell phone to dial Zarah. After a 45 second exchange he hung up , assured us she had some remaining goods then told us we could encounter her 2 km down the road on her bike. I wasn't even concerned when he referred to the empanadas as los hombres (the men), even though I should have probably asked for clarification. By that point our focus had become even more singular. We exchanged pleasantries and he invited us to stay at his hotel next time we were in town. It wasn't built yet, but it would be once he secured the right permits.
True to their word, after about 5 more minutes by bike, there was Zarah. We bought 5 empanadas, she thanked us for our efforts, and we assured her that we would have travelled five times as far. "Not since the mannah was deposited in the hands of the children of...oh, nevermind, these empanadas are amazing." On our way back to the Robinson Crusoe, riding beach cruisers on a crude road, under a canopy of tropical vegetation, I mentioned to Lori that if there was a soundtrack to this adventure, it would be Jack Johnson on every track.
We ate the empanadas on our porch, then headed to the shop for milkshakes. As we walked in, we were greeted by familiar lyrics spilling cooly from the speakers.
And there were so many fewer questions, when stars were still just the holes to heaven...
Day 6
look! another rainbow
Lori just wrapped up her time with Rainbow. While Lori did not incite cartwheels or somersaults (thank you. thank you.), she did get the following: "You are so beautiful. And my soul has revealed to me that we were sisters in a previous life. I start to cry when I first see you. It was very strong. We lived in Europe. And we were very poor. Do you feel it?" Lori of course nervously confirmed the stirrings with an uncomfortable giggle, and "Uh huh! Awesome." I wanted to know more, so I asked what country it was that they lived in. I received no specifics from Rainbow, only a vague, "Italy, maybe?"
And so we parted ways. Me, remembered as the crooked nosed canine. Lori as the beautiful Italian sister of a Rainbow. Of course.
Day 7
back home
I get a sinking, although not paralyzing, feeling every time I leave the house. I fear that I will miss something. I fear that time and distance will create some gap between my children and me. I can rationally convince myself of its foolishness, but I just as quickly validate my worry with the monotony and sway of daily experience. My fear is not that any one day I will miss out on that something; rather it is a fear that each day's distractions, pursuits, and vain ambitions are added to the previous day's, and that the sum will slowly carry me away. This lack of trust in myself is a bit embarrassing...yet, welcome. It is less a jerky nagging, but rather a taut and steady pull. Back to earth. Back to love. Back home.
Lori just wrapped up her time with Rainbow. While Lori did not incite cartwheels or somersaults (thank you. thank you.), she did get the following: "You are so beautiful. And my soul has revealed to me that we were sisters in a previous life. I start to cry when I first see you. It was very strong. We lived in Europe. And we were very poor. Do you feel it?" Lori of course nervously confirmed the stirrings with an uncomfortable giggle, and "Uh huh! Awesome." I wanted to know more, so I asked what country it was that they lived in. I received no specifics from Rainbow, only a vague, "Italy, maybe?"
And so we parted ways. Me, remembered as the crooked nosed canine. Lori as the beautiful Italian sister of a Rainbow. Of course.
Day 7
back home
I get a sinking, although not paralyzing, feeling every time I leave the house. I fear that I will miss something. I fear that time and distance will create some gap between my children and me. I can rationally convince myself of its foolishness, but I just as quickly validate my worry with the monotony and sway of daily experience. My fear is not that any one day I will miss out on that something; rather it is a fear that each day's distractions, pursuits, and vain ambitions are added to the previous day's, and that the sum will slowly carry me away. This lack of trust in myself is a bit embarrassing...yet, welcome. It is less a jerky nagging, but rather a taut and steady pull. Back to earth. Back to love. Back home.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
oh brother
Before Cub Scouts last Friday Brennan engaged in a game of pick up basketball with some of the other boys. Once sides had been formed, one boy yelled out the name he had selected for his team, "We're the Denominators!" A kid on the opposing team perked up at this point, replying, "That is interesting. So, what you are telling us, is that all of you are the bottom half of a fraction?" Guess which team won?
Brennan walked up to me last week and announced that he wants a brother. Like a pet, he sometimes lobbies for further procreation. However, this time his specificity caught me a bit off guard. "I want a brother. Who's good at soccer. Who's my age. I'd like him to be black. And his name could be CJ." Lori and I have discussed the biological prospects of granting such a request, but we both agree it might be a long shot. As a result, I've been checking Craigslist daily for a CJ.
Brennan walked up to me last week and announced that he wants a brother. Like a pet, he sometimes lobbies for further procreation. However, this time his specificity caught me a bit off guard. "I want a brother. Who's good at soccer. Who's my age. I'd like him to be black. And his name could be CJ." Lori and I have discussed the biological prospects of granting such a request, but we both agree it might be a long shot. As a result, I've been checking Craigslist daily for a CJ.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
for now
Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn't know
is that when we're together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand
- Robert Hershon
I'm sure that one day I will feel like this about our children. Although if any of them have a receding hairline, it's doubtful I will want to be seen with them in public. *
For now, my leisurely reading has become splintered; only time for tidbits here and there. Poetry has provided an appealing marriage of convenience. I grew tired of seeing the same six books on my bedside stand, unread. I also sit in the poetry section at the library where I study. One day I grabbed Billy Collins during a break. Then Updike. Even Amber Tamblyn. It provides a mental shot of espresso on days so often chained to statistical models. So, for now my poetry fix does the trick. Norman Maclean can wait.
For now, all of our children hold our hands willingly when crossing the road...except for Ava. She views this gesture as an insult to her independence as a human being and her strength as a woman. Yesterday as I was drinking from a mug she walked up and asked, "Coffee?" "No," I replied, "Cafix. Want some?" "Umm, no thanks," she offered, as she exited the kitchen, purse in hand, sunglasses on, really big shoes on her feet.
Please choose wisely
I say absent-mindedly
It is not so trivial
My daughter, whose first haircut
was imposed upon her several weeks ago
at the ripe age of 29 months, says
Umm, toast, not cereal.
What she doesn't know
is that when we're together, when we get
to a lull in conversation
I sometimes want to discuss
existentialism
(or why Mormons don't drink coffee)
For now, my sentimentality as a father resides in the future, not the past.
* Just kidding, bald friends.
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn't know
is that when we're together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand
- Robert Hershon
I'm sure that one day I will feel like this about our children. Although if any of them have a receding hairline, it's doubtful I will want to be seen with them in public. *
For now, my leisurely reading has become splintered; only time for tidbits here and there. Poetry has provided an appealing marriage of convenience. I grew tired of seeing the same six books on my bedside stand, unread. I also sit in the poetry section at the library where I study. One day I grabbed Billy Collins during a break. Then Updike. Even Amber Tamblyn. It provides a mental shot of espresso on days so often chained to statistical models. So, for now my poetry fix does the trick. Norman Maclean can wait.
For now, all of our children hold our hands willingly when crossing the road...except for Ava. She views this gesture as an insult to her independence as a human being and her strength as a woman. Yesterday as I was drinking from a mug she walked up and asked, "Coffee?" "No," I replied, "Cafix. Want some?" "Umm, no thanks," she offered, as she exited the kitchen, purse in hand, sunglasses on, really big shoes on her feet.
Please choose wisely
I say absent-mindedly
It is not so trivial
My daughter, whose first haircut
was imposed upon her several weeks ago
at the ripe age of 29 months, says
Umm, toast, not cereal.
What she doesn't know
is that when we're together, when we get
to a lull in conversation
I sometimes want to discuss
existentialism
(or why Mormons don't drink coffee)
For now, my sentimentality as a father resides in the future, not the past.
* Just kidding, bald friends.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
faux pa
On Tuesday of this week Brennan decided that it was time for a haircut. Not just any haircut, but a fauxhawk.
Preparation
Brennan had google imaged the exact style he was going after. It was part Cristiano Ronaldo, part David Beckham, part random male model. He made me look at each picture three times, then promise him I could replicate the look on his eight year old noggin.
Trepidation
As we walked to the backyard Brennan nervously asked repeatedly whether or not I could do this (even though we had been through that in the first stage). I assured him I could. When we got to the back door he paused, looked up at me and asked, "I don't know if I'm ready for this. I'm not sure that this is a good decision." "Hair always grows back," I replied. "You're right" he sighed in relief, "thank you for saying that. Ok, I'm ready."
*haircut* (mostly buzzing and silence)
Frustration
After announcing completion of the haircut and dusting him off as best I could, he sprinted inside to assess my masterpiece. He jumped up on the couch, looked in the mirror...then dramatically flung himself down to the floor exclaiming, "I knew you couldn't do it! This looks terrible!" Controlling my urge to laugh hysterically, I calmly replied, "let's go upstairs to the bathroom."
Elation
4 ounces of hair gel and 15 seconds of hairspray later and the fauxhawk was spiky perfection. His furrowed brow broke, and a smile emerged. "I love it. It's perfect." He watched its reflection like it was a newborn; endless adoration and amazement for a completely unresponsive inanimate object.
xxxxxxxx
Preparation
Last year I purchased a pair of Levis that were a perfect fit everywhere but the inseam. Shocker, I know. I took them to my alteration specialist (?!), Kim, and told her that I needed the jeans shorter, but I wanted to keep the original hem. Also, I wanted the hem reconnected with red thread. She smiled and reluctantly accepted the odd request.
Trepidation
I smiled, and nervously left the Levis with her, knowing she may destroy what could be a perfect pair of jeans (either by getting the length wrong, or using some thread other than red).
*sewing* (I'm assuming a lot of humming and Christian rock on the radio)
Frustration
Three days later when I went to pick them up, I pulled them out of the plastic only to find that she had reconstructed my Levis with navy thread. I'm a reasonable guy. I don't like to make a fuss when I'm a customer. Especially not with Kim, my alteration specialist. But it had to be red. I reminded her of my original request, which she immediately remembered. She said she'd redo it. Then added, with annoyance oozing through her Cambodian accent, "You be silly boy."
Elation
Maybe so, but I be silly boy rocking some red thread on my hem...and to this day, they are my favorite pair of jeans. Sometimes I watch their reflection in the mirror. But they are animate. Because I'm dancing in them.
xxxxxxxxx
Style decisions may be based on modeling (copy cat), rebellion, or simply some idea that has no basis for being cool, but cannot be altered. And must be executed. Soon.
Brennan, if you read this when you are 15, it might be kind of embarrassing for you. Not because I made my observations of you public, but because you will still be doing this stuff in 7 years. And at 31. Trust your pa on this one.
Preparation
Brennan had google imaged the exact style he was going after. It was part Cristiano Ronaldo, part David Beckham, part random male model. He made me look at each picture three times, then promise him I could replicate the look on his eight year old noggin.
Trepidation
As we walked to the backyard Brennan nervously asked repeatedly whether or not I could do this (even though we had been through that in the first stage). I assured him I could. When we got to the back door he paused, looked up at me and asked, "I don't know if I'm ready for this. I'm not sure that this is a good decision." "Hair always grows back," I replied. "You're right" he sighed in relief, "thank you for saying that. Ok, I'm ready."
*haircut* (mostly buzzing and silence)
Frustration
After announcing completion of the haircut and dusting him off as best I could, he sprinted inside to assess my masterpiece. He jumped up on the couch, looked in the mirror...then dramatically flung himself down to the floor exclaiming, "I knew you couldn't do it! This looks terrible!" Controlling my urge to laugh hysterically, I calmly replied, "let's go upstairs to the bathroom."
Elation
4 ounces of hair gel and 15 seconds of hairspray later and the fauxhawk was spiky perfection. His furrowed brow broke, and a smile emerged. "I love it. It's perfect." He watched its reflection like it was a newborn; endless adoration and amazement for a completely unresponsive inanimate object.
xxxxxxxx
Preparation
Last year I purchased a pair of Levis that were a perfect fit everywhere but the inseam. Shocker, I know. I took them to my alteration specialist (?!), Kim, and told her that I needed the jeans shorter, but I wanted to keep the original hem. Also, I wanted the hem reconnected with red thread. She smiled and reluctantly accepted the odd request.
Trepidation
I smiled, and nervously left the Levis with her, knowing she may destroy what could be a perfect pair of jeans (either by getting the length wrong, or using some thread other than red).
*sewing* (I'm assuming a lot of humming and Christian rock on the radio)
Frustration
Three days later when I went to pick them up, I pulled them out of the plastic only to find that she had reconstructed my Levis with navy thread. I'm a reasonable guy. I don't like to make a fuss when I'm a customer. Especially not with Kim, my alteration specialist. But it had to be red. I reminded her of my original request, which she immediately remembered. She said she'd redo it. Then added, with annoyance oozing through her Cambodian accent, "You be silly boy."
Elation
Maybe so, but I be silly boy rocking some red thread on my hem...and to this day, they are my favorite pair of jeans. Sometimes I watch their reflection in the mirror. But they are animate. Because I'm dancing in them.
xxxxxxxxx
Style decisions may be based on modeling (copy cat), rebellion, or simply some idea that has no basis for being cool, but cannot be altered. And must be executed. Soon.
Brennan, if you read this when you are 15, it might be kind of embarrassing for you. Not because I made my observations of you public, but because you will still be doing this stuff in 7 years. And at 31. Trust your pa on this one.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
ten (i still love your mom)
10.
let's do it again.
10 more years.
3 more kids.
5 more moves.
4 more cars.
money. and then none.
let's not listen to reason,
just our hearts.
follow with abandon.
let's be young.
boldly. blindly. unabashedly.
laughing at the world,
as it recklessly spins by.
let's assume we have it down,
then be surprised by surprises.
Then again, let's just shoot for another ten.
Come what may.
Eyes wide open.
Hearts abiding, unbroken.
We can be young occasionally.
Force our naivete.
Smile at the world,
as we too spin recklessly.
Expect the surprises.
Expectations low.
Let's continue to grow.
Old together, or whatever.
To wherever.
Knowing I love you. And.
You love me.
let's do it again.
10 more years.
3 more kids.
5 more moves.
4 more cars.
money. and then none.
let's not listen to reason,
just our hearts.
follow with abandon.
let's be young.
boldly. blindly. unabashedly.
laughing at the world,
as it recklessly spins by.
let's assume we have it down,
then be surprised by surprises.
Then again, let's just shoot for another ten.
Come what may.
Eyes wide open.
Hearts abiding, unbroken.
We can be young occasionally.
Force our naivete.
Smile at the world,
as we too spin recklessly.
Expect the surprises.
Expectations low.
Let's continue to grow.
Old together, or whatever.
To wherever.
Knowing I love you. And.
You love me.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
heavy petting.
The kids have recently begun lobbying for a pet. This is a reoccurring theme in our house. The cycle looks like this: Kids ask for a pet. We say no. Kids persist. We buy a hermit crab. The kids are excited for 4 days. Hermit crab (named Colin) dies. We bury him in the backyard. Time passes. Kids ask for a pet. We say no. Kids persist. We buy a cactus at IKEA. The kids are excited for 6 days (they name him Steve). Cactus begins leaning. Then dies. I throw Steve in a smoothie.
This time, since they have so successfully managed pets in the past, they are hot for a dog. Frankly, I think they are psychopaths; they are slyly moving up to creatures of more and more significance to kill. Lori and I are firm on this one. There will be no dog in this house now. And perhaps ever. But we leave the door open and this pacifies the kids (we think). However, perhaps to show their indignation at our decision they are now creating pets. Last week it was an egg. A real, non-hard-boiled egg. "Eggie" was carried around the house and cared for. He did not die. But I'm pretty sure that had less to do with their love of the egg, and more out of fear of their mother if they cracked an egg in the house. Lori is kind and loving until you do something foolish like dropping your pet egg on her area rug. Eggie is now gone. "Has anyone seen Eggie." "Nope, but this omelet is amazing."
A fish occasionally comes into play, but Lori and I quickly dismiss it. I haven't heard anything about a fish recently...until this morning. I walk into the kitchen and see a Ziploc bag on the counter filled with water. Upon closer inspection, I see that there is a single, lonely, floating rose petal in the water. Like the tragic closing scene to an over-zealous indie film, the rose petal taunts me; Nick Drake plays in the background. Perhaps the kids know what a sucker I am for cleverness. I can be fairly stubborn until someone breaks me down with witty humor and/or unquestionable intelligence (being undeniably cute usually gets me too). And in this case, the floating rose petal in the Ziploc filled with water made me want to go out and buy them a pet tiger. And an orangutan.
This time, since they have so successfully managed pets in the past, they are hot for a dog. Frankly, I think they are psychopaths; they are slyly moving up to creatures of more and more significance to kill. Lori and I are firm on this one. There will be no dog in this house now. And perhaps ever. But we leave the door open and this pacifies the kids (we think). However, perhaps to show their indignation at our decision they are now creating pets. Last week it was an egg. A real, non-hard-boiled egg. "Eggie" was carried around the house and cared for. He did not die. But I'm pretty sure that had less to do with their love of the egg, and more out of fear of their mother if they cracked an egg in the house. Lori is kind and loving until you do something foolish like dropping your pet egg on her area rug. Eggie is now gone. "Has anyone seen Eggie." "Nope, but this omelet is amazing."
A fish occasionally comes into play, but Lori and I quickly dismiss it. I haven't heard anything about a fish recently...until this morning. I walk into the kitchen and see a Ziploc bag on the counter filled with water. Upon closer inspection, I see that there is a single, lonely, floating rose petal in the water. Like the tragic closing scene to an over-zealous indie film, the rose petal taunts me; Nick Drake plays in the background. Perhaps the kids know what a sucker I am for cleverness. I can be fairly stubborn until someone breaks me down with witty humor and/or unquestionable intelligence (being undeniably cute usually gets me too). And in this case, the floating rose petal in the Ziploc filled with water made me want to go out and buy them a pet tiger. And an orangutan.
Monday, January 17, 2011
say YES! to halitonic
This past Saturday morning as I was brushing Zoe's hair, her facial expressions suggested that she was experiencing some discomfort. This discomfort slowly turned into disgust, and then downright despair. She finally put her hands over her mouth and nose and exclaimed (hesitantly, but confidently), "I can't take it any more! Your breath smells terrible!" I laughed, acknowledging that I was quite sure she was 100% correct, then told her (face pointing away from her, mouth barely open) that it was a bit rude to tell someone they have terrible breath. She quickly responded, "I can't lie, can I?" Dagger. As I have discussed previously, we have worked with Zoe quite a bit to overcome her predisposition to lying. She has done really well...so well in fact, that she now has a keen sense of honesty and dishonesty, and will call us on it regularly ("Daddy, that joke was kind of a lie."). But, does this quest for honesty quell the necessity to "bear it courteously" all the time? Experience tells me...yes.
Many people are liars, and Lori and I are no exception. Zoe gets it honestly, because we both occasionally (all the time?) lie to spare others' feelings, or get out of things gracefully. We end up breathing peoples' breath as the situation becomes more uncomfortable for everyone involved--particularly when that same person walks away with the same hot stinking breath, ready to invade the nasal cavity of his next victim (thereby passing the discomfort along for them to "deal with it" or causing them to lie if they are indeed prone to the same pansiness). A simple, honest response is neglected in favor of overly-complicated commentary which is both rambling and ridiculous (and needless to say, disingenuous). Additionally, these fibs can also backfire with the people who are closest to us. Knowing that we have this tendency, they either catch us in our lies, or mistakenly presume we are lying when really, this time, we are telling the truth. Truthfully. Telling someone their breath smells with a wink and a smile is way less tedious and damaging in the long run, since the hurt feelings (if there are any) are on the front end, and quickly resolve as opposed to the delayed and prolonged resentment which are the always-in-season fruit of dishonesty for both the liar and the lied to.
Human behavior is way more complex than halitosis, but surely honesty--when kindly and sincerely framed--is more than a cover-up mint, it is preventative medicine. Although, (and I don't say this to validate my own behavior) we all know people who say everything they think (who by some definitions are very honest), and are completely unpleasant to be around (maybe because they lack the "kind and sincere" framing I mention above?). So, I'm not quite ready to embrace radical honesty, but I would consider it a huge victory if we can somehow teach this precarious and delicate dance of polite probity to our children. An ideal worth striving for.
As a result of Zoe's honesty, I've begun brushing my teeth with regularity and am extraordinarily careful when breathing around her. And Lori started kissing me again. Now if that doesn't get me to believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent and in doing good to all men, I don't know what will.
_______________________________________________________
*for a hysterical (and mildly profane) article on one man's experiment living by the code of radical honesty, check this out. By the very funny author of "The Know it All" and "A Year of Living Biblically."
Many people are liars, and Lori and I are no exception. Zoe gets it honestly, because we both occasionally (all the time?) lie to spare others' feelings, or get out of things gracefully. We end up breathing peoples' breath as the situation becomes more uncomfortable for everyone involved--particularly when that same person walks away with the same hot stinking breath, ready to invade the nasal cavity of his next victim (thereby passing the discomfort along for them to "deal with it" or causing them to lie if they are indeed prone to the same pansiness). A simple, honest response is neglected in favor of overly-complicated commentary which is both rambling and ridiculous (and needless to say, disingenuous). Additionally, these fibs can also backfire with the people who are closest to us. Knowing that we have this tendency, they either catch us in our lies, or mistakenly presume we are lying when really, this time, we are telling the truth. Truthfully. Telling someone their breath smells with a wink and a smile is way less tedious and damaging in the long run, since the hurt feelings (if there are any) are on the front end, and quickly resolve as opposed to the delayed and prolonged resentment which are the always-in-season fruit of dishonesty for both the liar and the lied to.
Human behavior is way more complex than halitosis, but surely honesty--when kindly and sincerely framed--is more than a cover-up mint, it is preventative medicine. Although, (and I don't say this to validate my own behavior) we all know people who say everything they think (who by some definitions are very honest), and are completely unpleasant to be around (maybe because they lack the "kind and sincere" framing I mention above?). So, I'm not quite ready to embrace radical honesty, but I would consider it a huge victory if we can somehow teach this precarious and delicate dance of polite probity to our children. An ideal worth striving for.
As a result of Zoe's honesty, I've begun brushing my teeth with regularity and am extraordinarily careful when breathing around her. And Lori started kissing me again. Now if that doesn't get me to believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent and in doing good to all men, I don't know what will.
_______________________________________________________
*for a hysterical (and mildly profane) article on one man's experiment living by the code of radical honesty, check this out. By the very funny author of "The Know it All" and "A Year of Living Biblically."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
D! see?
Dear Brennan,
Some day in the future, one of your little sisters will undertake a life transition/adventure which will provide an opportunity for you to assist her. Your presence will calm her, your jokes will buoy her, and your strength will sustain her. Your assistance will be lauded by your mom and me, and while you'll be tempted to let this occur quietly, your need to publicly proclaim your goodness will drive you to share what you have done with the rest of the cyber-world. You are a great brother, and I'm glad you will do this (the service part, not the self-involved proclamation part).
On an unrelated note, last week I drove your Aunt Maggie out to Washington D.C. where she is beginning the next chapter of her life. I carried her suitcase, drove her car, set her up on a date...and in general provided a calming presence, told buoying jokes, and granted sustaining strength *. Here are the mathematics of the trip:
$100 for food
+
Dad's homemade rolls
+
the one-way Mexi-nazi
+
my materialistic fast (ummmm?)
+
Tortilla Flat
+
West Virginia snow storm (not a euphemistic Deliverance reference)
+
Frenchables
+
Comfy bed (me)
+
Sofa (Maggie)
+
Holden
+
Green Juice
+
True Grit
+
Hair * Tights * Men's Bathroom (me being mistaken for a woman)
+
Normal Rockwell
+
sorry, the Ford's Theater is closed (but we're from IL!)
+
Lincoln (we're from IL!)
+
Don Draper
+
The Teen Witch
____________
= Bye, Maggie. Hope you find your husband (in my best Narwhalian voice).
If you need help interpreting any of the obscure references above, drop Maggie an email at maggieafranz@gmail.com. She has some free time in the nation's capital between feeding the dog and protecting the Escalade from bored teenagers. Or, you can just wait for her to blog my praises for selfless and silent service.
* in reality, there was nothing "service" about this trip. I got to hang out with one of my best friends...my sister Maggie. I enjoyed every second of the trip, and I'm lucky to have such smart, cute, and funny sisters. She had to endure me...and that endurance continues as I satirize our cross-country adventure. Love you, Mags.
Some day in the future, one of your little sisters will undertake a life transition/adventure which will provide an opportunity for you to assist her. Your presence will calm her, your jokes will buoy her, and your strength will sustain her. Your assistance will be lauded by your mom and me, and while you'll be tempted to let this occur quietly, your need to publicly proclaim your goodness will drive you to share what you have done with the rest of the cyber-world. You are a great brother, and I'm glad you will do this (the service part, not the self-involved proclamation part).
On an unrelated note, last week I drove your Aunt Maggie out to Washington D.C. where she is beginning the next chapter of her life. I carried her suitcase, drove her car, set her up on a date...and in general provided a calming presence, told buoying jokes, and granted sustaining strength *. Here are the mathematics of the trip:
$100 for food
+
Dad's homemade rolls
+
the one-way Mexi-nazi
+
my materialistic fast (ummmm?)
+
Tortilla Flat
+
West Virginia snow storm (not a euphemistic Deliverance reference)
+
Frenchables
+
Comfy bed (me)
+
Sofa (Maggie)
+
Holden
+
Green Juice
+
True Grit
+
Hair * Tights * Men's Bathroom (me being mistaken for a woman)
+
Normal Rockwell
+
sorry, the Ford's Theater is closed (but we're from IL!)
+
Lincoln (we're from IL!)
+
Don Draper
+
The Teen Witch
____________
= Bye, Maggie. Hope you find your husband (in my best Narwhalian voice).
If you need help interpreting any of the obscure references above, drop Maggie an email at maggieafranz@gmail.com. She has some free time in the nation's capital between feeding the dog and protecting the Escalade from bored teenagers. Or, you can just wait for her to blog my praises for selfless and silent service.
* in reality, there was nothing "service" about this trip. I got to hang out with one of my best friends...my sister Maggie. I enjoyed every second of the trip, and I'm lucky to have such smart, cute, and funny sisters. She had to endure me...and that endurance continues as I satirize our cross-country adventure. Love you, Mags.
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