Discovered this holiday classic in Emma's school work from last week.
12.17.2006
12.16.2006
All I Want For Christmas
The girls got their chance to meet Santa Clause last week at the Flagstaff Mall. Emma is a veteran on the ritual, but everything was new again for her three year old sister. Neither were afraid or expressed nervousness when it became their turn to sit on his lap. We snapped our photos, as each girl gave St Nick a single item they had been wanting from him. The big man in red would then sweetly whisper this in their ear, "I have what you want."
He gave each of them a little treat and waved goodbye to all of us.
Ellie held back, puzzled. She kept searching her surroundings as we approached the glass doors to exit the mall. Glancing between all of us, she would turn around and stare back at the plastic North Pole decor, heavy in search for a clue. She finally stopped and demanded an answer before we left the building.
"He did not give me my castle."
Abbie consoled her, "Well, he knows what you want and he might give it to you on Christmas. You have to wait for Christmas."
The youngster quickly replied, "Yes, but he said that he had it."
The girls got their chance to meet Santa Clause last week at the Flagstaff Mall. Emma is a veteran on the ritual, but everything was new again for her three year old sister. Neither were afraid or expressed nervousness when it became their turn to sit on his lap. We snapped our photos, as each girl gave St Nick a single item they had been wanting from him. The big man in red would then sweetly whisper this in their ear, "I have what you want."
He gave each of them a little treat and waved goodbye to all of us.
Ellie held back, puzzled. She kept searching her surroundings as we approached the glass doors to exit the mall. Glancing between all of us, she would turn around and stare back at the plastic North Pole decor, heavy in search for a clue. She finally stopped and demanded an answer before we left the building.
"He did not give me my castle."
Abbie consoled her, "Well, he knows what you want and he might give it to you on Christmas. You have to wait for Christmas."
The youngster quickly replied, "Yes, but he said that he had it."
12.14.2006
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Driving with my six-year old in the back seat, Christmas carols are playing over the automobile's speakers.
"I really can't stay."
"Baby it's cold outside."
"I've got to go away"
"Baby it's cold outside..."
Emma stares out the window as the song continues...
"I simply must go"
"Baby, it's cold outside..."
I see her head tilt like a parakeet, as if allowing the words to fall into her ear more efficiently...
"I've got to go home"
"Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there..."
Finally, she shares with me her deep concern,
"Daddy, why doesn't she just get in her car and go?"
Driving with my six-year old in the back seat, Christmas carols are playing over the automobile's speakers.
"I really can't stay."
"Baby it's cold outside."
"I've got to go away"
"Baby it's cold outside..."
Emma stares out the window as the song continues...
"I simply must go"
"Baby, it's cold outside..."
I see her head tilt like a parakeet, as if allowing the words to fall into her ear more efficiently...
"I've got to go home"
"Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there..."
Finally, she shares with me her deep concern,
"Daddy, why doesn't she just get in her car and go?"
12.07.2006
Six In The Morning
Ellie had been working us for a couple of weeks. She would visit us bedside about an hour before our alarm clock would start our day. To avoid her from preventing our slumber, Abbie let her join us in bed until we got up. Before we knew it, Ellie began joining us earlier and earlier.
In order to nip this practice in the bud, we decided that she would not be allowed to sleep with us at all. The night of our decision, she came in around 2 a.m. Abbie denied her access and sent her back to bed. "You are not going to sleep with us," she told Ellie.
Around 3 a.m. Ellie shuffled into our room, whispering to herself loudly, "I want to get into bed." She then stopped, and swiveled her dwarfish body around, and began staggering back out of the room as she reminded herself, "I can't sleep in there."
She then stopped a second time, paused, and returned to our bed. "I can't get in bed. I can't get in bed. I can't sleep in there," she convinced herself in a reminding whisper. She then converted her voice to a normal tone and asked my wife, "Can you tuck me in?"
Abbie, half awake and laughing agreed, and they swaggered back to her room.
Ellie had been working us for a couple of weeks. She would visit us bedside about an hour before our alarm clock would start our day. To avoid her from preventing our slumber, Abbie let her join us in bed until we got up. Before we knew it, Ellie began joining us earlier and earlier.
In order to nip this practice in the bud, we decided that she would not be allowed to sleep with us at all. The night of our decision, she came in around 2 a.m. Abbie denied her access and sent her back to bed. "You are not going to sleep with us," she told Ellie.
Around 3 a.m. Ellie shuffled into our room, whispering to herself loudly, "I want to get into bed." She then stopped, and swiveled her dwarfish body around, and began staggering back out of the room as she reminded herself, "I can't sleep in there."
She then stopped a second time, paused, and returned to our bed. "I can't get in bed. I can't get in bed. I can't sleep in there," she convinced herself in a reminding whisper. She then converted her voice to a normal tone and asked my wife, "Can you tuck me in?"
Abbie, half awake and laughing agreed, and they swaggered back to her room.
11.10.2006
You Scream, I Scream
We were sitting at a restaurant one evening. Our dinner was completed and we were expecting the bill from our waiter. He offered dessert to us, but we declined. As he departed, Ellie began a curious monologue that had reminiscences of the Saturday Night Live character performed by Will Ferrel; the man that could not control the volume of his voice, consequently, anything he would mutter to himself became announced proclamations. The gears and pulleys that regulate her mental processes were transparent, as the word, "dessert" still hung in the air.
With a red crayon in her hand, and a blank, distant look on her cherub face, she began, "Maybe I can just hit me on the head." She simulated a jab with the crayon towards her forehead without blinking or shifting her gaze. "Then I be sad, and then I get..." She paused before slightly leaping to punctuate her thought with a scream, "...ICE CREAM!!"
We looked at one another in disbelief of her outlined plan. The burst of laughter from Abbie, Emma, and me broke her stare as she realized that we were aware of her mischievousness. She displayed a wide smile and curled her body self-consciously. Physically defending herself with an expressive, "What? Did I say that out loud?"
"Have you hit yourself to get ice cream before?" Abbie asked as the laughter subsided.
"Yeah," She answered honestly. "With Grammy Sally." she confessed sheepishly.
We were sitting at a restaurant one evening. Our dinner was completed and we were expecting the bill from our waiter. He offered dessert to us, but we declined. As he departed, Ellie began a curious monologue that had reminiscences of the Saturday Night Live character performed by Will Ferrel; the man that could not control the volume of his voice, consequently, anything he would mutter to himself became announced proclamations. The gears and pulleys that regulate her mental processes were transparent, as the word, "dessert" still hung in the air.
With a red crayon in her hand, and a blank, distant look on her cherub face, she began, "Maybe I can just hit me on the head." She simulated a jab with the crayon towards her forehead without blinking or shifting her gaze. "Then I be sad, and then I get..." She paused before slightly leaping to punctuate her thought with a scream, "...ICE CREAM!!"
We looked at one another in disbelief of her outlined plan. The burst of laughter from Abbie, Emma, and me broke her stare as she realized that we were aware of her mischievousness. She displayed a wide smile and curled her body self-consciously. Physically defending herself with an expressive, "What? Did I say that out loud?"
"Have you hit yourself to get ice cream before?" Abbie asked as the laughter subsided.
"Yeah," She answered honestly. "With Grammy Sally." she confessed sheepishly.
11.09.2006
Boy Named Sue
Here is a little joke I played on my neighbor. He has four daughters and plays the guitar as a hobby. I emailed him the following:
Hey Bruce!
I didn't know you were going to be playing at the Orpheum!
That was a clever name change on your part. Is that so the associates won't know it is you? I have heard of celebrities doing that, like Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. changing his name to John Denver.
How did you come up with that stage name?
I'll check my calendar to see if I can see you play.
Best of Luck to You!
Here is a little joke I played on my neighbor. He has four daughters and plays the guitar as a hobby. I emailed him the following:
Hey Bruce!
I didn't know you were going to be playing at the Orpheum!
That was a clever name change on your part. Is that so the associates won't know it is you? I have heard of celebrities doing that, like Henry John Deutschendorf Jr. changing his name to John Denver.
How did you come up with that stage name?
I'll check my calendar to see if I can see you play.
Best of Luck to You!
11.08.2006
Busted
At a local intersection in town, I was quick to grab my camera out of my bag as I waited for the stoplight to turn green. Across the road in front of me was an enormous bus, with giant brightly-colored letters covering it. Although I have never purchase, or watched one of their videos, I have had my share of back-to-back commercial spots on the Comedy Channel showing glimpses of the infamous (and cheap) smut videos.
At a local intersection in town, I was quick to grab my camera out of my bag as I waited for the stoplight to turn green. Across the road in front of me was an enormous bus, with giant brightly-colored letters covering it. Although I have never purchase, or watched one of their videos, I have had my share of back-to-back commercial spots on the Comedy Channel showing glimpses of the infamous (and cheap) smut videos.
11.06.2006
I Got Dreams To Remember
As a child, living outside of Reno, Nevada, my family and I would take a couple of road trips a year to Northern California to visit my mother's relatives. Oftentimes, these were long weekends centered around Thanksgiving or Easter holidays. In order to stay the optimum amount of time, we would usually leave home in the afternoon or early evening. I realize now that the intent was for me to sleep during the ride, but I was usually too excited to see my cousins and grandparents to simply, "close my eyes and go to sleep." I anticipated the great fun and adventures in store for me down by the creek, inside the barn, and gawd knows where else we could ride our bikes or walk to.
Occasionally I would nap on the enormous vinyl bench seat, untethered by belts or booster chairs, and I vividly remember on a number of trips, being jarred awake by the slowing of the family Dodge Swinger. I always expected us to be turning onto my grandparents' long bumpy driveway to their big, old house. Most of the time, however, we were only turning onto another winding two-lane highway that dropped the cream-colored automobile out of the Sierra Nevada's and into the vast, open, and green orchards, ranches, and farmlands of the Red Bluff, California area. It was almost always raining, or wet from a recent shower, no matter the season. The smell that poured into the back seat from my father's lowered driver-side window, always engulfed me with scents I can still taste from memory. They are childhood aromatic delights that transport me to a happy and worrisome time in my life.
My most treasured smell is the same one that always turns my wife's smile into a disgusted wrenching grimace. I instinctively reach for the handle and lower my driver-side window to allow the ambrosia-tic aroma to fill my nostrils. It is the faint scent of skunk.
Having lived in an environment where skunks are more common than stray cats, I get to recall my early years often, however, being so close to the striped creatures does not mean that I appreciate the potent STRONG stench that easily burns the nostalgia of those dark nights spent driving of long ago.
As a child, living outside of Reno, Nevada, my family and I would take a couple of road trips a year to Northern California to visit my mother's relatives. Oftentimes, these were long weekends centered around Thanksgiving or Easter holidays. In order to stay the optimum amount of time, we would usually leave home in the afternoon or early evening. I realize now that the intent was for me to sleep during the ride, but I was usually too excited to see my cousins and grandparents to simply, "close my eyes and go to sleep." I anticipated the great fun and adventures in store for me down by the creek, inside the barn, and gawd knows where else we could ride our bikes or walk to.
Occasionally I would nap on the enormous vinyl bench seat, untethered by belts or booster chairs, and I vividly remember on a number of trips, being jarred awake by the slowing of the family Dodge Swinger. I always expected us to be turning onto my grandparents' long bumpy driveway to their big, old house. Most of the time, however, we were only turning onto another winding two-lane highway that dropped the cream-colored automobile out of the Sierra Nevada's and into the vast, open, and green orchards, ranches, and farmlands of the Red Bluff, California area. It was almost always raining, or wet from a recent shower, no matter the season. The smell that poured into the back seat from my father's lowered driver-side window, always engulfed me with scents I can still taste from memory. They are childhood aromatic delights that transport me to a happy and worrisome time in my life.
My most treasured smell is the same one that always turns my wife's smile into a disgusted wrenching grimace. I instinctively reach for the handle and lower my driver-side window to allow the ambrosia-tic aroma to fill my nostrils. It is the faint scent of skunk.
Having lived in an environment where skunks are more common than stray cats, I get to recall my early years often, however, being so close to the striped creatures does not mean that I appreciate the potent STRONG stench that easily burns the nostalgia of those dark nights spent driving of long ago.
11.02.2006
Ev'rybody Has A Laughing Place
Last week Abbie and I surprised Emma with a trip to Disneyland for her 6th Birthday.
We acted as if it were a regular day. Got ready and dropped Ellie off at Grammy and Papi's house. Then we just started heading west. Around Bellmont, AZ (12 miles or so out of town) Emma kindly asked me, "Daddy, are you sure this is the right way to my school?"
We told her that she wasn't going to school today or on Friday. Instead we thought we would drive West for lunch. She began to cry.
Around Williams, AZ (about 20 miles later) she said, "I want to know where you are taking me."
We had been holding the surprise for a couple of months, and we just couldn't handle it anymore. "We are heading West. Where out West do you think we are going?" we asked in return.
"I think we are going to Disneyland." she said without hesitation.
So we did. We spent the remainder of Thursday there. We had a hotel right outside the entrance. We stayed for two more days. It was awesome. The highlights of the trip include:
• Mickey Mouse signing Emma's Happy Birthday button she was given.
• Discovering that Emma is a screamer on fast rides.
• Breakfast with Minnie Mouse and friends on Friday morning.
• Premium seating for the Fantasmic show, where the audience sang "Happy Birthday" to Emma and a handful of other girls.
• Meeting most all of the princesses and getting a bunch of autographs.
For me, seeing the amazement and wonder in her eyes during the Fantasmic show was something I will never forget. It was a very magical event for all three of us.
Ellie? She didn't even ask where we were. She had a wonderful time with her Grandparents, and she is fully aware that "next time" she will get to go. Time to start saving for that one.
Here are some photos from our trip.
Last week Abbie and I surprised Emma with a trip to Disneyland for her 6th Birthday.
We acted as if it were a regular day. Got ready and dropped Ellie off at Grammy and Papi's house. Then we just started heading west. Around Bellmont, AZ (12 miles or so out of town) Emma kindly asked me, "Daddy, are you sure this is the right way to my school?"
We told her that she wasn't going to school today or on Friday. Instead we thought we would drive West for lunch. She began to cry.
Around Williams, AZ (about 20 miles later) she said, "I want to know where you are taking me."
We had been holding the surprise for a couple of months, and we just couldn't handle it anymore. "We are heading West. Where out West do you think we are going?" we asked in return.
"I think we are going to Disneyland." she said without hesitation.
So we did. We spent the remainder of Thursday there. We had a hotel right outside the entrance. We stayed for two more days. It was awesome. The highlights of the trip include:
• Mickey Mouse signing Emma's Happy Birthday button she was given.
• Discovering that Emma is a screamer on fast rides.
• Breakfast with Minnie Mouse and friends on Friday morning.
• Premium seating for the Fantasmic show, where the audience sang "Happy Birthday" to Emma and a handful of other girls.
• Meeting most all of the princesses and getting a bunch of autographs.
For me, seeing the amazement and wonder in her eyes during the Fantasmic show was something I will never forget. It was a very magical event for all three of us.
Ellie? She didn't even ask where we were. She had a wonderful time with her Grandparents, and she is fully aware that "next time" she will get to go. Time to start saving for that one.
Here are some photos from our trip.
10.31.2006
Smoke On The Water
I recently discovered that some home insurances cover fires in swimming pools because pools are considered additional structures to the house. I did not know that.
"Fire in swimming pools?" you may ask. Well, a colleague discovered this tidbit from her agent after a fire broke out in her swimming pool in Phoenix.
"Yeah, but a fire in a swimming pool?" you may ask again. Apparently, she had floating candles in the pool for ambiance of some measure. One of the peaceful Molotov cocktails got sucked into the filter and burst into a jet stream of flames through the round plastic cover like a Roman Candle. Again, something I did not know could happen.
I recently discovered that some home insurances cover fires in swimming pools because pools are considered additional structures to the house. I did not know that.
"Fire in swimming pools?" you may ask. Well, a colleague discovered this tidbit from her agent after a fire broke out in her swimming pool in Phoenix.
"Yeah, but a fire in a swimming pool?" you may ask again. Apparently, she had floating candles in the pool for ambiance of some measure. One of the peaceful Molotov cocktails got sucked into the filter and burst into a jet stream of flames through the round plastic cover like a Roman Candle. Again, something I did not know could happen.
10.30.2006
One Thing Leads to Another
Why do simple, mundane tasks become the ones I despise the most?
Here I am, busy at work, preparing files, organizing hard copies into their respective folders, paying bills, etc. when I reach for the stapler for one quick 'snap', and all I get is a limp recoil. The damn thing is out of staples. This immediately puts an oversize speed-bump in the middle of my workflow.
"Where the hell do I keep the staples?" I mutter to myself, or maybe out loud because the dog sleeping behind me lifts her head to see what the commotion is all about. She tilts her furry face listening for a clue word as to why she has been rudely shaken from her rabbit-chase dream.
I open and close drawers in my local cabinets. I get up and enter my closet to dig for a familiar blue, white, and yellow box of tiny strips of metal. Frustration grows and surfaces immediately. Not finding it, I pull apart the strewn papers on my desk. Move some magazines and junk mail. Shuffle through various items; paper clips, thumb tacks, CD sleeves, only to be rewarded with a blank stare.
I draw a deep sigh and slump back into my chair recalling that the last time I had to refill the blasted tool, I encountered the same dilemma.
"I know I put it somewhere that I could easily get to it." I blurt out. The dog gets up with her ears down and quickly leaves the room.
I abruptly yank open the tiny little drawer on one of my "organizers" to my immediate right. The heavy box I have been in search of falls forward and conveniently prevents the drawer from opening any further. In anger, I pull harder on the plastic slider and stray items begin to fall off of the box onto the floor. After closing and gingerly re-opening the drawer, I am finally able to reload the stapler. I place the scattered items back into place and reset myself at my desk.
"Now, what the hell was I doing?"
Why do simple, mundane tasks become the ones I despise the most?
Here I am, busy at work, preparing files, organizing hard copies into their respective folders, paying bills, etc. when I reach for the stapler for one quick 'snap', and all I get is a limp recoil. The damn thing is out of staples. This immediately puts an oversize speed-bump in the middle of my workflow.
"Where the hell do I keep the staples?" I mutter to myself, or maybe out loud because the dog sleeping behind me lifts her head to see what the commotion is all about. She tilts her furry face listening for a clue word as to why she has been rudely shaken from her rabbit-chase dream.
I open and close drawers in my local cabinets. I get up and enter my closet to dig for a familiar blue, white, and yellow box of tiny strips of metal. Frustration grows and surfaces immediately. Not finding it, I pull apart the strewn papers on my desk. Move some magazines and junk mail. Shuffle through various items; paper clips, thumb tacks, CD sleeves, only to be rewarded with a blank stare.
I draw a deep sigh and slump back into my chair recalling that the last time I had to refill the blasted tool, I encountered the same dilemma.
"I know I put it somewhere that I could easily get to it." I blurt out. The dog gets up with her ears down and quickly leaves the room.
I abruptly yank open the tiny little drawer on one of my "organizers" to my immediate right. The heavy box I have been in search of falls forward and conveniently prevents the drawer from opening any further. In anger, I pull harder on the plastic slider and stray items begin to fall off of the box onto the floor. After closing and gingerly re-opening the drawer, I am finally able to reload the stapler. I place the scattered items back into place and reset myself at my desk.
"Now, what the hell was I doing?"
10.26.2006
A Drop Of Golden Sun
Like the upstart of a spring shower, the little voices began as whispers. Before anyone could decipher the crescendo, the three girls from the far back table practically leapt from their chairs in unison. Reminiscent of a water ballet or theatrical rendition of "The Sound of Music" the three children rose and broadcast their final words to "Five Little Pumpkins" to the awe-struck silent classroom. Their mouths agape, their voices pitched high, they slightly tipped their heads towards each other upon completing the Halloween tune. Youngsters and adults alike were pleasantly awarded with a timeless treat of singing angels.
I thought to myself, "Yeah, see the tall one? That one's mine."
Here's a little something from Emma. It may take a few seconds to load depending on your connection.
Like the upstart of a spring shower, the little voices began as whispers. Before anyone could decipher the crescendo, the three girls from the far back table practically leapt from their chairs in unison. Reminiscent of a water ballet or theatrical rendition of "The Sound of Music" the three children rose and broadcast their final words to "Five Little Pumpkins" to the awe-struck silent classroom. Their mouths agape, their voices pitched high, they slightly tipped their heads towards each other upon completing the Halloween tune. Youngsters and adults alike were pleasantly awarded with a timeless treat of singing angels.
I thought to myself, "Yeah, see the tall one? That one's mine."
Here's a little something from Emma. It may take a few seconds to load depending on your connection.
10.24.2006
She Came In Through The Bathroom Window
My three year old has the routine of peeing into the toilet mastered. The other aspects of potty-training are still a strange concept to her.
The weirdest string of words come out of my mouth during these episodes. Lines like "Don't touch your poop!" and "Use the hand with the toilet paper next time!" are just a couple.
Oh yeah, and, "Don't put your hand down there while you are going!"
My three year old has the routine of peeing into the toilet mastered. The other aspects of potty-training are still a strange concept to her.
The weirdest string of words come out of my mouth during these episodes. Lines like "Don't touch your poop!" and "Use the hand with the toilet paper next time!" are just a couple.
Oh yeah, and, "Don't put your hand down there while you are going!"
10.17.2006
I'm Gonna Live Forever, Baby Remember My Name
I have season tickets to the Arizona Cardinals with a friend of mine. We are in Section 404, Row 21, Seats 4 and 5. We are only three rows from the very top of the new University of Phoenix Stadium in Glendale, Arizona. Despite the thin air, the view creates a great perspective to watch the game, regardless of the player's positions on the field.
Last night was the Cardinals first Monday Night Football game since 1999. My brother-in-law worked security for that game against my most favorite team, the San Francisco Forty Niners. Steve Young was knocked out of that game with a severe concussion, which would ultimately be his career-ending hit. The game last night had a number of highlights, including the Bears coming from behind and winning with three defensive touchdowns (a NFL record) in the last five minutes or so.
The most important event of last night wasn't on the field, instead it was in Section 404, Row 21, Seats 4 and 5. It occurred at the two-minute warning as the televised program was transitioning out for a commercial break.
As my buddy, Art said, "We are now a part of television history. I can't wait to see us on ESPN Classics."
The Shao-Lin Hat was broadcast nationwide too!!
I have season tickets to the Arizona Cardinals with a friend of mine. We are in Section 404, Row 21, Seats 4 and 5. We are only three rows from the very top of the new University of Phoenix Stadium in Glendale, Arizona. Despite the thin air, the view creates a great perspective to watch the game, regardless of the player's positions on the field.
Last night was the Cardinals first Monday Night Football game since 1999. My brother-in-law worked security for that game against my most favorite team, the San Francisco Forty Niners. Steve Young was knocked out of that game with a severe concussion, which would ultimately be his career-ending hit. The game last night had a number of highlights, including the Bears coming from behind and winning with three defensive touchdowns (a NFL record) in the last five minutes or so.
The most important event of last night wasn't on the field, instead it was in Section 404, Row 21, Seats 4 and 5. It occurred at the two-minute warning as the televised program was transitioning out for a commercial break.
As my buddy, Art said, "We are now a part of television history. I can't wait to see us on ESPN Classics."
The Shao-Lin Hat was broadcast nationwide too!!
10.14.2006
Like A Diamond In The Sky
As a child I briefly played the viola. In fourth through sixth grade I was a member of the strings group at Nancy Gomes Elementary. It really cramped my style as a football player and as someone as I wanted to be thought of as "cool." I hated having to practice, subsequently I wasn't very good at it.
After graduating from college, at a cocktail party, a co-worker's high school-age son began playing the piano beautifully. He was a big and strong athlete, and he was one hell of a musician. His mother proudly boasted that he had been taking lessons for most of his life. I was amazed and my regret of not continuing with some form of music training weighed on me.
A couple of years ago I learned that starting children on a musical instrument around six years of age is encouraged. Doing so can usually help them with their other studies. I proposed to Emma that she start taking piano lessons when she turned six. To avoid the chance of her detesting the practicing that would be required, I also proposed that I take the lessons with her. In my mind, if I was learning and practicing along side of her, it wouldn't feel like it was a chore or punishment, but instead something we both were learning together. She, as with most things, agreed to it. Well, she is turning six in just a few days.
Last Christmas she received a toy keyboard as a gift. With the pink toy came a song book with sheet music, and letter indicators for each of the notes. Emma quickly learned a couple of tunes by relating the notes to the brightly colored letters above the small keys. The foundation was laid.
A couple of weeks ago, I enrolled her into piano lessons with a wonderful woman that specializes in younger students. I am not taking my own lessons, but I am attending all of Emma's lessons with her, and encouraging her by participating with all of her practicing and homework.
I have recently purchased an electric keyboard online from a 72-year old man, who was very excited for Emma to have his instrument. He had begun his musical career at six as well, and has played a number of instruments throughout his life.
Emma's first meeting with the instructor was mostly an interview of sorts; a way for her to see what my daughter already knows, and where to start with her. During the interview she asked, "Why do you want to play the piano?"
"I don't know." she shrugged.
"Do you know anyone that plays a musical instrument?"
"No." she blankly responded, not even pausing to think of her grandfather, or her neighborhood friends and their families.
Abbie and I were shocked by her shyness, and wanted to answer the questions for Emma, but chose to keep quiet for the most part.
"Have you ever played the piano?" the instructor asked.
"No." Emma sheepishly answered.
"Well, you have a keyboard and you have played that some, haven't you?" her mother interjected.
"Uh-huh." she barely mumbled.
"Do you know any songs?" her instructor followed.
"I know Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." she finally confessed.
Excited by some sort of positive response, the instructor pleaded, "Will you play it for me?"
"Sure!" my little girl was proud to oblige. She turned to the large wooden piano at which she had been sitting at, only to deflate with the reality that happy green, yellow, and blue stickers indicating where she should start were not on this device. She slumped and turned to the woman by her side, "I don't know where to start."
"Do you know the letters?" the instructor pried.
Emma began to recite the memorized letters as the instructor played a perfect rendition of the childhood classic.
Tears swelled in my eyes as I caught a glimpse of Abbie's hand rising to her face to wipe the tear of joy that had escaped her.
Now we are all really looking forward to Emma's musical future.
As a child I briefly played the viola. In fourth through sixth grade I was a member of the strings group at Nancy Gomes Elementary. It really cramped my style as a football player and as someone as I wanted to be thought of as "cool." I hated having to practice, subsequently I wasn't very good at it.
After graduating from college, at a cocktail party, a co-worker's high school-age son began playing the piano beautifully. He was a big and strong athlete, and he was one hell of a musician. His mother proudly boasted that he had been taking lessons for most of his life. I was amazed and my regret of not continuing with some form of music training weighed on me.
A couple of years ago I learned that starting children on a musical instrument around six years of age is encouraged. Doing so can usually help them with their other studies. I proposed to Emma that she start taking piano lessons when she turned six. To avoid the chance of her detesting the practicing that would be required, I also proposed that I take the lessons with her. In my mind, if I was learning and practicing along side of her, it wouldn't feel like it was a chore or punishment, but instead something we both were learning together. She, as with most things, agreed to it. Well, she is turning six in just a few days.
Last Christmas she received a toy keyboard as a gift. With the pink toy came a song book with sheet music, and letter indicators for each of the notes. Emma quickly learned a couple of tunes by relating the notes to the brightly colored letters above the small keys. The foundation was laid.
A couple of weeks ago, I enrolled her into piano lessons with a wonderful woman that specializes in younger students. I am not taking my own lessons, but I am attending all of Emma's lessons with her, and encouraging her by participating with all of her practicing and homework.
I have recently purchased an electric keyboard online from a 72-year old man, who was very excited for Emma to have his instrument. He had begun his musical career at six as well, and has played a number of instruments throughout his life.
Emma's first meeting with the instructor was mostly an interview of sorts; a way for her to see what my daughter already knows, and where to start with her. During the interview she asked, "Why do you want to play the piano?"
"I don't know." she shrugged.
"Do you know anyone that plays a musical instrument?"
"No." she blankly responded, not even pausing to think of her grandfather, or her neighborhood friends and their families.
Abbie and I were shocked by her shyness, and wanted to answer the questions for Emma, but chose to keep quiet for the most part.
"Have you ever played the piano?" the instructor asked.
"No." Emma sheepishly answered.
"Well, you have a keyboard and you have played that some, haven't you?" her mother interjected.
"Uh-huh." she barely mumbled.
"Do you know any songs?" her instructor followed.
"I know Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." she finally confessed.
Excited by some sort of positive response, the instructor pleaded, "Will you play it for me?"
"Sure!" my little girl was proud to oblige. She turned to the large wooden piano at which she had been sitting at, only to deflate with the reality that happy green, yellow, and blue stickers indicating where she should start were not on this device. She slumped and turned to the woman by her side, "I don't know where to start."
"Do you know the letters?" the instructor pried.
Emma began to recite the memorized letters as the instructor played a perfect rendition of the childhood classic.
Tears swelled in my eyes as I caught a glimpse of Abbie's hand rising to her face to wipe the tear of joy that had escaped her.
Now we are all really looking forward to Emma's musical future.
D...D...Did You See the Frightened Ones?
Abbie had the car radio playing one afternoon as she was driving the girls home. The news was broadcasting the latest on the Amish schoolgirl shooting, back east. A little time passed after Emma digested the report in her absorbent mind as she began to ask her mother some questions.
"What happened to the girls?"
"Did they die?"
"Where were the girls at when they were shot?"
Abbie answered as vaguely, but as truthfully as she could under the kindergartner's interrogation, attempting to reassure safety to the worrisome girl.
More time passed as Emma prepared her parting question, "Was the shooter a girl or a boy?"
"It was a boy." Abbie answered.
"Figures." Emma muttered in response, gazing out her window.
Abbie had the car radio playing one afternoon as she was driving the girls home. The news was broadcasting the latest on the Amish schoolgirl shooting, back east. A little time passed after Emma digested the report in her absorbent mind as she began to ask her mother some questions.
"What happened to the girls?"
"Did they die?"
"Where were the girls at when they were shot?"
Abbie answered as vaguely, but as truthfully as she could under the kindergartner's interrogation, attempting to reassure safety to the worrisome girl.
More time passed as Emma prepared her parting question, "Was the shooter a girl or a boy?"
"It was a boy." Abbie answered.
"Figures." Emma muttered in response, gazing out her window.
Hey, Gonna Get You Too
A couple of weeks have passed, and I am suspecting that the sweet asian girl has either found a new target, or has finally approved of my lumpy man-body. She has remained sweet. She has not called me a single adjective. She has been one of my more pleasant kindergartners, even though she always call me Mrs. Weien. I am convinced that is her title of respect to all adults.
Despite the change in attitude from my first 6-year old nemesis, things haven't been incident-free on Thursday mornings.
I have been volunteering in Emma's kindergarten class for over six weeks. Within the first two weeks I had pretty much memorized all of the student's names. I have made it a point to greet each student when they arrive at my Center Time table every time I am there.
The sweet asian girl's group had just finished with me without any name calling, when the Green group joined me for our daily art project.
"Hello Luke" I said cheerfully, knowing that after this session I was going to leave the room unscathed.
Luke sprang to attention, puzzled. "How do you know my name?" he exclaimed.
"Because I am here every week." I answered as he blankly gazed at me. I paused to allow him time to remember, but by the frozen, perplexed grimace he was wearing, I knew that he could not recall ever meeting me. Suddenly, a light in his eyes flickered on, giving the impression that my response had jostled his long-term memory.
He smiled, as if joking, so I chuckled with him and said, "Do I look different to you?": remembering that I had been growing a light beard for the past week.
"Yeah." he chirped, "You look balder."
A couple of weeks have passed, and I am suspecting that the sweet asian girl has either found a new target, or has finally approved of my lumpy man-body. She has remained sweet. She has not called me a single adjective. She has been one of my more pleasant kindergartners, even though she always call me Mrs. Weien. I am convinced that is her title of respect to all adults.
Despite the change in attitude from my first 6-year old nemesis, things haven't been incident-free on Thursday mornings.
I have been volunteering in Emma's kindergarten class for over six weeks. Within the first two weeks I had pretty much memorized all of the student's names. I have made it a point to greet each student when they arrive at my Center Time table every time I am there.
The sweet asian girl's group had just finished with me without any name calling, when the Green group joined me for our daily art project.
"Hello Luke" I said cheerfully, knowing that after this session I was going to leave the room unscathed.
Luke sprang to attention, puzzled. "How do you know my name?" he exclaimed.
"Because I am here every week." I answered as he blankly gazed at me. I paused to allow him time to remember, but by the frozen, perplexed grimace he was wearing, I knew that he could not recall ever meeting me. Suddenly, a light in his eyes flickered on, giving the impression that my response had jostled his long-term memory.
He smiled, as if joking, so I chuckled with him and said, "Do I look different to you?": remembering that I had been growing a light beard for the past week.
"Yeah." he chirped, "You look balder."
10.12.2006
You Say Its Your Birthday
The anticipation months, weeks, and days before Ellie's third birthday was nerve-racking. She memorized the answer to the question, "When is your birthday?" about as fast as she discovered that she loved chocolate. Melissa, her weekday babysitter had been keeping her up-to-date, as well as her grandparents.
We had been counting the days for her; asking her each morning and then telling her the correct number. We tucked her into bed the night before rehashing the details of the following day. "We will all go out to breakfast, then we are going to a hike in the woods. Grammy and Papi are going to come over for dinner, and they are going to bring your cake."
"My Sponge Bob Sdare Tant Cake!" she hollered with eagerness. It was the cake she ordered for her big event.
Apparently, we assumed that she knew about the presents. She didn't ask, so we figured she got that part nailed down. She slept in for her special day and woke us up at 6:45 am. We were all well-rested and surprised by the treat. She crawled into bed with us and we took turns giving her hugs and kisses and best wishes. Then we asked if she had already seen the presents downstairs on the kitchen table. She looked at us as if we were crazy.
"Presents for me?" she asked, dumbfounded.
We confirmed, pulled ourselves out of bed, and prepared ourselves for the expecting wrapping paper frenzy. As Abbie was getting Ellie out of her night-time diaper and into the 'big girl panties' she asked her mother, "Is there a tree too?"
"No, baby, that is at Christmas. Today is your birthday."
"Oh." She was satisfied with the response, and didn't seem too disappointed. Then she asked, "Are there socks too?"
Again she was reminded that on Christmas we have stockings, but today, October 8th, it was the day she was born. It was her birthday.
We enjoyed watching the dinky fingers and ferocious hands dive into and professionally unwrap the presents. Big sister, Emma, was great at sharing the excitement. The honoree soon decided that she wanted to eat at Coco's, so we all began showering ourselves and preparing for our day.
As we were driving to the restaurant, the Birthday Girl asks her mom a routine question, "Are we going to Grammy's or Melissa's today?"
My jaw just about chewed at the steering wheel as I was amazed by her obvious A.D.D. qualities. Then I jokingly answered sideways to Abbie in the seat next to me, "Is she retarded?"
Oh to be young and unconcerned with frivolous things like age and the celebration of birth.
The anticipation months, weeks, and days before Ellie's third birthday was nerve-racking. She memorized the answer to the question, "When is your birthday?" about as fast as she discovered that she loved chocolate. Melissa, her weekday babysitter had been keeping her up-to-date, as well as her grandparents.
We had been counting the days for her; asking her each morning and then telling her the correct number. We tucked her into bed the night before rehashing the details of the following day. "We will all go out to breakfast, then we are going to a hike in the woods. Grammy and Papi are going to come over for dinner, and they are going to bring your cake."
"My Sponge Bob Sdare Tant Cake!" she hollered with eagerness. It was the cake she ordered for her big event.
Apparently, we assumed that she knew about the presents. She didn't ask, so we figured she got that part nailed down. She slept in for her special day and woke us up at 6:45 am. We were all well-rested and surprised by the treat. She crawled into bed with us and we took turns giving her hugs and kisses and best wishes. Then we asked if she had already seen the presents downstairs on the kitchen table. She looked at us as if we were crazy.
"Presents for me?" she asked, dumbfounded.
We confirmed, pulled ourselves out of bed, and prepared ourselves for the expecting wrapping paper frenzy. As Abbie was getting Ellie out of her night-time diaper and into the 'big girl panties' she asked her mother, "Is there a tree too?"
"No, baby, that is at Christmas. Today is your birthday."
"Oh." She was satisfied with the response, and didn't seem too disappointed. Then she asked, "Are there socks too?"
Again she was reminded that on Christmas we have stockings, but today, October 8th, it was the day she was born. It was her birthday.
We enjoyed watching the dinky fingers and ferocious hands dive into and professionally unwrap the presents. Big sister, Emma, was great at sharing the excitement. The honoree soon decided that she wanted to eat at Coco's, so we all began showering ourselves and preparing for our day.
As we were driving to the restaurant, the Birthday Girl asks her mom a routine question, "Are we going to Grammy's or Melissa's today?"
My jaw just about chewed at the steering wheel as I was amazed by her obvious A.D.D. qualities. Then I jokingly answered sideways to Abbie in the seat next to me, "Is she retarded?"
Oh to be young and unconcerned with frivolous things like age and the celebration of birth.
10.10.2006
Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Son
Round three of the one-sided, below the belt, verbal ass-kicking proposed and silently promoted by the cute, innocent, asian girl in my daughter's class.
She was tired of the fat jokes. Instead, she cold-cocked me with a simple statement, unprovoked, and unexpected. In text I know it sounds sweet, like a comment a courter would declare to his precious interest. Do not let the simplicity of her words fleece you into believing that the tone was completely teasing and insincere. Imagine Eddie Murphy singing, "I got a ice cream. You didn't get one. You didn't get one. You didn't get one." when you finally witness the words she slapped me with.
She said, "You have big eyes!"
Wait, she interrupted me from giving instructions to the table about the art project we were working on to bite me, saying, "You have big eyes!" (You didn't get one. You didn't get one!)
My neck snapped from the speed it took me to capture her mean little eyes into my glare. Hateful stereotypical thoughts rushed through my mind as I clamped down on my tongue and returned to the instructions I was providing.
I felt like that one guy in every western film that gets shot off of the balcony by the hero. The one that despite his obvious advantage, the little pistol on the ground quickly out-guns the old crow, leaving him crashing to the earth in silence and a cloud of dust.
Round three of the one-sided, below the belt, verbal ass-kicking proposed and silently promoted by the cute, innocent, asian girl in my daughter's class.
She was tired of the fat jokes. Instead, she cold-cocked me with a simple statement, unprovoked, and unexpected. In text I know it sounds sweet, like a comment a courter would declare to his precious interest. Do not let the simplicity of her words fleece you into believing that the tone was completely teasing and insincere. Imagine Eddie Murphy singing, "I got a ice cream. You didn't get one. You didn't get one. You didn't get one." when you finally witness the words she slapped me with.
She said, "You have big eyes!"
Wait, she interrupted me from giving instructions to the table about the art project we were working on to bite me, saying, "You have big eyes!" (You didn't get one. You didn't get one!)
My neck snapped from the speed it took me to capture her mean little eyes into my glare. Hateful stereotypical thoughts rushed through my mind as I clamped down on my tongue and returned to the instructions I was providing.
I felt like that one guy in every western film that gets shot off of the balcony by the hero. The one that despite his obvious advantage, the little pistol on the ground quickly out-guns the old crow, leaving him crashing to the earth in silence and a cloud of dust.
10.08.2006
No One's Getting Fat But Mama Cass
That asian kindergartner that disliked her overweight letters had been devising new insults for me.
After the obese letter incident, my next visit began with an attack on my beer belly again. In quick summary, round two of this unscheduled and unexpected bout consisted of a disgusted look at my sagging fleece vest as I reached across the low-standing work table. As I stretched, the little devil hollered out loud, "Look at your fat belly!"
Now, I rarely get offended about my physical nature. I can honestly look at myself, see the deficiencies of my features, and not get frustrated or upset with my aging, unfit body. I especially can respect the power of diet and exercise, two things I have not forced myself to do for much of my life. This time, though, was different. This brown-eyed bully was picking a battle of cut-lows with a man!
She probably had scoped me out right from the start, took aim on a less than obvious weakness where I would be completely caught off-guard, and where she could quickly drop me to my knees with just a couple of well-timed blows.
In this instance, it was simply two attacks that quickly put me on my defensive, and I sharply rebutted by opening my vest, "I am not fat, look, it is just that my vest that is baggy." I exposed the inside of the garment.
Luckily, for me, there was another girl watching this assault, and she rushed to my aid, stopping this ruthless degradation of my yearling buddha midsection. "Yeah, it is his vest. He is not fat, He is skinny." the sweet and typically quiet girl proposed. This eased the rabid chimp's attack, like an aggressive animal being sprayed with the jet stream of a hose.
I took a deep breathe, knowing that I would look like a huge jerk if I were to do or say anything at all.
"I chose the high road, missy smarty. I AM better than you." I thought to myself smugly, however, we both knew that this battle wasn't over.
That asian kindergartner that disliked her overweight letters had been devising new insults for me.
After the obese letter incident, my next visit began with an attack on my beer belly again. In quick summary, round two of this unscheduled and unexpected bout consisted of a disgusted look at my sagging fleece vest as I reached across the low-standing work table. As I stretched, the little devil hollered out loud, "Look at your fat belly!"
Now, I rarely get offended about my physical nature. I can honestly look at myself, see the deficiencies of my features, and not get frustrated or upset with my aging, unfit body. I especially can respect the power of diet and exercise, two things I have not forced myself to do for much of my life. This time, though, was different. This brown-eyed bully was picking a battle of cut-lows with a man!
She probably had scoped me out right from the start, took aim on a less than obvious weakness where I would be completely caught off-guard, and where she could quickly drop me to my knees with just a couple of well-timed blows.
In this instance, it was simply two attacks that quickly put me on my defensive, and I sharply rebutted by opening my vest, "I am not fat, look, it is just that my vest that is baggy." I exposed the inside of the garment.
Luckily, for me, there was another girl watching this assault, and she rushed to my aid, stopping this ruthless degradation of my yearling buddha midsection. "Yeah, it is his vest. He is not fat, He is skinny." the sweet and typically quiet girl proposed. This eased the rabid chimp's attack, like an aggressive animal being sprayed with the jet stream of a hose.
I took a deep breathe, knowing that I would look like a huge jerk if I were to do or say anything at all.
"I chose the high road, missy smarty. I AM better than you." I thought to myself smugly, however, we both knew that this battle wasn't over.
9.12.2006
Keep Them Doggies Rollin'
When I really get rolling with work, the hours can pass in and instance. I have to peel my waffled legs from my wire chair to periodically relieve myself. When I do, I typically scurry back to the warm glow of my monitor hastily.
Living with three potty-trained females, I am very conscious of lifting the toilet seat lid. Men, we all should be considerate to the squatters, plus it gives a bigger target so we can pick our nose, or scratch our backside while we make our deposit. I have grown accustom to sharing the work load, and do not typically lower the seat. My philosophy stems from something Deacon Bob told my bride and me during our wedding ceremony ten years ago. He said, "Marriage is like a pair of scissors, you can't cut anything without both sides working together." or something along those lines, I was a little impatient at that immediate moment, but my point is that I let the ladies lower the seat to use the commode. I lift it. Deacon Bob taught me that.
Ellie is finally becoming potty-trained, so we are also being re-trained on what we should and shouldn't do. The other afternoon, right after Abbie and the girls got home from their day at school, I was still working in my office. The girls were enjoying the warm early evening in the backyard playing. Abbie was cooking dinner.
Ellie ran in and proclaimed, "I have to to potty, REALLY, REALLY BAD!" Which is what she announces every time since she has been "converted".
Abbie told her to go to the bathroom. She did. Then she began to scream and holler. Abbie rushed to her aid.
A few minutes later, Abbie entered my office, draped her elbow on the edge of my desk and reminded me that I need to lower the toilet seat for Ellie's sake. "She just about got baptized!" she informed me. "Sorry" I said with a shit-eating grin.
About an hour or so later, after dinner, Abbie was drawing a bath for the girls. My bladder was screaming at me, and I jaunted to the downstairs restroom, quickly. I raised the toilet seat lid when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I nearly sprayed all over the porcelain throne as I giggled at what I saw.
When I really get rolling with work, the hours can pass in and instance. I have to peel my waffled legs from my wire chair to periodically relieve myself. When I do, I typically scurry back to the warm glow of my monitor hastily.
Living with three potty-trained females, I am very conscious of lifting the toilet seat lid. Men, we all should be considerate to the squatters, plus it gives a bigger target so we can pick our nose, or scratch our backside while we make our deposit. I have grown accustom to sharing the work load, and do not typically lower the seat. My philosophy stems from something Deacon Bob told my bride and me during our wedding ceremony ten years ago. He said, "Marriage is like a pair of scissors, you can't cut anything without both sides working together." or something along those lines, I was a little impatient at that immediate moment, but my point is that I let the ladies lower the seat to use the commode. I lift it. Deacon Bob taught me that.
Ellie is finally becoming potty-trained, so we are also being re-trained on what we should and shouldn't do. The other afternoon, right after Abbie and the girls got home from their day at school, I was still working in my office. The girls were enjoying the warm early evening in the backyard playing. Abbie was cooking dinner.
Ellie ran in and proclaimed, "I have to to potty, REALLY, REALLY BAD!" Which is what she announces every time since she has been "converted".
Abbie told her to go to the bathroom. She did. Then she began to scream and holler. Abbie rushed to her aid.
A few minutes later, Abbie entered my office, draped her elbow on the edge of my desk and reminded me that I need to lower the toilet seat for Ellie's sake. "She just about got baptized!" she informed me. "Sorry" I said with a shit-eating grin.
About an hour or so later, after dinner, Abbie was drawing a bath for the girls. My bladder was screaming at me, and I jaunted to the downstairs restroom, quickly. I raised the toilet seat lid when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I nearly sprayed all over the porcelain throne as I giggled at what I saw.
9.07.2006
Had to be a Big Shot, Didn't Ya?
The little girl was sweet, dainty, and smiley. Her name was, ironically, Crystal; as in "Crystal Clear". She sat immediately to my right in her precious little light blue dress with pastel pink, purple, and orange flowers. She, like the rest of my small "Center Time" table was tracing letters on her laminated worksheet with her black erasable marker. She was chatty and friendly towards me as she attempted to concentrate on her task. The upper and lowercase "A"s were already dry when she finally began on her "B"s. She ever so slightly marked outside the dotted line that acted as a template for the kindergartners. She quickly nabbed the dinky cloth eraser issued to each of the youngsters to immediately fix her miniscule mistake. She stole a glance at me to see if I noticed her misshaped letter form. I smiled at her.
"I need to start over." she sweetly informed me.
"OK" I answered.
"My 'B' is fat. Like you." she explained.
"I am not really fat. I'm just a lot bigger than you." I found me defending myself. "Right?"
She stared at me blankly as I pretended to watch her classmates.
"My dad is kind of fat too." she added.
"Just fix your letter." I ended our conversation.
The little girl was sweet, dainty, and smiley. Her name was, ironically, Crystal; as in "Crystal Clear". She sat immediately to my right in her precious little light blue dress with pastel pink, purple, and orange flowers. She, like the rest of my small "Center Time" table was tracing letters on her laminated worksheet with her black erasable marker. She was chatty and friendly towards me as she attempted to concentrate on her task. The upper and lowercase "A"s were already dry when she finally began on her "B"s. She ever so slightly marked outside the dotted line that acted as a template for the kindergartners. She quickly nabbed the dinky cloth eraser issued to each of the youngsters to immediately fix her miniscule mistake. She stole a glance at me to see if I noticed her misshaped letter form. I smiled at her.
"I need to start over." she sweetly informed me.
"OK" I answered.
"My 'B' is fat. Like you." she explained.
"I am not really fat. I'm just a lot bigger than you." I found me defending myself. "Right?"
She stared at me blankly as I pretended to watch her classmates.
"My dad is kind of fat too." she added.
"Just fix your letter." I ended our conversation.
8.17.2006
Summer's Almost Gone
2006 Summer in a nutshell:
you may need Flash Player to view some links
Quit my job at the university
Earned ten year anniversary
School ended
My Business started
Uncle Charlie passed, a sad reason to see family
Cousin Gaby is pregnant
A toga party in Tucson
Horse races in town
Camped with no fire
For area had already burned
Pagosa Springs and Durango trip
Handed Emma over to her Grandparents
Planted outside
Painted inside
Made it in the Shade
We Beat the Heat
Emma got Kurt Warner's autograph
Ellie got Big Red's
Road trip to Park City for Abbie's 34th
The only place to drink in Utah
Zipped, hiked, swam
Ate and ate and ate
School started, Emma to Kindergarten
Back to the grind again
2006 Summer in a nutshell:
you may need Flash Player to view some links
Quit my job at the university
Earned ten year anniversary
School ended
My Business started
Uncle Charlie passed, a sad reason to see family
Cousin Gaby is pregnant
A toga party in Tucson
Horse races in town
Camped with no fire
For area had already burned
Pagosa Springs and Durango trip
Handed Emma over to her Grandparents
Planted outside
Painted inside
Made it in the Shade
We Beat the Heat
Emma got Kurt Warner's autograph
Ellie got Big Red's
Road trip to Park City for Abbie's 34th
The only place to drink in Utah
Zipped, hiked, swam
Ate and ate and ate
School started, Emma to Kindergarten
Back to the grind again
7.22.2006
Hard Days Night
I was having a hard time not falling asleep during the discussions. We made it home and I fell into bed exhausted, despite the hollering from the partying college students five or six houses down. That was at 11:30 p.m.
12:30 a.m. I was shaken from my slumber from a frantic gust of adolescent yells. I would call the cops, if I didn't have to go downstairs to get my phone to do it. I fell back into my slumber only to be overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. It was strange. An overflowing sense that I was doing something wrong. Ellie was sleeping in our closet because a friend was sleeping in her room. Is she alright? Will she panic?
I tried to shake that thought off and focus on the black of the inside of my eyelids. Then I thought of my homesick, Emma. She has been away with her grandparents in Colorado for going on six days. I will not see her for another week. Her sad face. Her loving smile. The way she gently hugs me and kisses me when she is at total peace all faded in and out of my wandering visions.
My computer, the software, the thing hadn't been working for days now, and my deadlines were still approaching. The sense of irresponsibility pushed out the sad portrait of my distant baby girl. My heart raced, and I became warm all over, then extremely hot. I kicked off the covers and realized I had to pee.
When I returned to bed the digital alarm clock read 1:13 a.m. I repositioned myself in hopes of achieving the same level of unconsciousness I so dearly wanted and needed.
"I can't wait to show Emma her bedroom." the agitating voice in my head whispered to me. We had just finished painting it earlier the day before. I painted the tree while I ran my installers on my disabled computer. It made me feel productive then, but now, the realization that I did not have an operating machine to complete my work for my Monday deadline engulfed me. "What do I do now?" the annoying impostor mumbled in my head.
The big event, Made in the Shade is in 14 hours. Friends from long ago are preparing to converge at our house tomorrow. "When will I be able to fix that damn computer." I rolled over to get more comfortable. "Ellie will be up early and I need my rest." I told myself.
The glowing green from the clock invaded the darkness of my closed eyes. I looked at the clock, "2:10 a.m." it illuminated as the voice inside returned, "I am so fricken hot!
I tossed over again and the voice regurgitated, "Ellie murmured. I think she murmured. Emma is probably sleeping. I need to sleep. Maybe performing a new install on my computer with a different disc will do the trick. Maybe Sunday night when Ellie goes to sleep I can work on my project, or maybe I can get up early while she is not up yet. The beer festival, I hope everyone likes their shirts. I need to give them money back for the tickets..."
I got up, dressed, and went to my office to work.
I was having a hard time not falling asleep during the discussions. We made it home and I fell into bed exhausted, despite the hollering from the partying college students five or six houses down. That was at 11:30 p.m.
12:30 a.m. I was shaken from my slumber from a frantic gust of adolescent yells. I would call the cops, if I didn't have to go downstairs to get my phone to do it. I fell back into my slumber only to be overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. It was strange. An overflowing sense that I was doing something wrong. Ellie was sleeping in our closet because a friend was sleeping in her room. Is she alright? Will she panic?
I tried to shake that thought off and focus on the black of the inside of my eyelids. Then I thought of my homesick, Emma. She has been away with her grandparents in Colorado for going on six days. I will not see her for another week. Her sad face. Her loving smile. The way she gently hugs me and kisses me when she is at total peace all faded in and out of my wandering visions.
My computer, the software, the thing hadn't been working for days now, and my deadlines were still approaching. The sense of irresponsibility pushed out the sad portrait of my distant baby girl. My heart raced, and I became warm all over, then extremely hot. I kicked off the covers and realized I had to pee.
When I returned to bed the digital alarm clock read 1:13 a.m. I repositioned myself in hopes of achieving the same level of unconsciousness I so dearly wanted and needed.
"I can't wait to show Emma her bedroom." the agitating voice in my head whispered to me. We had just finished painting it earlier the day before. I painted the tree while I ran my installers on my disabled computer. It made me feel productive then, but now, the realization that I did not have an operating machine to complete my work for my Monday deadline engulfed me. "What do I do now?" the annoying impostor mumbled in my head.
The big event, Made in the Shade is in 14 hours. Friends from long ago are preparing to converge at our house tomorrow. "When will I be able to fix that damn computer." I rolled over to get more comfortable. "Ellie will be up early and I need my rest." I told myself.
The glowing green from the clock invaded the darkness of my closed eyes. I looked at the clock, "2:10 a.m." it illuminated as the voice inside returned, "I am so fricken hot!
I tossed over again and the voice regurgitated, "Ellie murmured. I think she murmured. Emma is probably sleeping. I need to sleep. Maybe performing a new install on my computer with a different disc will do the trick. Maybe Sunday night when Ellie goes to sleep I can work on my project, or maybe I can get up early while she is not up yet. The beer festival, I hope everyone likes their shirts. I need to give them money back for the tickets..."
I got up, dressed, and went to my office to work.
7.08.2006
My Kind of Town
Enjoying the Flagstaff Fourth of July Parade, we were abruptly slapped with the reality that on-lookers of such an event are not always the Norman Rockwell types. This broad bullied her way into our curb space with the congeniality of a doberman. During the parade, our feelings quickly healed when we noticed that this crack head really didn't like people, and her behavior was not provoked by my bald head, or the loudness of my excited children.
Pa Gene was quick to take this photo for me adequately documenting her crASSness.
Upon further inspection, this is what her tattoo says right above the nicest part of this fiend -"I have enough friends..."
Gene and I figured she lost a bet, passed out in mixed company, or just needed a hit so she had this engraved into her earthly vessel.
Enjoying the Flagstaff Fourth of July Parade, we were abruptly slapped with the reality that on-lookers of such an event are not always the Norman Rockwell types. This broad bullied her way into our curb space with the congeniality of a doberman. During the parade, our feelings quickly healed when we noticed that this crack head really didn't like people, and her behavior was not provoked by my bald head, or the loudness of my excited children.
Pa Gene was quick to take this photo for me adequately documenting her crASSness.
Upon further inspection, this is what her tattoo says right above the nicest part of this fiend -"I have enough friends..."
Gene and I figured she lost a bet, passed out in mixed company, or just needed a hit so she had this engraved into her earthly vessel.
6.23.2006
Workin' Nine to Five
I got to complete a puzzle on the dinner room table with my oldest, followed by a good long trampoline session. I read her a book while we both laid on my hammock in the evening dusk.
The following day, as I worked in my home office, my two year old, Ellie was playing with her playhouses in the living room. She had a character that was creatively named, "Ellie." While she conversed to herself through the dolls, I heard her call to it, "Let's go, Ellie bell!" That is what her mom and I call her most of the time. It just sounded better from her mouth.
I have only worn socks at bowling and at my uncle's funeral since the beginning of June.
I have not been woken up by an alarm for work in that time either. Instead, my children are my wake-up call.
I have had conversations over coffee most every morning.
People ask me how working for myself is.
I got to complete a puzzle on the dinner room table with my oldest, followed by a good long trampoline session. I read her a book while we both laid on my hammock in the evening dusk.
The following day, as I worked in my home office, my two year old, Ellie was playing with her playhouses in the living room. She had a character that was creatively named, "Ellie." While she conversed to herself through the dolls, I heard her call to it, "Let's go, Ellie bell!" That is what her mom and I call her most of the time. It just sounded better from her mouth.
I have only worn socks at bowling and at my uncle's funeral since the beginning of June.
I have not been woken up by an alarm for work in that time either. Instead, my children are my wake-up call.
I have had conversations over coffee most every morning.
People ask me how working for myself is.
6.06.2006
Two for the Show
I realize that many of you are going to think that I am a disgusting piece of work. I would have to assume the same thing considering this confession. I am sure most people are not consumed enough with this subject matter to dump it onto the internet for any bystander to stumble across it. Most individuals would wad the memory right up and flush it down the toilet, never to utter a single word of it's existence to anyone. But this is not your blog.
This is where my warning message must be posted:
If you have a disagreement to potty talk and feces, then I suggest you skip over the following text. If you are disturbed by human waste then I recommend that you do not, under any circumstance, peek at the link posted below.
Ellie is a poop-hoarder. She holds it in for all it is worth. She has been doing this for a very long time. She is completely disinterested in the toilet or becoming potty-trained. We have had to feed her natural diarrhetics for months and months. Lately only Benefiber has kept her regular. Grammy has offered toys as rewards for her to sit and perform on the toilet, but she still has not allowed the toilet to be her friend. She holds it until she can hardly pass it, which only propagates the hatred for becoming an outstanding "trained" individual.
Tonight she was amidst the theatrics involved in order to keep from having a bowel movement. She was screaming, crying, and holding her knees tight and straight in order to hold the lump inside of her. We were outside in the backyard encouraging her to go, but she refused any words, and kept in line with her battle plans. Finally, I picked her up and brought her to her training potty in the bathroom. I held her down on the toilet as her hollered at the top of her lungs. Abbie came in and helped to persuade her as she yelled at me. Within seconds after Abbie told her, "Go poop, baby."
Ellie flatly responded, "I did."
Abbie and I had been listening for the distinctive drop into the plastic bucket to signal a successful download, but heard nothing. I released my grip and Ellie slowly stood to show off her dropping proudly like a mother hen with an egg.
What we discovered was something that blew our minds.
She was so excited, we called the grandparents and gave her a lollipop as a reward and incentive to continue. I think we have broken new ground. My only concern is that she chose to break the habit on 6/6/06.
Of course, I did hold her down.
Lastly, I don't want to hear any shit about me tramatizing her. If you care to partake in the shinanigans of her previous process, then you can wear the badge that gives you the right to criticize me, otherwise, chalk this up as a win for the toilet bowl, and smile with her family.
I realize that many of you are going to think that I am a disgusting piece of work. I would have to assume the same thing considering this confession. I am sure most people are not consumed enough with this subject matter to dump it onto the internet for any bystander to stumble across it. Most individuals would wad the memory right up and flush it down the toilet, never to utter a single word of it's existence to anyone. But this is not your blog.
This is where my warning message must be posted:
If you have a disagreement to potty talk and feces, then I suggest you skip over the following text. If you are disturbed by human waste then I recommend that you do not, under any circumstance, peek at the link posted below.
Ellie is a poop-hoarder. She holds it in for all it is worth. She has been doing this for a very long time. She is completely disinterested in the toilet or becoming potty-trained. We have had to feed her natural diarrhetics for months and months. Lately only Benefiber has kept her regular. Grammy has offered toys as rewards for her to sit and perform on the toilet, but she still has not allowed the toilet to be her friend. She holds it until she can hardly pass it, which only propagates the hatred for becoming an outstanding "trained" individual.
Tonight she was amidst the theatrics involved in order to keep from having a bowel movement. She was screaming, crying, and holding her knees tight and straight in order to hold the lump inside of her. We were outside in the backyard encouraging her to go, but she refused any words, and kept in line with her battle plans. Finally, I picked her up and brought her to her training potty in the bathroom. I held her down on the toilet as her hollered at the top of her lungs. Abbie came in and helped to persuade her as she yelled at me. Within seconds after Abbie told her, "Go poop, baby."
Ellie flatly responded, "I did."
Abbie and I had been listening for the distinctive drop into the plastic bucket to signal a successful download, but heard nothing. I released my grip and Ellie slowly stood to show off her dropping proudly like a mother hen with an egg.
What we discovered was something that blew our minds.
She was so excited, we called the grandparents and gave her a lollipop as a reward and incentive to continue. I think we have broken new ground. My only concern is that she chose to break the habit on 6/6/06.
Of course, I did hold her down.
Lastly, I don't want to hear any shit about me tramatizing her. If you care to partake in the shinanigans of her previous process, then you can wear the badge that gives you the right to criticize me, otherwise, chalk this up as a win for the toilet bowl, and smile with her family.
5.29.2006
And I Just Can't Hide It
It was a similar setting at our dinner table. All are eating, except Ellie, who loves to get down from her seat after two bites of her meal. This always drive us crazy since she usually spends the entire half an hour prior to dinner with demands for food because she is "really hungry."
Ellie also plays this game with us, droning on that she has to poop. Since she is a poop-hoarder, we always oblige her request, until recently. She never goes when we let her get down to wander the living room, so we have been making her sit with us at the table, and try to make her stomach a few more bites dinner until we are finished.
On this night, it was the same thing; constant requests for food, get served, eat two things, then decide it is time to lolly-gag around. I made her sit at the table, after several pleases and threats. Then we somehow got on the subject of Disneyland.
Emma had acquired a Disneyland brochure which both of the girls had embedded into their memories. Ellie is in love with the little cars from Autotopia.
As soon as we touched the Disneyland subject, the teary-eyed two-year old flooded us with crazy, almost undecipherable jabber about what she wants to ride on when she gets to "The Happiest Place on Earth."
"Eddy loves da tars. Yeah, da yeddow one is Eddy's tar. Daddy sit in da back. Eddy drive da yeddow one. It is soooo edciting!" she rambled and ended with her cheek resting on her shoulder and her hands clasped in front of her, resembling a Betty Boop pose.
We erupted in laughter while she continued, adding more emphasis on how "edciting" it will be, "Eddy drive da yeddow with Daddy in da back. It is soooooo edciting!" as she clapped her hands with elated anticipation.
"That's great, honey, now eat your apples."
It was a similar setting at our dinner table. All are eating, except Ellie, who loves to get down from her seat after two bites of her meal. This always drive us crazy since she usually spends the entire half an hour prior to dinner with demands for food because she is "really hungry."
Ellie also plays this game with us, droning on that she has to poop. Since she is a poop-hoarder, we always oblige her request, until recently. She never goes when we let her get down to wander the living room, so we have been making her sit with us at the table, and try to make her stomach a few more bites dinner until we are finished.
On this night, it was the same thing; constant requests for food, get served, eat two things, then decide it is time to lolly-gag around. I made her sit at the table, after several pleases and threats. Then we somehow got on the subject of Disneyland.
Emma had acquired a Disneyland brochure which both of the girls had embedded into their memories. Ellie is in love with the little cars from Autotopia.
As soon as we touched the Disneyland subject, the teary-eyed two-year old flooded us with crazy, almost undecipherable jabber about what she wants to ride on when she gets to "The Happiest Place on Earth."
"Eddy loves da tars. Yeah, da yeddow one is Eddy's tar. Daddy sit in da back. Eddy drive da yeddow one. It is soooo edciting!" she rambled and ended with her cheek resting on her shoulder and her hands clasped in front of her, resembling a Betty Boop pose.
We erupted in laughter while she continued, adding more emphasis on how "edciting" it will be, "Eddy drive da yeddow with Daddy in da back. It is soooooo edciting!" as she clapped her hands with elated anticipation.
"That's great, honey, now eat your apples."
5.23.2006
And a World of Fears
"You know, Kadra's dad grew up in this town, Emma." I mentioned to my 5 year old as we drove into downtown. We were visiting my parents in Woodland Park. Emma was sitting in the back seat of the car, seemingly engrossed with her grocery list she had been duplicating from the one my wife had given me.
She murmured a response, as if I was distracting her train of thought.
"Yep, it sure is a small world. Isn't it?" I continued.
It was as if I had snapped her out of a trance, but instead of clucking like a chicken, she became Socrates.
"You know, it really is a small world," she began. "We think it is a big world, but us humans, we are just animals."
Even if I had some sort of response, I would not of been able to get a word into her run-on philosophical declaration.
"And humans have to just kill some animals because we don't like them. Humans are just animals. Other animals think their world is small, but it is really big. We know it is big. They just think it is small. And we have to just kill some animals, and they just don't know." The rambling was much longer than this, and I know I am losing a great deal of the detail, just a few days after it happening, however, it was very profound. Vague enough to insinuate countless meanings, but deep enough to blatantly state a specific argument. She made me so proud.
I believe that our discussions of the food chain, predators, carnivores, who eats who, and the like instigated this flood of thought from my sweet little girl. Of course, maybe the thought of the song, "It's a Small World" might subconsciously stir aggressive behavior of even the very young.
"You know, Kadra's dad grew up in this town, Emma." I mentioned to my 5 year old as we drove into downtown. We were visiting my parents in Woodland Park. Emma was sitting in the back seat of the car, seemingly engrossed with her grocery list she had been duplicating from the one my wife had given me.
She murmured a response, as if I was distracting her train of thought.
"Yep, it sure is a small world. Isn't it?" I continued.
It was as if I had snapped her out of a trance, but instead of clucking like a chicken, she became Socrates.
"You know, it really is a small world," she began. "We think it is a big world, but us humans, we are just animals."
Even if I had some sort of response, I would not of been able to get a word into her run-on philosophical declaration.
"And humans have to just kill some animals because we don't like them. Humans are just animals. Other animals think their world is small, but it is really big. We know it is big. They just think it is small. And we have to just kill some animals, and they just don't know." The rambling was much longer than this, and I know I am losing a great deal of the detail, just a few days after it happening, however, it was very profound. Vague enough to insinuate countless meanings, but deep enough to blatantly state a specific argument. She made me so proud.
I believe that our discussions of the food chain, predators, carnivores, who eats who, and the like instigated this flood of thought from my sweet little girl. Of course, maybe the thought of the song, "It's a Small World" might subconsciously stir aggressive behavior of even the very young.
Ridin' along in this big ol' jet plane, I've been thinkin' about my home
Our flight landed in Phoenix. We were in row 18 out of 25. At 6 seats per row, we knew right off that it was going to take awhile before we would be able to exit the plane.
The girls had both been really good, but we were nearing the last leg of a long day trip, and we still had at least two hours on the road to get to our house. We were fearing the furnace-like blast of hot air that accompanies most passengers when arriving Sky Harbor Airport. The heat always brings out the best in all of us. The anxiety was beginning to ferment deep inside my chest.
Ellie smiled at me and was dancing to the hip-hop music that mysteriously seeped from the overhead speakers as we waited. I held my breathe.
Row by row, overhead storage bins slowly emptied as the temperature slowly rose. Truthfully, it could of been my imagination fueled with anticipation to get home. Abbie asked me if I could carry Ellie out. I agreed, and was happy to see the two seats in front of us clear out.
I reached down and raised Ellie up into my arms. I grunted. She immediately began loudly chatting to me with a twinkle of laughter burning in her smile, "Daddy farted!" she hollered.
The remaining passengers fell silent in anticipation for an encore of toilet talk from my two-year old as she quickly restated her previous two words. This time it was delivered as a question, that she immediately answered for me, "Daddy farted? Nooooo, Daddy NO farted!"
She ran on, "Ellie farted? Noooo, Ellie NO farted too!"
The airplane audience erupted in laughter as she basked in her comedic glory. She paused one moment, a pregnant pause of sorts before she peeked over my shoulder to see the entertained crowd.
Our flight landed in Phoenix. We were in row 18 out of 25. At 6 seats per row, we knew right off that it was going to take awhile before we would be able to exit the plane.
The girls had both been really good, but we were nearing the last leg of a long day trip, and we still had at least two hours on the road to get to our house. We were fearing the furnace-like blast of hot air that accompanies most passengers when arriving Sky Harbor Airport. The heat always brings out the best in all of us. The anxiety was beginning to ferment deep inside my chest.
Ellie smiled at me and was dancing to the hip-hop music that mysteriously seeped from the overhead speakers as we waited. I held my breathe.
Row by row, overhead storage bins slowly emptied as the temperature slowly rose. Truthfully, it could of been my imagination fueled with anticipation to get home. Abbie asked me if I could carry Ellie out. I agreed, and was happy to see the two seats in front of us clear out.
I reached down and raised Ellie up into my arms. I grunted. She immediately began loudly chatting to me with a twinkle of laughter burning in her smile, "Daddy farted!" she hollered.
The remaining passengers fell silent in anticipation for an encore of toilet talk from my two-year old as she quickly restated her previous two words. This time it was delivered as a question, that she immediately answered for me, "Daddy farted? Nooooo, Daddy NO farted!"
She ran on, "Ellie farted? Noooo, Ellie NO farted too!"
The airplane audience erupted in laughter as she basked in her comedic glory. She paused one moment, a pregnant pause of sorts before she peeked over my shoulder to see the entertained crowd.
4.16.2006
I Got My Back Against The Record Machine
So, here's a new game for you. It's called "Bald Guy Jumping Board". My girls and nephew invented it last month. I think it is derived from an ancient Roman gladiator event, or a Spanish Inquisition torture, either way, it is a hoot for all the jumpers.
The Rules are basic:
#1: Find a bald, lazy guy and trick him to lay on his belly in an open area, preferably a carpeted living room. (If he has a round belly, there is more of a balancing challenge for the experienced).
#2: Start by standing on the sucker's legs, and march your way up his back.
#3: Bounce on his shoulders and then jump off over his shiny white head.
#4: If you fall off, you go to the end of the line and start over
There is no limit to the number of players.
Scoring:
If you get a grunt or exasperating sound of pain from the baldy, you get a point
If you clear his noggin, you get two points.
If you land on his smooth melon, you get one point
If you land on your feet, you get three points
Bonus points are awarded for style and distance of jump, this includes the use of props such as stuffed animals resembling the President.
To Win:
The first one to one hundred, wins!
So we played it once.
When I came to, I believe I heard that Ellie won.
So, here's a new game for you. It's called "Bald Guy Jumping Board". My girls and nephew invented it last month. I think it is derived from an ancient Roman gladiator event, or a Spanish Inquisition torture, either way, it is a hoot for all the jumpers.
The Rules are basic:
#1: Find a bald, lazy guy and trick him to lay on his belly in an open area, preferably a carpeted living room. (If he has a round belly, there is more of a balancing challenge for the experienced).
#2: Start by standing on the sucker's legs, and march your way up his back.
#3: Bounce on his shoulders and then jump off over his shiny white head.
#4: If you fall off, you go to the end of the line and start over
There is no limit to the number of players.
Scoring:
If you get a grunt or exasperating sound of pain from the baldy, you get a point
If you clear his noggin, you get two points.
If you land on his smooth melon, you get one point
If you land on your feet, you get three points
Bonus points are awarded for style and distance of jump, this includes the use of props such as stuffed animals resembling the President.
To Win:
The first one to one hundred, wins!
So we played it once.
When I came to, I believe I heard that Ellie won.
4.05.2006
Mother's Little Helper
It was time for us to give Ellie her Mylanta to help her continuing constipation situation. Before anyone gets too excited about this, Ellie has a love-hate relationship with her bowels. She is constantly holding in her "business" until she is so backed-up, she nearly bursts at the seams. We have to coax her into a BM on a daily basis, so potty-training is pretty much on hold until we can get past this desire to keep it to herself. So where was I? Yes, the Mylanta Exchange.
We have tried a multitude of strategies for this, all of which seem to have only worked once. Usually a bribe for a cookie, or candy, or ice cream does the trick, however, this night they were as successful as pulling out a week-old dinner from the refrigerator; nothing was going to get her to take that darned cherry-flavored, milky shot of Mylanta.
We tried the tender talk approach. The one where we try to thoroughly explain that it helps her tummy, yada, yada, yada. The soft words were drained out by her yelping screams of disgust.
We finally had to pull out the big guns and use the "daddy" voice to get the job done. Of course, she was so worked up by this time that she gulped a huge swig and immediately started to regurgitate the blessed corndog meal (see previous post, "Godzilla"). Lucky for all of us, Abbie was there lickety-split with a motherly cupped hand to catch the fine collage of pink Mylanta and re-reprocessed meat chunks the size of marbles.
Now if that's not love, I don't know what is. Abbie can even tell you this story with a smile on her face. Oh, the powers of gestation. Amazing.
It was time for us to give Ellie her Mylanta to help her continuing constipation situation. Before anyone gets too excited about this, Ellie has a love-hate relationship with her bowels. She is constantly holding in her "business" until she is so backed-up, she nearly bursts at the seams. We have to coax her into a BM on a daily basis, so potty-training is pretty much on hold until we can get past this desire to keep it to herself. So where was I? Yes, the Mylanta Exchange.
We have tried a multitude of strategies for this, all of which seem to have only worked once. Usually a bribe for a cookie, or candy, or ice cream does the trick, however, this night they were as successful as pulling out a week-old dinner from the refrigerator; nothing was going to get her to take that darned cherry-flavored, milky shot of Mylanta.
We tried the tender talk approach. The one where we try to thoroughly explain that it helps her tummy, yada, yada, yada. The soft words were drained out by her yelping screams of disgust.
We finally had to pull out the big guns and use the "daddy" voice to get the job done. Of course, she was so worked up by this time that she gulped a huge swig and immediately started to regurgitate the blessed corndog meal (see previous post, "Godzilla"). Lucky for all of us, Abbie was there lickety-split with a motherly cupped hand to catch the fine collage of pink Mylanta and re-reprocessed meat chunks the size of marbles.
Now if that's not love, I don't know what is. Abbie can even tell you this story with a smile on her face. Oh, the powers of gestation. Amazing.
4.04.2006
Godzilla
It was a night filled with hearty laughs as Ellie was in rare form. We were all sitting at the dinner table. We have been encouraging a grace before meals and have been giving the girls a chance to take the lead. Ellie, as in everything, was first to dive in. She has given it a couple of times after Emma has declined. This night Emma decided that she was willing to give it a shake, but when we all got hold of each others hands, she quickly clammed up. I wasn't going to just let her give up, so we began encouraging Emma.
"Who do you love, Emma?" I started.
She looked at me, then to Abbie and sheepishly replied, "I don't know."
Suddenly our circle around our table was broken by Ellie, who had grown impatient with her sister. In an instance she reached out to her plate, snatched a piece of corn dog and threw it in her mouth with a joyful head bob to help her chew. She joined us with a smirk shot to both her mother and I.
Emma nervously giggled, appreciative for the interruption. We returned our focus to our oldest, "Just tell us what you are thankful for. Who do you love?" Abbie continued.
Ellie jump-started the grace for her sister by beginning, "Mommy..."
"Yeah," Emma agreed and then tightened her lip firmly.
"Casey (our dog that Ellie loves)" Ellie supported her fledgling older sister.
"um hm." Emma agreed.
Finally, Emma was able to name all of our immediate relatives, and we all gave praise to one another and for our food as we wiped the sweat that had accumulated on our hands during the entire ordeal onto our clothes before digging into our meal.
Soon, Abbie began to coach Ellie about what she had done that day at Grammy Sally's.
"Ellie played in the backyard today, didn't you Ellie?" she said.
Ellie nodded with almost a whole corndog squishing insider her full mouth.
"And you talked about where the trees came from..." Abbie persisted.
Another nod of agreement came from Ellie's quiet side of the table.
"From God, right?" Abbie persuaded while Ellie continued to confirm with her approving nod.
"And where is God?" Abbie finally got to the part that she was most impressed with from the earlier conversation from Sally that day.
"In the potty!" Ellie finally screamed with her arms wide apart in grandiose fashion.
Our table erupted in laughter as the tiny figured grinned covered her cherub face.
It was a night filled with hearty laughs as Ellie was in rare form. We were all sitting at the dinner table. We have been encouraging a grace before meals and have been giving the girls a chance to take the lead. Ellie, as in everything, was first to dive in. She has given it a couple of times after Emma has declined. This night Emma decided that she was willing to give it a shake, but when we all got hold of each others hands, she quickly clammed up. I wasn't going to just let her give up, so we began encouraging Emma.
"Who do you love, Emma?" I started.
She looked at me, then to Abbie and sheepishly replied, "I don't know."
Suddenly our circle around our table was broken by Ellie, who had grown impatient with her sister. In an instance she reached out to her plate, snatched a piece of corn dog and threw it in her mouth with a joyful head bob to help her chew. She joined us with a smirk shot to both her mother and I.
Emma nervously giggled, appreciative for the interruption. We returned our focus to our oldest, "Just tell us what you are thankful for. Who do you love?" Abbie continued.
Ellie jump-started the grace for her sister by beginning, "Mommy..."
"Yeah," Emma agreed and then tightened her lip firmly.
"Casey (our dog that Ellie loves)" Ellie supported her fledgling older sister.
"um hm." Emma agreed.
Finally, Emma was able to name all of our immediate relatives, and we all gave praise to one another and for our food as we wiped the sweat that had accumulated on our hands during the entire ordeal onto our clothes before digging into our meal.
Soon, Abbie began to coach Ellie about what she had done that day at Grammy Sally's.
"Ellie played in the backyard today, didn't you Ellie?" she said.
Ellie nodded with almost a whole corndog squishing insider her full mouth.
"And you talked about where the trees came from..." Abbie persisted.
Another nod of agreement came from Ellie's quiet side of the table.
"From God, right?" Abbie persuaded while Ellie continued to confirm with her approving nod.
"And where is God?" Abbie finally got to the part that she was most impressed with from the earlier conversation from Sally that day.
"In the potty!" Ellie finally screamed with her arms wide apart in grandiose fashion.
Our table erupted in laughter as the tiny figured grinned covered her cherub face.
3.06.2006
Devil in a Blue Dress
She awoke just twenty minutes before the alarm clock. Knowing that her response to my instructions to, "Go back to sleep," would be futile, I hoisted her from her crib, grabbed her blanket, and brought to our bed to share the last few sleepy minutes or our morning lying down.
When Ellie wakes up, she is ready to move. Today was no different, however, she chose to accommodate us with a false belief that we might get a few more minutes of sleep, by quietly turning on her side, facing me. She began to lovingly petting my forehead. Right as I was completely relaxed from her ginger touch, a tiny thumb completely invaded my exposed ear. She nearly pierced my brain!
"AAAAAAAARGH! I'm awake!"
The remainder of the morning was filled with fits of fury from our little tasmanian devil. Hot and cold performances of frustration and demands onto her parents to find her toys that she wanted to play with kept all of our tempers flaring. Her and our emotions subsided, just long enough for me to change her and dress her for her day at Grammy Sally's house. As I was putting on her socks and shoes, the gentle personality took over her again as she began to rub my stomach tenderly. After attending a baby shower for a friend this weekend, the concept of life from within has been amazing her.
"Baby in the belly?" she asked.
"No baby in my belly, honey. This is Daddy's beer belly," I told her.
She continued to caress my buddha, then stopped and looked up at me with her big innocent blue eyes and said with a reassuring nod, "Beer baby in Daddy's belly."
She then ducked her head down onto my stomach as if to hear something.
"Yes, sweetie, that's Daddy's beer baby."
She awoke just twenty minutes before the alarm clock. Knowing that her response to my instructions to, "Go back to sleep," would be futile, I hoisted her from her crib, grabbed her blanket, and brought to our bed to share the last few sleepy minutes or our morning lying down.
When Ellie wakes up, she is ready to move. Today was no different, however, she chose to accommodate us with a false belief that we might get a few more minutes of sleep, by quietly turning on her side, facing me. She began to lovingly petting my forehead. Right as I was completely relaxed from her ginger touch, a tiny thumb completely invaded my exposed ear. She nearly pierced my brain!
"AAAAAAAARGH! I'm awake!"
The remainder of the morning was filled with fits of fury from our little tasmanian devil. Hot and cold performances of frustration and demands onto her parents to find her toys that she wanted to play with kept all of our tempers flaring. Her and our emotions subsided, just long enough for me to change her and dress her for her day at Grammy Sally's house. As I was putting on her socks and shoes, the gentle personality took over her again as she began to rub my stomach tenderly. After attending a baby shower for a friend this weekend, the concept of life from within has been amazing her.
"Baby in the belly?" she asked.
"No baby in my belly, honey. This is Daddy's beer belly," I told her.
She continued to caress my buddha, then stopped and looked up at me with her big innocent blue eyes and said with a reassuring nod, "Beer baby in Daddy's belly."
She then ducked her head down onto my stomach as if to hear something.
"Yes, sweetie, that's Daddy's beer baby."
2.05.2006
Sittin' Here, Restin' My Bones
Four months ago, taking the family out to a department store was a terrible idea.
Let me rephrase that. Four months ago, you would of had to be a masochist to want to have taken my family out to a department store. It hurt mostly because we were constantly trying to keep Ellie from terrorizing all of the patrons with her insistent whining and crying for milk, food, something on the shelf, to get down, to get up, to be held, and so on, and so on.
It is amazing what just a few months can do for a two year-old, as well as a paranoid parent. Today we went to three different store looking for a bookshelf for my office. The girls were great. Ellie, in particular, can now communicate beyond screaming and kicking, and she generally listens when we tell her that we are moving to another area. We don't have to keep her and all of her belongings in a cart, and we let her travel by foot most of the time.
Instead of demands for food and drink, she chatted and explained to us what she was seeing.
The highlight of the shopping adventure was when we were at Kohl's. She and I were the stragglers when she stopped, dead in her tracks, and stared at the two male mannequins displaying the preppy casual clothing that Kohl's had to offer. One was standing and staring off towards the jewelry, while the other was sitting on a stool, cross-legged.
She pointed to the sitting mannequin and informed me, what she thought he was doing.
"Going potty, Daddy."
"What?" I said to make sure my ears were working correctly.
"He go potty." she repeated.
"Very good, Ellie." I reinforced. "Hey Ab, did you hear El?"
She shared, again, her finding to Abbie, Emma, and the others in the general area.
________________
I found these little bits I meant to post back in September. Seems that I dunn fergot, so here is tonight's encore.
One Week
One night at dinner, where we serve as short-order cooks and the girls sit at the bar on their stools, Emma began a conversation.
"Daddy."
"Yes."
"Can I get a new poon?" (Notice the improved pronunciation)
"Why do you need a new spoon?" I ask, "You have one in your hand."
"Well, I used dis one for my pineapple, and I need a new one for my pasta."
"Just use the one that you have." I instructed.
"NOOOOOoooooooo. Dis one is all sdicky. I don't want it on my pasta." she hollered back at me.
"Just lick it clean and...."
"NOOOOOooooo. I need a new one!"
"Here you go, now eat your pasta."
"Dank you."
_________________
The garage door opened, and my girls all enter the house from their long walk to the park.
"How was the park?" I ask.
"It was soooo far away!" Emma responds like an abused teenager. "I think I broke my muscle."
_________________
Abbie, Ellie and I are in our backyard this Sunday morning. The neighbor and his little dog came over and were chatting with us. Upon his turn back home, he noticed his dog taking a crap.
He apologized for his dog, it wasn't a real big deal to us, but as the dog finished squatting, Ellie ran towards the small animal. She then extended her finger from her tiny little hand and poked the canine in his VERY rear end.
Four months ago, taking the family out to a department store was a terrible idea.
Let me rephrase that. Four months ago, you would of had to be a masochist to want to have taken my family out to a department store. It hurt mostly because we were constantly trying to keep Ellie from terrorizing all of the patrons with her insistent whining and crying for milk, food, something on the shelf, to get down, to get up, to be held, and so on, and so on.
It is amazing what just a few months can do for a two year-old, as well as a paranoid parent. Today we went to three different store looking for a bookshelf for my office. The girls were great. Ellie, in particular, can now communicate beyond screaming and kicking, and she generally listens when we tell her that we are moving to another area. We don't have to keep her and all of her belongings in a cart, and we let her travel by foot most of the time.
Instead of demands for food and drink, she chatted and explained to us what she was seeing.
The highlight of the shopping adventure was when we were at Kohl's. She and I were the stragglers when she stopped, dead in her tracks, and stared at the two male mannequins displaying the preppy casual clothing that Kohl's had to offer. One was standing and staring off towards the jewelry, while the other was sitting on a stool, cross-legged.
She pointed to the sitting mannequin and informed me, what she thought he was doing.
"Going potty, Daddy."
"What?" I said to make sure my ears were working correctly.
"He go potty." she repeated.
"Very good, Ellie." I reinforced. "Hey Ab, did you hear El?"
She shared, again, her finding to Abbie, Emma, and the others in the general area.
________________
I found these little bits I meant to post back in September. Seems that I dunn fergot, so here is tonight's encore.
One Week
One night at dinner, where we serve as short-order cooks and the girls sit at the bar on their stools, Emma began a conversation.
"Daddy."
"Yes."
"Can I get a new poon?" (Notice the improved pronunciation)
"Why do you need a new spoon?" I ask, "You have one in your hand."
"Well, I used dis one for my pineapple, and I need a new one for my pasta."
"Just use the one that you have." I instructed.
"NOOOOOoooooooo. Dis one is all sdicky. I don't want it on my pasta." she hollered back at me.
"Just lick it clean and...."
"NOOOOOooooo. I need a new one!"
"Here you go, now eat your pasta."
"Dank you."
_________________
The garage door opened, and my girls all enter the house from their long walk to the park.
"How was the park?" I ask.
"It was soooo far away!" Emma responds like an abused teenager. "I think I broke my muscle."
_________________
Abbie, Ellie and I are in our backyard this Sunday morning. The neighbor and his little dog came over and were chatting with us. Upon his turn back home, he noticed his dog taking a crap.
He apologized for his dog, it wasn't a real big deal to us, but as the dog finished squatting, Ellie ran towards the small animal. She then extended her finger from her tiny little hand and poked the canine in his VERY rear end.
2.03.2006
If You Take A Walk, I'll Tax Your Feet
The bullets dripped from my furrowed brow. I could not wring my hands for they held the white cardboard box containing my financial existence for the past three years. The lump in my throat was pride with a bittersweet aftertaste of shame. I clumsily opened the large dark wood door to the entrance of my new accountant.
For the past eight or so years I had taken great honor to legally nip and tuck my taxes effectively. 2005 looked like a good income year for us, but a couple of poor decisions were biting our wallet, leaving only a remaining sliver for this new year. I had been expecting to pay a substantial amount to dear old Uncle Sam. I had saved conservatively all year long, however, I was disturbed by the outrageous figure my trusty tax software was screaming for me to pay.
It was the sinking feeling of a sure bet that fails right before your eyes. It was a low punch to my manhood. I was desperate when I completed my home and business tax papers. I nearly cried. I fretted to fathom witnessing the tears my wife upon explaining my findings to her. I had no idea that my return could show such an exuberant amount of money on the computer monitor. In my head, I sounded like a bad attorney commercial, "I needed help, and fast." What I was attempting to convey to the step-by-step, do-it-yourself, handy-dandy software was not possible, at least not with my limited vocabulary and understanding of convoluted real property tax laws.
So I gathered my receipts, forms, letters, previous tax papers, envelopes, and folders and neatly organized them into my newly purchased box, and called a stranger to literally pull me from this dark hole.
Long story made short; the fee administered to save me thousands of dollars seemed like a charity donation today. I can sleep tonight. I can laugh again. I can eat.
Here's to chewable pride and tasty humility!
The bullets dripped from my furrowed brow. I could not wring my hands for they held the white cardboard box containing my financial existence for the past three years. The lump in my throat was pride with a bittersweet aftertaste of shame. I clumsily opened the large dark wood door to the entrance of my new accountant.
For the past eight or so years I had taken great honor to legally nip and tuck my taxes effectively. 2005 looked like a good income year for us, but a couple of poor decisions were biting our wallet, leaving only a remaining sliver for this new year. I had been expecting to pay a substantial amount to dear old Uncle Sam. I had saved conservatively all year long, however, I was disturbed by the outrageous figure my trusty tax software was screaming for me to pay.
It was the sinking feeling of a sure bet that fails right before your eyes. It was a low punch to my manhood. I was desperate when I completed my home and business tax papers. I nearly cried. I fretted to fathom witnessing the tears my wife upon explaining my findings to her. I had no idea that my return could show such an exuberant amount of money on the computer monitor. In my head, I sounded like a bad attorney commercial, "I needed help, and fast." What I was attempting to convey to the step-by-step, do-it-yourself, handy-dandy software was not possible, at least not with my limited vocabulary and understanding of convoluted real property tax laws.
So I gathered my receipts, forms, letters, previous tax papers, envelopes, and folders and neatly organized them into my newly purchased box, and called a stranger to literally pull me from this dark hole.
Long story made short; the fee administered to save me thousands of dollars seemed like a charity donation today. I can sleep tonight. I can laugh again. I can eat.
Here's to chewable pride and tasty humility!
1.11.2006
1.10.2006
1.05.2006
Green Eggs and Ham
She had one small scoop of Risotto, the dish she devours at Grammys. She had a small bowl of peaches, and a lightly toasted slice of sourdough bread her Papí baked. She was starving, at least until we presented the family meal.
We have been attempting to incorporate both of our children into our meals since all they ever want is macaroni and cheese. We have grown tired of making multiple meals each and every night. There was a time that this was never an issue. Emma would eat what we ate. I will admit that the past two years have made us stray from our standards, but we have been attempting to merge them back into our daily activities.
She dove into the peaches, literally, with her hands. She did not touch the pasta. She tossed the bread off of the plate and demanded to be excused from the table.
"Take one bite of the pasta and then you can get down," her mother proposed.
"Nooooooooooo!" Ellie screamed.
A short time passed as we attempted to ignore the two-year old bending over the edge of her booster seat.
"Do you want to get down?" I asked.
"YEAHHHH!" she replied.
"Then you need to take one bite."
"Nooooooooooo!" she returned.
Abbie picked up the spoon, "Just one, you love this. Here, I will give it to you."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I ganged up, "El, just one, then you can get down."
Her peach juice covered-hands slapped violently against her forehead, hiding the thought of taking that one bite.
Abbie dropped the spoon and rose from the table.
"Do you want to get down?" I coaxed.
"Yes," she whimpered.
"Then just take this one bite." I repeated while trying to pick up the plastic neon green spoon.
"Nooooooooooo!"
The juice was waxing her hair up in a Cameron Diaz "Something About Mary" way. The tension was really rising, and our patience was dropping like a concrete wheelbarrow.
"Do you want this for breakfast?" I regurgitated from my own childhood.
"Nooooooooooo!"
"Then take one bite, and then you can get down."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I walked to the pantry, got the water spray gun usually used for squirting misbehaving pets and returned to the round table. Not proud to say, but this technique has worked in the past in similar situations. Ellie was familiar to the plastic pink water bottle and stopped screaming for just a moment.
"You need to take one more bite."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I began the countdown, "One...."
"...Two..."
"Nooooooooooo!" she squawked.
"...Three!" I threatened with a sharp pull of the trigger.
Water misted all over her, as she turned from the moisture.
Still nothing.
Abbie came rushing to the table. She picked up the utensil. Brought it to Ellie's face. With her free hand, she pinched the shrieking mouth and flopped the half spoonful of cheddar risotto inside.
Silence.
"Chew it all." I chimed, picturing the pieces to be spit across the dining table, the water canister still in hand.
Silence as she swallowed the morsel.
"MORE!" she demanded with a single tear slipping down her cherub face. Disheveled with frustration, her mother sank into the nearby seat and fed all of the remaining food from the plate into the happy hungry face.
She had one small scoop of Risotto, the dish she devours at Grammys. She had a small bowl of peaches, and a lightly toasted slice of sourdough bread her Papí baked. She was starving, at least until we presented the family meal.
We have been attempting to incorporate both of our children into our meals since all they ever want is macaroni and cheese. We have grown tired of making multiple meals each and every night. There was a time that this was never an issue. Emma would eat what we ate. I will admit that the past two years have made us stray from our standards, but we have been attempting to merge them back into our daily activities.
She dove into the peaches, literally, with her hands. She did not touch the pasta. She tossed the bread off of the plate and demanded to be excused from the table.
"Take one bite of the pasta and then you can get down," her mother proposed.
"Nooooooooooo!" Ellie screamed.
A short time passed as we attempted to ignore the two-year old bending over the edge of her booster seat.
"Do you want to get down?" I asked.
"YEAHHHH!" she replied.
"Then you need to take one bite."
"Nooooooooooo!" she returned.
Abbie picked up the spoon, "Just one, you love this. Here, I will give it to you."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I ganged up, "El, just one, then you can get down."
Her peach juice covered-hands slapped violently against her forehead, hiding the thought of taking that one bite.
Abbie dropped the spoon and rose from the table.
"Do you want to get down?" I coaxed.
"Yes," she whimpered.
"Then just take this one bite." I repeated while trying to pick up the plastic neon green spoon.
"Nooooooooooo!"
The juice was waxing her hair up in a Cameron Diaz "Something About Mary" way. The tension was really rising, and our patience was dropping like a concrete wheelbarrow.
"Do you want this for breakfast?" I regurgitated from my own childhood.
"Nooooooooooo!"
"Then take one bite, and then you can get down."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I walked to the pantry, got the water spray gun usually used for squirting misbehaving pets and returned to the round table. Not proud to say, but this technique has worked in the past in similar situations. Ellie was familiar to the plastic pink water bottle and stopped screaming for just a moment.
"You need to take one more bite."
"Nooooooooooo!"
I began the countdown, "One...."
"...Two..."
"Nooooooooooo!" she squawked.
"...Three!" I threatened with a sharp pull of the trigger.
Water misted all over her, as she turned from the moisture.
Still nothing.
Abbie came rushing to the table. She picked up the utensil. Brought it to Ellie's face. With her free hand, she pinched the shrieking mouth and flopped the half spoonful of cheddar risotto inside.
Silence.
"Chew it all." I chimed, picturing the pieces to be spit across the dining table, the water canister still in hand.
Silence as she swallowed the morsel.
"MORE!" she demanded with a single tear slipping down her cherub face. Disheveled with frustration, her mother sank into the nearby seat and fed all of the remaining food from the plate into the happy hungry face.
Blame It On The Rain
It is hard to lose someone you love. It hurts when you know it is going to happen. It hurts a lot when it is a sudden surprise. It hurts no matter how it happens.
When it does happen, you naturally want to blame someone for that loss. Blame God. Blame the doctors. Blame the criminal. You may even blame the person for doing it to them-self, whether forcefully or passively.
You hurt so much the moment you find out they are gone, and you hurt a hell of a lot years later too.
There is not a single pill, drink, or distraction that can cure the pain from the loss of loved one. There is no truckload of pills, drinks, or distractions that will hide the fact that you miss that someone and hurt. The realization of life and death cause deep thought, reflection, and desire for one more chance to be with our dearly departed.
The only way to not hurt is to not love.
I wish the media and the public would not feast on the pain and suffering of those that have lost their loves. I wish they would not over-indulge in the emotional roller coaster ride that humans experience in the fleeting moments of loss. I wish the integrity of the human spirit would appreciate the fact that death is inevitable and all the players involved need time to hurt, blame, and continue loving. I wish the media-rich bastardization of their true feelings of powerlessness were not headlines on newspapers and 30 second spots for the Eleven O'Clock News.
It is hard to lose someone you love. It hurts when you know it is going to happen. It hurts a lot when it is a sudden surprise. It hurts no matter how it happens.
When it does happen, you naturally want to blame someone for that loss. Blame God. Blame the doctors. Blame the criminal. You may even blame the person for doing it to them-self, whether forcefully or passively.
You hurt so much the moment you find out they are gone, and you hurt a hell of a lot years later too.
There is not a single pill, drink, or distraction that can cure the pain from the loss of loved one. There is no truckload of pills, drinks, or distractions that will hide the fact that you miss that someone and hurt. The realization of life and death cause deep thought, reflection, and desire for one more chance to be with our dearly departed.
The only way to not hurt is to not love.
I wish the media and the public would not feast on the pain and suffering of those that have lost their loves. I wish they would not over-indulge in the emotional roller coaster ride that humans experience in the fleeting moments of loss. I wish the integrity of the human spirit would appreciate the fact that death is inevitable and all the players involved need time to hurt, blame, and continue loving. I wish the media-rich bastardization of their true feelings of powerlessness were not headlines on newspapers and 30 second spots for the Eleven O'Clock News.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)