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.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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.
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