While preparing for today’s presentation, I looked around a bit to see what others have had to say about marriage. I looked to the sages and philosophers from the ages and discovered many beautiful, gushing, flowing and important words; Words that inspired and affected and sang to me. Words that made me want to marry my wife over and over again every day. As impressive as some of these words were, they in large part lacked a fundamental element important to me when saying something: They lacked truth. They were not necessarily untrue. Their words simply didn’t tell the whole story and they were, I think, likely written by people who had never actually been married and understood that a real marriage is not all candlelit kisses and longing looks. Real marriages, invariably, involves bad moods and bad breath and at some point bringing the other person a new roll of toilet paper as they sit needing more toilet paper. I think these experiences are more common than the sentiments expressed by the smart people. A real marriage is more complicated. A real marriage involves varying amounts of conflict and frustration and concession. As human beings we are all flawed and we carry these flaws to a marriage. On a daily basis, our own goofy baggage muddies the waters and raises eyebrows and sometimes the voice of our spouse, who tries to make sense of the senseless. A real marriage is not a clean and tidy business. It can get messy.
In evaluating the countless ways I have made messes in my own marriage, I have come to understand that while my messes may not be avoidable, the impact of these things can be somewhat offset by doing good things, too. Being flawed individuals, we are going to make messes. We are going to say and do some profoundly stupid things. However, these things need not completely undermine an otherwise good relation. By consciously involving our better demons on a daily basis, we can, on some level, shave the sharp edges off of our bad choices. These involve deliberate and intentional effort, but they are worth it, every time. Things we can do include sharing, giving, understanding and doing, even and maybe especially, when you don’t feel like it. I’ve found that doing something when you don’t really feel like it, is perhaps the most important time to do anything.
First, share: share ideas and hopes and dreams and the last piece of bacon. Share the parts of yourself that are awkward and uncomfortable. Share your fears and concerns. Share a true laugh and a true tear. A certain emotional nudity is vital to creating a marriage of substance. When we strip ourselves bare and trust that the other will not point and laugh, a deeper connection is built and a foundation is laid for a relationship of meaning. This relationship makes both people better.
Next, give: Give what you have. An element of service exists in a good marriage. From doing the dishes to mowing the lawn to putting away your shoes to putting the toilet seat up-or down-whichever the case requires, marriage involves doing things that prevent tension. We don’t always want to do these things, but that doesn’t matter. Doing things we don’t want to do is called giving. And doing these things says “I love you” better than the words can.
Closely tied to giving is understanding. Understanding what to give involves understanding where the other person places value. What matters to them are the things we need to be aware of: How do they like their coffee? What’s their favorite flower? What do they think about and care about? Understanding these things makes appropriate giving possible and appropriate giving makes a happy day possible.
To have understanding is very simple: one must PAY ATTENTION. People are subtle. Preferences and trends involve nuance. Being tuned into the other’s heartbeat is the cornerstone of a successful marriage. What’s important is, unfortunately, rarely obvious, thusly, we must pay attention to the gentle shifts in a look or a tone of voice to direct us. Being distinctly different animals, men and women struggle for this understanding, but by watching and learning and caring to understand, an imperfect balance can be attained.
After the “I dos” come the “I wills” and married life begins. Here lies the challenge of carrying on the wedding day bliss. Beyond the “I do” come other words that are just as valuable. Words like “Thank you” “You look nice” “Can I help?” “What do you need” and maybe most importantly the words, “I’m sorry” and “It’s OK.” Forgiveness is necessary. Given our aforementioned flaws, mistakes will be made and forgiving and moving on is the only way to have a marriage that can sustain the inevitable bonehead moves.
We live a life of days. Each day consists of moments. Some are breath-taking and some are eye-rolling and these moments make a life. Any life and certainly a married life is the sum of the moments we create. Life is not a single event. It is an anthology of moments. We have absolute control over these moments. With these moments, we humanize and encourage and support each other. With these moments, we make the other person feel good and we become better. These seemingly innocuous, anonymous little moments, a delicate touch on the back of her neck when passing in the kitchen, an unrequested, but very welcome snack, a head on the shoulder while sitting on the couch watching bad TV, these moments set the stage and a tone. Acknowledging and recognizing that these small moments matter and indeed may be the biggest moments there are, is elemental. The gentle, yet vital moments of loving being in a moment with the person you love changes us. They connect us and bind us and are the place where our truest smiles live. They are important in the ways they shape a life together. All of the beauty and magic of a married life live here. Having, making and enjoying a life of moments is the surest way to having, making and enjoying a married life together. As the sun rises and sets in a brief moment, so does life, and nothing is more majestic, powerful, or important to a good day and a good life than appreciating the significance of a single moment. Nothing matters more than a simple and fleeting moment.
So Eric and Michelle, I wish you both a life filled with a vast and wonderful collection of these simple, loving moments that will enrich you and enliven you and make it all worthwhile.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Ceiling Fans.
As I stepped out the front door this morning, I suffered many mixed emotions, none of them good. The half-frozen, sleety rain whipped through my several layers and I felt nothing but despair.(no poetic intent here…it just happened) I don’t like the cold and rain separately, but I especially don’t like them in combination. The unfortunate fact that the rear window of my truck was busted out last week did not comfort me physically or emotionally. The day was dark and so was I.
In circumstances such as these, when the depths of my S.A.D-ness slices deep, as it did this morning, I have, out of a sense of necessity and desperation, developed several techniques for softening the blows. These coping mechanisms include: listening to island music and visualizing warm places. I try to remind myself that the pain is only temporary as I count the calendar days until spring.
This morning a fond memory arrived as an old friend in my mind as a savior from this somewhat depressing morning: Many years ago, in one of several lifetimes I have lived, a couple of buddies, Scott and Jason, and I took a road trip to Costa Rica. It was filled with adventure and fun and lots of stories. It was also hot. Real hot. A lot hot. And one night was especially smokin’. So much so, in fact, that I wrote about it then. This thought is what saved me this morning. Here is the story of a night many years ago written in a molten motel room in Merida, Mexico:
“I lie here in the soft bed of our cheap motel room. My back sticks, moistly, to the tainted yellow sheets. The ceiling fan above ticks noisily along as its breeze seeks to tame this brutal night. I see the lightly tanned skin of my stomach keep time with the beat of my heart. The sickly sweet humidity sweats hungrily through my dim awareness as I try to sleep. My roommates shift restlessly in the damp tropical heat, savoring each delicious draft the over-worked fan delivers. We lie, each alone in our thoughts to explore the possibilities of our lives. Each one is presented certain circumstances, through fate or folly, and must decide on a path. We all have, more or less, decided on this sauna to attempt to sleep in, for better or for worse.
I’m sure in the grand scope of life poorer decisions have been made by all, but it makes one think about how we came to this decision and whether possibly this decision is representative of other decisions and the fact that no matter how fast and noisily the fan sings, sometimes it’s just going to be hot.”
I was and am warmed by this memory. It is nice to know that memories like this exist. They are good and necessary. They remind and bring peace and perspective. Many more chilly days await and I think it’s worthwhile to keep my little jewel a little closer to the surface. Even the most miserable of days don’t stand a chance against a dank and steamy Mexican motel room with a screaming ceiling fan.
To quote from “Three Day Blow”, the best final line of any Hemingway story: “It was a good thing to have in reserve.” Damn right.
In circumstances such as these, when the depths of my S.A.D-ness slices deep, as it did this morning, I have, out of a sense of necessity and desperation, developed several techniques for softening the blows. These coping mechanisms include: listening to island music and visualizing warm places. I try to remind myself that the pain is only temporary as I count the calendar days until spring.
This morning a fond memory arrived as an old friend in my mind as a savior from this somewhat depressing morning: Many years ago, in one of several lifetimes I have lived, a couple of buddies, Scott and Jason, and I took a road trip to Costa Rica. It was filled with adventure and fun and lots of stories. It was also hot. Real hot. A lot hot. And one night was especially smokin’. So much so, in fact, that I wrote about it then. This thought is what saved me this morning. Here is the story of a night many years ago written in a molten motel room in Merida, Mexico:
“I lie here in the soft bed of our cheap motel room. My back sticks, moistly, to the tainted yellow sheets. The ceiling fan above ticks noisily along as its breeze seeks to tame this brutal night. I see the lightly tanned skin of my stomach keep time with the beat of my heart. The sickly sweet humidity sweats hungrily through my dim awareness as I try to sleep. My roommates shift restlessly in the damp tropical heat, savoring each delicious draft the over-worked fan delivers. We lie, each alone in our thoughts to explore the possibilities of our lives. Each one is presented certain circumstances, through fate or folly, and must decide on a path. We all have, more or less, decided on this sauna to attempt to sleep in, for better or for worse.
I’m sure in the grand scope of life poorer decisions have been made by all, but it makes one think about how we came to this decision and whether possibly this decision is representative of other decisions and the fact that no matter how fast and noisily the fan sings, sometimes it’s just going to be hot.”
I was and am warmed by this memory. It is nice to know that memories like this exist. They are good and necessary. They remind and bring peace and perspective. Many more chilly days await and I think it’s worthwhile to keep my little jewel a little closer to the surface. Even the most miserable of days don’t stand a chance against a dank and steamy Mexican motel room with a screaming ceiling fan.
To quote from “Three Day Blow”, the best final line of any Hemingway story: “It was a good thing to have in reserve.” Damn right.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Music Man.
Last night, I had the pleasure of attending my eleven year old son’s band concert. I am not using the word “pleasure” sarcastically…this time. Many times, these events are somewhat underwhelming and, if not disappointing, not tremendously inspiring either. Last night was different.
My son sat in the front row of the band with his oboe and nice shirt. He needs a haircut, but, otherwise, he looked pretty good. He sat in his chair, paid attention and played music. Actual music. It was great. I hear him practicing on the rare occasions that he practices and I was a little apprehensive about this big performance. I was wonderfully surprised.
The band played together and sounded good, with no screeching or honking mistakes that stood out. I was proud and happy to be there and was somewhat changed in my opinion about these experiences. I am usually pretty supportive of any interest my kids have, but this doesn’t always mean I am interested myself. Seeing my son as a talented young man and witnessing him becoming more than just my little guy trying new stuff draws a line that is nice to be on the other side of. I am getting true glimpses at his dawning future and it’s a good picture.
Many possible, but uncertain futures await our kids. With daily choices and the inevitable results, the efficacy of our parenting is called to the mat. It is nice to feel that, at least in a few ways, I haven’t screwed my boy up too bad yet, and I have reason for optimism.
Perhaps last night’s most significant moment, for me, occurred when Mr. Fosberg spoke. (Note here that Mr. Fosberg has been teaching music for a long time. So long, in fact, that I was in his guitar class in 1982 or ‘83 at Pacific Middle School. One of the few highlights of my junior high years happened during this class: Sebastian, an “interesting” kid, in a not-uncommon tantrum, hit hot girl, Leslie, with his guitar. It was beautifully outrageous; the stuff of legends.)
I remember Mr. Fosberg fondly, the way one remembers an eccentric uncle or family friend. He had crazy blond hair and wore some funky suits. He was, even then, passionate about music and teaching music. While, unfortunately, his bug did not really bite me, it bit many others and, after seeing him last night, I feel like I missed something very cool. His love and passion has inspired and enriched the lives of many, many kids and continues to. The world is better because of this and I am happy that people like him exist at all. They are important people and the world needs them and probably many more of them.
During his introduction speech last night, he spoke of the kids and music. His love, commitment and genuine interest in both of them took over the auditorium. Passion sells. And he sold it. Speaking of how music awakens the souls and lives of kids and creates collaboration and opportunity and joy, Mr. Fosberg lit the fire. Kids come alive with music, he said. He told us to appreciate the sometimes strange noises coming from our kids’ bedrooms in the evening. They were our kids’ spirits and dreams, as sound. His plea to recognize, support and encourage music programs in young lives was inspiring and real. He was not faking it. He felt it and believed it. It was the truth and he made a believer out of me and likely many others. The value of this truth cannot be overstated.
The value of the truth is responsible for any achievement or success anyone ever attains. In our persistent search for this elusive treasure, we often find something less, but we keep looking anyway. I witnessed it last night in a crowded high school auditorium. The truth is alive. Once in a while, we encounter these beautiful reminders that truths live. Not often enough, but on a rare and beautiful occasion, a hero will speak and when this happens, it is good to listen. Not only to the message, but to the heart speaking it. The truth lives here and even though it sometimes seems hard to come by in our daily lives, it is, I believe, important to see a truth and to know, without doubt, that it exists at all.
My son sat in the front row of the band with his oboe and nice shirt. He needs a haircut, but, otherwise, he looked pretty good. He sat in his chair, paid attention and played music. Actual music. It was great. I hear him practicing on the rare occasions that he practices and I was a little apprehensive about this big performance. I was wonderfully surprised.
The band played together and sounded good, with no screeching or honking mistakes that stood out. I was proud and happy to be there and was somewhat changed in my opinion about these experiences. I am usually pretty supportive of any interest my kids have, but this doesn’t always mean I am interested myself. Seeing my son as a talented young man and witnessing him becoming more than just my little guy trying new stuff draws a line that is nice to be on the other side of. I am getting true glimpses at his dawning future and it’s a good picture.
Many possible, but uncertain futures await our kids. With daily choices and the inevitable results, the efficacy of our parenting is called to the mat. It is nice to feel that, at least in a few ways, I haven’t screwed my boy up too bad yet, and I have reason for optimism.
Perhaps last night’s most significant moment, for me, occurred when Mr. Fosberg spoke. (Note here that Mr. Fosberg has been teaching music for a long time. So long, in fact, that I was in his guitar class in 1982 or ‘83 at Pacific Middle School. One of the few highlights of my junior high years happened during this class: Sebastian, an “interesting” kid, in a not-uncommon tantrum, hit hot girl, Leslie, with his guitar. It was beautifully outrageous; the stuff of legends.)
I remember Mr. Fosberg fondly, the way one remembers an eccentric uncle or family friend. He had crazy blond hair and wore some funky suits. He was, even then, passionate about music and teaching music. While, unfortunately, his bug did not really bite me, it bit many others and, after seeing him last night, I feel like I missed something very cool. His love and passion has inspired and enriched the lives of many, many kids and continues to. The world is better because of this and I am happy that people like him exist at all. They are important people and the world needs them and probably many more of them.
During his introduction speech last night, he spoke of the kids and music. His love, commitment and genuine interest in both of them took over the auditorium. Passion sells. And he sold it. Speaking of how music awakens the souls and lives of kids and creates collaboration and opportunity and joy, Mr. Fosberg lit the fire. Kids come alive with music, he said. He told us to appreciate the sometimes strange noises coming from our kids’ bedrooms in the evening. They were our kids’ spirits and dreams, as sound. His plea to recognize, support and encourage music programs in young lives was inspiring and real. He was not faking it. He felt it and believed it. It was the truth and he made a believer out of me and likely many others. The value of this truth cannot be overstated.
The value of the truth is responsible for any achievement or success anyone ever attains. In our persistent search for this elusive treasure, we often find something less, but we keep looking anyway. I witnessed it last night in a crowded high school auditorium. The truth is alive. Once in a while, we encounter these beautiful reminders that truths live. Not often enough, but on a rare and beautiful occasion, a hero will speak and when this happens, it is good to listen. Not only to the message, but to the heart speaking it. The truth lives here and even though it sometimes seems hard to come by in our daily lives, it is, I believe, important to see a truth and to know, without doubt, that it exists at all.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Maple Sausage.
I began my day with some maple sausage. The sweet, smoky aroma drifting through my home awakened my daughter who is also afflicted with a serious jones for this delicious creation. She stood at the kitchen entry wearing her puffy, polka-dotted robe and wiped the sleep out of her half-opened eyes. She looked at me with dream-soaked love. Maple sausage is good.
Of the many things my young daughter and I disagree on, meat is not one of them. We can connect over the greasy succulence of steaks, burgers, chops, and sausage. My son likes ribs and is pretty indifferent to the rest of it. He’ll eat it, but doesn’t need it. My girl and I need it. We are carnivores. It’s how we’re built. My boy likes the process. He likes standing by the grill or the smoker, stoking the fire or flipping burgers with his bare feet in the grass. I like this, too.
It is nice to bond in different ways with my kids and it is nice that the ways are different. My kids don’t work well together and some separation is good every time. My daughter will compliment my son’s efforts and he will ask her how she would like her burger cooked. We all come together a little bit. Meat is a tasty common denominator. My wife also enjoys most meat, but likes to put strange, unnatural twists on the preparation end of things. She gets a little fancy with sauces and veggies, which, unless it’s BBQ sauce, have no place on my meat plate. Good potato salad being the only exception.
Within the canon of my best days, meat is always a prime-time player, though many foods share this power. Pizza works, too. As does spaghetti. And nachos. I don’t think I am unique in this. Eating and cooking provide opportunities to gather with friends around the holiday or picnic table. With a chunk of rib-eye smothered in baked beans and coleslaw stuck on our forks, we smile and tell old stories and are happy. We laugh about days long gone and we design the days ahead. Our lives unfold or are re-told in the kitchen or by the grill, and good days live here.
We eat in love and in despair. Weddings and funerals both have good food. I have enjoyed a buffet plate filled with cold cuts, salads, and pastries while celebrating fresh nuptials and while mourning a lost loved one. The simple fact is that the food is always enjoyed. It is a constant. Food makes us feel good, even on the dark days. A cupcake or a grilled sandwich or bowl of clam chowder can shave off the sharp edges of the frantic, anxious, uncertain life that most of us lead.
For this reason, upon my wife’s arrival home from work at 8:30, I made her a bowl of white chicken chili. The chili was a gift from a friend. (Note: Food makes a great gift, too.) I pumped up the chili with my leftover maple sausage from this morning’s feast and a dab of sour cream. She was happy and I was happy. Once again, food, and maybe especially the maple sausage, had worked its magic. Food can do this.
Life is often a traffic jam with no clear space in between the cars to move into the right hand lane. A good meal with the people we care about slows the traffic. The fellow travelers wave and smile and make room for us. Food with friends and family makes life feel rich and abundant and good, just the way it should be. The bounty is here, in these moments, no matter what’s on the table.
Of the many things my young daughter and I disagree on, meat is not one of them. We can connect over the greasy succulence of steaks, burgers, chops, and sausage. My son likes ribs and is pretty indifferent to the rest of it. He’ll eat it, but doesn’t need it. My girl and I need it. We are carnivores. It’s how we’re built. My boy likes the process. He likes standing by the grill or the smoker, stoking the fire or flipping burgers with his bare feet in the grass. I like this, too.
It is nice to bond in different ways with my kids and it is nice that the ways are different. My kids don’t work well together and some separation is good every time. My daughter will compliment my son’s efforts and he will ask her how she would like her burger cooked. We all come together a little bit. Meat is a tasty common denominator. My wife also enjoys most meat, but likes to put strange, unnatural twists on the preparation end of things. She gets a little fancy with sauces and veggies, which, unless it’s BBQ sauce, have no place on my meat plate. Good potato salad being the only exception.
Within the canon of my best days, meat is always a prime-time player, though many foods share this power. Pizza works, too. As does spaghetti. And nachos. I don’t think I am unique in this. Eating and cooking provide opportunities to gather with friends around the holiday or picnic table. With a chunk of rib-eye smothered in baked beans and coleslaw stuck on our forks, we smile and tell old stories and are happy. We laugh about days long gone and we design the days ahead. Our lives unfold or are re-told in the kitchen or by the grill, and good days live here.
We eat in love and in despair. Weddings and funerals both have good food. I have enjoyed a buffet plate filled with cold cuts, salads, and pastries while celebrating fresh nuptials and while mourning a lost loved one. The simple fact is that the food is always enjoyed. It is a constant. Food makes us feel good, even on the dark days. A cupcake or a grilled sandwich or bowl of clam chowder can shave off the sharp edges of the frantic, anxious, uncertain life that most of us lead.
For this reason, upon my wife’s arrival home from work at 8:30, I made her a bowl of white chicken chili. The chili was a gift from a friend. (Note: Food makes a great gift, too.) I pumped up the chili with my leftover maple sausage from this morning’s feast and a dab of sour cream. She was happy and I was happy. Once again, food, and maybe especially the maple sausage, had worked its magic. Food can do this.
Life is often a traffic jam with no clear space in between the cars to move into the right hand lane. A good meal with the people we care about slows the traffic. The fellow travelers wave and smile and make room for us. Food with friends and family makes life feel rich and abundant and good, just the way it should be. The bounty is here, in these moments, no matter what’s on the table.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Vuvuzelas and Donuts.
Well, my eleven year old son, Aden, made it through another week. But not by much. It was only by the thinnest of margins and perhaps some divine intervention that allowed this to happen. He is far more confident about his survival than he should be. His vuvuzela might very well bring a sad end to this young boy. I should note, for those fortunate enough to not know, that the vuvuzela is an annoying plastic horn and it was the causal factor in me having watched most of the World Cup games last summer with the sound muted.
Aden’s already dubious fate took another step in the wrong direction Sunday as I was outside working on a project for my wife that involved me missing some of my beloved/behated Seahawks game. My relationship with my home team is complicated, but I always watch them, at least until I just can’t. In ways unforeseen to me, I am much like my own Dad. As a kid, during the Seahawk season, we had the cleanest garage on the block. This was because my Dad’s tolerance for the emotional roller coaster that is being a fan of this team was low. Mine is low as well. Usually after the first quarter, when it became clear that they were sucking and to avoid three more hours of pain, my Dad stopped watching. He didn’t stop swearing. He just did it in the garage as he was rearranging the things that he had rearranged the previous Sunday and swept the already clear floor. It was a form of therapy for him. I, come most Sunday afternoons, find myself looking for similar distractions. Fortunately, my wife is always available to offer them. She’s good in this way, maybe too good sometimes.
So, last Sunday, as I was working on the aforementioned project and deep in thought, my son snuck up behind me and blasted his vuvuzela horn. I jumped and swore at him and though I have never actually weighed a Makita worm drive circular saw, I’m sure it would have hurt had I clobbered him with it as I very seriously considered for a moment. He grinned devilishly and went back in the house. He is intimately familiar with my potential to do him harm and made a rare wise choice to get away from my strike zone post-haste.
Two days later, as I sat on the couch reading with my daughter, he again snuck around the corner and laid on the horn. My seven year old and I both jumped and one of us screamed. I won’t reveal who it was, but I will say that it was pretty manly as far as screams go. Again, the little drive-by tooter escaped any serious consequence besides some more swearing and the usual threats. The kid lives on the razor’s edge and nothing good exists on either side of it or in the middle for that matter. I don’t understand why he likes it here, but apparently he does.
Well, as luck or fate would have it, the tides turned on this marauding little hit-and-run artist. I have a notoriously short memory, fortunately or unfortunately, my daughter has a long one and as my son was in the shower the other morning before school, she walked up to me with the vuvuzela in her pretty little hand and looked at the bathroom door. I knew what I had to do. I stalked carefully to the door and silently opened it, then peeked to make sure he was unaware. Seeing that he had shampoo in his hair and was talking to himself, I knew he was indeed quite unaware. I stuck the horn in the shower stall and blew. I blew like it was my last breath. I blew hard and strong. The sweet blast could be heard by my neighbors and my sleepy, wet, warm boy was now very awake. I saw him jolt and stumble. He made some strange noises and then was silent. Even the most inviolate assailant understands that when true justice strikes, it’s best just to take it. He took it and I was proud.
Perhaps the most disturbing element of this episode was my daughter’s cold, satisfied eyes. This girl has some devious potential that I feel will trump my son’s goofy, mischievous prankster ways by miles. I have some concerns, deep and real concerns about my future. This girl is gonna make the vuvuzela seem like a church bell and I’d better stay on the good side of this little time bomb. In fact, I think I’ll go buy her a donut now. She likes donuts.
Aden’s already dubious fate took another step in the wrong direction Sunday as I was outside working on a project for my wife that involved me missing some of my beloved/behated Seahawks game. My relationship with my home team is complicated, but I always watch them, at least until I just can’t. In ways unforeseen to me, I am much like my own Dad. As a kid, during the Seahawk season, we had the cleanest garage on the block. This was because my Dad’s tolerance for the emotional roller coaster that is being a fan of this team was low. Mine is low as well. Usually after the first quarter, when it became clear that they were sucking and to avoid three more hours of pain, my Dad stopped watching. He didn’t stop swearing. He just did it in the garage as he was rearranging the things that he had rearranged the previous Sunday and swept the already clear floor. It was a form of therapy for him. I, come most Sunday afternoons, find myself looking for similar distractions. Fortunately, my wife is always available to offer them. She’s good in this way, maybe too good sometimes.
So, last Sunday, as I was working on the aforementioned project and deep in thought, my son snuck up behind me and blasted his vuvuzela horn. I jumped and swore at him and though I have never actually weighed a Makita worm drive circular saw, I’m sure it would have hurt had I clobbered him with it as I very seriously considered for a moment. He grinned devilishly and went back in the house. He is intimately familiar with my potential to do him harm and made a rare wise choice to get away from my strike zone post-haste.
Two days later, as I sat on the couch reading with my daughter, he again snuck around the corner and laid on the horn. My seven year old and I both jumped and one of us screamed. I won’t reveal who it was, but I will say that it was pretty manly as far as screams go. Again, the little drive-by tooter escaped any serious consequence besides some more swearing and the usual threats. The kid lives on the razor’s edge and nothing good exists on either side of it or in the middle for that matter. I don’t understand why he likes it here, but apparently he does.
Well, as luck or fate would have it, the tides turned on this marauding little hit-and-run artist. I have a notoriously short memory, fortunately or unfortunately, my daughter has a long one and as my son was in the shower the other morning before school, she walked up to me with the vuvuzela in her pretty little hand and looked at the bathroom door. I knew what I had to do. I stalked carefully to the door and silently opened it, then peeked to make sure he was unaware. Seeing that he had shampoo in his hair and was talking to himself, I knew he was indeed quite unaware. I stuck the horn in the shower stall and blew. I blew like it was my last breath. I blew hard and strong. The sweet blast could be heard by my neighbors and my sleepy, wet, warm boy was now very awake. I saw him jolt and stumble. He made some strange noises and then was silent. Even the most inviolate assailant understands that when true justice strikes, it’s best just to take it. He took it and I was proud.
Perhaps the most disturbing element of this episode was my daughter’s cold, satisfied eyes. This girl has some devious potential that I feel will trump my son’s goofy, mischievous prankster ways by miles. I have some concerns, deep and real concerns about my future. This girl is gonna make the vuvuzela seem like a church bell and I’d better stay on the good side of this little time bomb. In fact, I think I’ll go buy her a donut now. She likes donuts.
Ungrateful.
Well, summer has finally arrived and as I formulate the various ways to create a fun vacation time for my kids, I wonder to myself, “Why?” Those ungrateful dipsticks deserve nothing. I would think, apparently errantly, that with so much at stake my kids would be a little more diligent in their efforts to impress. Much like around Christmas time when their rooms remain relatively clean and their shoes don’t sit in the middle of the living room floor for days. But such is not the case. My kids will shamelessly ignore, dismiss, and/or flat-out betray my pleas for help.
Help me clean the house. Help me pick up their stuff. Help me feed the dog. Help me mow the lawn. Anything at all…just help. I don’t require much, but these lazy stiffs are wily and quite creative when it comes to avoiding work. In fact, they work harder at avoiding work than the actual work would require. They make excuses and busy themselves, dutifully, doing anything but what I request of them. They are geniuses of distraction and disguise. They mask their blatant disregard of my requests with false concern and falser promises. “I will…right after…fill in the blank” is my favorite. I bite like a hungry carp every time. I trust them. This is my fault. They are liars and I should know this by now. They play me like a dime store kazoo.
I probably shouldn’t blame them as I am the parent and, supposedly, should know better. So their behavior is not entirely on them and perhaps would not bother me so much if they didn’t want so much. They are completely without compunction when asking me for stuff, even after I have begged them to do something that they, once again, did not do. I am a great believer in the barter system. Some reciprocal back-scratching is nice once in a while. Again, such is not the case, my kids only want their backs scratched, often, and with the correct touch too, not too hard, not too soft. They are takers. They take and don’t give. Something is very wrong with this system. It is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. I yell and threaten and take stuff away. They are immovable. They are stronger than I am. This is just the way it is.
So, today, I will take them on the boat. I will run through the sprinkler. I will make what they want for dinner. I will play games with them that I don’t like to play. I will let them watch their shows on TV. And I will enjoy it, because it is summer time and even a couple of ungrateful twerps cannot put me in a bad mood. They are made their way and I am made mine. Summer is my season. A little sunshine and heat heals all that is broken in me. I am tan and tolerant. I will give what I have to allow my perfectly flawed kids a glimpse into life’s summertime potluck of fun and I will not hold any grudges…lucky for those eggheads.
Help me clean the house. Help me pick up their stuff. Help me feed the dog. Help me mow the lawn. Anything at all…just help. I don’t require much, but these lazy stiffs are wily and quite creative when it comes to avoiding work. In fact, they work harder at avoiding work than the actual work would require. They make excuses and busy themselves, dutifully, doing anything but what I request of them. They are geniuses of distraction and disguise. They mask their blatant disregard of my requests with false concern and falser promises. “I will…right after…fill in the blank” is my favorite. I bite like a hungry carp every time. I trust them. This is my fault. They are liars and I should know this by now. They play me like a dime store kazoo.
I probably shouldn’t blame them as I am the parent and, supposedly, should know better. So their behavior is not entirely on them and perhaps would not bother me so much if they didn’t want so much. They are completely without compunction when asking me for stuff, even after I have begged them to do something that they, once again, did not do. I am a great believer in the barter system. Some reciprocal back-scratching is nice once in a while. Again, such is not the case, my kids only want their backs scratched, often, and with the correct touch too, not too hard, not too soft. They are takers. They take and don’t give. Something is very wrong with this system. It is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. I yell and threaten and take stuff away. They are immovable. They are stronger than I am. This is just the way it is.
So, today, I will take them on the boat. I will run through the sprinkler. I will make what they want for dinner. I will play games with them that I don’t like to play. I will let them watch their shows on TV. And I will enjoy it, because it is summer time and even a couple of ungrateful twerps cannot put me in a bad mood. They are made their way and I am made mine. Summer is my season. A little sunshine and heat heals all that is broken in me. I am tan and tolerant. I will give what I have to allow my perfectly flawed kids a glimpse into life’s summertime potluck of fun and I will not hold any grudges…lucky for those eggheads.
Busted Toys.
The other night I stepped on one of my son’s toys. It was a red SUV-type truck with a surfboard rack. It used to have a surfboard, but that was lost a long time ago. I have stepped on a lot of my son’s toys over the years. In fact, I have probably stepped on, tripped over, kicked, stubbed and/or somehow otherwise damaged myself on more of my kids’ toys than I have not. Breaking toys is not new to me. What was strange about this incident was that I felt bad about it. I was very surprised on this day that the accidental destruction of yet another trip hazard actually affected me.
Through the years, I have been a veritable serial killer of toys and have been personally responsible for countless “disappearances.” Literally, hundreds of victims have met their demise in the stinky, shallow grave of my kitchen trashcan, covered only by chicken bones and eggshells. I have been indiscriminate in my toy tossing. There has been no pattern that any expert CSI or profiler could reveal. It has been random and willful. I have been able to perfect a straight-faced response to my kids’ queries into where a particular toy that I had thrown away might be. “You must have lost it, like normal.” I can say without flinching or shame. Why do I do this? Simply put, my kid’s have too much crap and I have taken it upon myself to cull the herd. It is a lonely duty, but it is mine.
Independent of my efforts, the life of a toy in my household is a rough one. It is perpetual teeter-totter hell-ride, bouncing between extreme neglect and extreme abuse, with nothing in between. The truck that I damaged on this day had already endured several tough years. It was my son’s favorite for a time and I can remember him playing with it several years ago, back when he was just a cute little five-year old boy with a baby teeth and a big head. This truck had managed to survive, when many, many others could not. While this accomplishment is worth noting, it, to me, does not explain my unusual reaction. I am a jaded and calloused toy killer and I sleep well at night knowing this. Why did I feel bad about crushing another toy that had done nothing for me, but be in my way for years?
Upon reflection, destroying the toy itself did not affect me, rather the toy represented something else that is both gone and leaving more everyday, my kids’ childhood. This stupid, broken red truck symbolized something wonderful and fleeting and its destruction spotlighted the fact my kids are growing older. Its obsolescence hurt me, because, I know what’s coming next…my obsolescence!! I am slowly and surely becoming the dusty, busted toy buried deep under the bed that nobody wants to play with anymore.
While this makes me sad, it comes with, as all downsides do, an upside. They say life begins “when the kids move out and the dog dies.” I cling to this idea as a life preserver. I look forward to golfing more and people not crying in my house everyday. I look forward to watching what I want on the TV with a FULL bag of Doritos. I look forward to fewer questions and less laundry. This is where I am stuck, because these things I will also miss. I will miss the constant bickering, crying and yelling. The silence scares me. My concerns may be premature as my kids are still young and I have a few years to get over my fears and simply enjoy the screaming, fighting, inconvenient pains in the arse that are my kids. They are growing up regardless of how I feel about it and I should embrace this as a natural part of life. So….I guess that’s what I’ll do…..right after I fix the windshield and glue the roof back on the red truck, maybe polish it a little and while I’m at it, I should look for that surfboard.
Through the years, I have been a veritable serial killer of toys and have been personally responsible for countless “disappearances.” Literally, hundreds of victims have met their demise in the stinky, shallow grave of my kitchen trashcan, covered only by chicken bones and eggshells. I have been indiscriminate in my toy tossing. There has been no pattern that any expert CSI or profiler could reveal. It has been random and willful. I have been able to perfect a straight-faced response to my kids’ queries into where a particular toy that I had thrown away might be. “You must have lost it, like normal.” I can say without flinching or shame. Why do I do this? Simply put, my kid’s have too much crap and I have taken it upon myself to cull the herd. It is a lonely duty, but it is mine.
Independent of my efforts, the life of a toy in my household is a rough one. It is perpetual teeter-totter hell-ride, bouncing between extreme neglect and extreme abuse, with nothing in between. The truck that I damaged on this day had already endured several tough years. It was my son’s favorite for a time and I can remember him playing with it several years ago, back when he was just a cute little five-year old boy with a baby teeth and a big head. This truck had managed to survive, when many, many others could not. While this accomplishment is worth noting, it, to me, does not explain my unusual reaction. I am a jaded and calloused toy killer and I sleep well at night knowing this. Why did I feel bad about crushing another toy that had done nothing for me, but be in my way for years?
Upon reflection, destroying the toy itself did not affect me, rather the toy represented something else that is both gone and leaving more everyday, my kids’ childhood. This stupid, broken red truck symbolized something wonderful and fleeting and its destruction spotlighted the fact my kids are growing older. Its obsolescence hurt me, because, I know what’s coming next…my obsolescence!! I am slowly and surely becoming the dusty, busted toy buried deep under the bed that nobody wants to play with anymore.
While this makes me sad, it comes with, as all downsides do, an upside. They say life begins “when the kids move out and the dog dies.” I cling to this idea as a life preserver. I look forward to golfing more and people not crying in my house everyday. I look forward to watching what I want on the TV with a FULL bag of Doritos. I look forward to fewer questions and less laundry. This is where I am stuck, because these things I will also miss. I will miss the constant bickering, crying and yelling. The silence scares me. My concerns may be premature as my kids are still young and I have a few years to get over my fears and simply enjoy the screaming, fighting, inconvenient pains in the arse that are my kids. They are growing up regardless of how I feel about it and I should embrace this as a natural part of life. So….I guess that’s what I’ll do…..right after I fix the windshield and glue the roof back on the red truck, maybe polish it a little and while I’m at it, I should look for that surfboard.
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