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."
3.06.2006
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.
12.26.2005
Video Killed the Radio Star
Here is my first attempt of a video podcast.
It is fairly large, so it may take a few minutes. iTunes will accept this video. It is my fun little video featuring the Barenaked Ladies' "Jingle Bells."
In case you don't get my semi-transparent humor, the dings indicate drinks of the eggnog. Some gulp it down, others choose to sip.
If you are not able to view this. Please leave me a comment... my first time and all.... Enjoy.
Here is my first attempt of a video podcast.
It is fairly large, so it may take a few minutes. iTunes will accept this video. It is my fun little video featuring the Barenaked Ladies' "Jingle Bells."
In case you don't get my semi-transparent humor, the dings indicate drinks of the eggnog. Some gulp it down, others choose to sip.
If you are not able to view this. Please leave me a comment... my first time and all.... Enjoy.
12.23.2005
Santa's Helpers Aren't Elves
Walking across campus in my bright red Santa hat that I use to keep my bald head warm during this cold month, I attracted hoots and hollers from three construction workers from across a chain link fence.
"Give us your best Ho, Ho, Ho, Santa!" The biggest man of the group boomed to me with his pearly white smile. His two buddies grinning beside him.
"HO, HO, HO!" I bellowed immediately.
They applauded me with thumbs-up and an onslaught of "Merry Christmas's" from each of them.
Later, at the gas station, I was pumping my petrol when a man was returning to his work truck across from me. His hands were full of drinks and snacks. Looking at his dirty and exhausted face, his jeans and heavy work boots, I could tell he was a coming home from a physical hard day at work. I noticed his truck full of tools and ladders just about the same time he saw my hat.
He shuffled his items to one hand, smiled, and with his free hand he clenched, he nodded at me with approval and threw his fist to his chest.
"Keeping the Christmas real," he declared by beating his chest repeatedly, "Keep it real man."
"Merry Christmas!" I returned.
"Merry Christmas!" he echoed.
Walking across campus in my bright red Santa hat that I use to keep my bald head warm during this cold month, I attracted hoots and hollers from three construction workers from across a chain link fence.
"Give us your best Ho, Ho, Ho, Santa!" The biggest man of the group boomed to me with his pearly white smile. His two buddies grinning beside him.
"HO, HO, HO!" I bellowed immediately.
They applauded me with thumbs-up and an onslaught of "Merry Christmas's" from each of them.
Later, at the gas station, I was pumping my petrol when a man was returning to his work truck across from me. His hands were full of drinks and snacks. Looking at his dirty and exhausted face, his jeans and heavy work boots, I could tell he was a coming home from a physical hard day at work. I noticed his truck full of tools and ladders just about the same time he saw my hat.
He shuffled his items to one hand, smiled, and with his free hand he clenched, he nodded at me with approval and threw his fist to his chest.
"Keeping the Christmas real," he declared by beating his chest repeatedly, "Keep it real man."
"Merry Christmas!" I returned.
"Merry Christmas!" he echoed.
12.18.2005
Ironic
Just a block away from Emma's school lies a series of old single-floor cinderblock apartments. I use to have some college friends that lived in these scummy dwellings that resemble early 70's government housing. Abbie use to live in the apartments across the street with Gina. In college, it was a fine neighborhood. As homeowners and adults now, it is horrifying. The graffiti is everywhere and there is always an overflow of parked vehicles on that east side of the street. Debris, empty boxes, and stray toys are strewn about, not showing ownership to any specific household. Iron bars over the windows and doors have become more common on these olive drab stone buildings. Some home improvement has occurred to a couple of the homes, including an explosion of tropical ferns and trees that seems to enclose the tiny front yard of one with a rod-iron fence. I assume it is an attempt to hide the dry brown and dirty yards of the next door neighbors who are most likely renters.
During the summer, this area is flourishing with half clothed, unbathed children running and screaming every which way. Wide and short mexican women usually stand in the doorways emotionless watching the seemingly out-of control youngsters.
Slow Down, Children Present warnings and low speed signs are reinforced during this half mile stretch of low-income housing for good reason. I always fear an unexpected lunge of a chicito from behind one of the countless multi-color Ford Escorts or pastel station wagons, and curse the young drivers that race by in the opposite direction. Soccer balls kicked too hard, fly into the street with the goalies in tow. "Where's the supervision." I thought every time before I encountered the "Bus Stop Goodbyes."
I discovered the "Goodbyes" about a month or so ago. The temperatures outside were already getting low. The warm breath could be seen in the dry cold. I dropped Emma off about 15 minutes later than usual; about 7:45 a.m. I let an oncoming school bus go ahead of me. The bus turned right. I turned right. The bus stopped in the middle of the green homes, where dozens of people, were standing and waiting for it's arrival. I was sort of in a daze, not paying a lot of attention at first. Then when I realized that another five minutes had passed and the bus still had not moved, I began to observe the phenomenon.
There were babies in the arms of mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers, wrapped in heavy blankets with hand-knit hats. There were smiles and hugs being distributed to each and every boy and girl before they boarded the school bus. The elderly that could not walk to the curb waved joyfully, almost tearfully at the young passengers through the foggy windows.
Although the insistent blinking of the rear lights of the yellow bus before me created an annoying delay of time, this large group of families continued to systematically hug and kiss their school children, unaware and unconcerned with the growing traffic on this single street. Laughter and love could be heard through the hum of my defroster. Minutes later, the last student boarded the idling bus, the doors closed, and the slow acceleration began. Curbside the group loudened. Smiling, waving children could be seen bouncing up and down on the bench seats from inside their transport. Smiling, waving adults could be seen with frozen red checks and noses sharing in the excitement.
The bus continued on its route as the hurdling masses began to return to their dirty brick homes, sending departing, seemingly cordial words to each other as they departed. Most of the men handed the infants to women and gave kisses as they collectively merged to choice vehicles along the road. Their day was beginning, just as mine.
I thought that maybe it was just a special occasion. After the second and third witnessing, I realized it was; it was the specialness of another day, a ritual of love, expectations, hope, and appreciation that most do not ever express. I sat so high, pitying the situation of these poor people, when their understanding of importance is displayed continually, not just for special occasions. Of course, this is just as much a wide generalization as my thoughts of them before the "Goodbyes". Sitting in my car watching this strange scene does not make me aware of their reality, but I much prefer the idea I have conjured up over my previous one.
Just a block away from Emma's school lies a series of old single-floor cinderblock apartments. I use to have some college friends that lived in these scummy dwellings that resemble early 70's government housing. Abbie use to live in the apartments across the street with Gina. In college, it was a fine neighborhood. As homeowners and adults now, it is horrifying. The graffiti is everywhere and there is always an overflow of parked vehicles on that east side of the street. Debris, empty boxes, and stray toys are strewn about, not showing ownership to any specific household. Iron bars over the windows and doors have become more common on these olive drab stone buildings. Some home improvement has occurred to a couple of the homes, including an explosion of tropical ferns and trees that seems to enclose the tiny front yard of one with a rod-iron fence. I assume it is an attempt to hide the dry brown and dirty yards of the next door neighbors who are most likely renters.
During the summer, this area is flourishing with half clothed, unbathed children running and screaming every which way. Wide and short mexican women usually stand in the doorways emotionless watching the seemingly out-of control youngsters.
Slow Down, Children Present warnings and low speed signs are reinforced during this half mile stretch of low-income housing for good reason. I always fear an unexpected lunge of a chicito from behind one of the countless multi-color Ford Escorts or pastel station wagons, and curse the young drivers that race by in the opposite direction. Soccer balls kicked too hard, fly into the street with the goalies in tow. "Where's the supervision." I thought every time before I encountered the "Bus Stop Goodbyes."
I discovered the "Goodbyes" about a month or so ago. The temperatures outside were already getting low. The warm breath could be seen in the dry cold. I dropped Emma off about 15 minutes later than usual; about 7:45 a.m. I let an oncoming school bus go ahead of me. The bus turned right. I turned right. The bus stopped in the middle of the green homes, where dozens of people, were standing and waiting for it's arrival. I was sort of in a daze, not paying a lot of attention at first. Then when I realized that another five minutes had passed and the bus still had not moved, I began to observe the phenomenon.
There were babies in the arms of mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers, wrapped in heavy blankets with hand-knit hats. There were smiles and hugs being distributed to each and every boy and girl before they boarded the school bus. The elderly that could not walk to the curb waved joyfully, almost tearfully at the young passengers through the foggy windows.
Although the insistent blinking of the rear lights of the yellow bus before me created an annoying delay of time, this large group of families continued to systematically hug and kiss their school children, unaware and unconcerned with the growing traffic on this single street. Laughter and love could be heard through the hum of my defroster. Minutes later, the last student boarded the idling bus, the doors closed, and the slow acceleration began. Curbside the group loudened. Smiling, waving children could be seen bouncing up and down on the bench seats from inside their transport. Smiling, waving adults could be seen with frozen red checks and noses sharing in the excitement.
The bus continued on its route as the hurdling masses began to return to their dirty brick homes, sending departing, seemingly cordial words to each other as they departed. Most of the men handed the infants to women and gave kisses as they collectively merged to choice vehicles along the road. Their day was beginning, just as mine.
I thought that maybe it was just a special occasion. After the second and third witnessing, I realized it was; it was the specialness of another day, a ritual of love, expectations, hope, and appreciation that most do not ever express. I sat so high, pitying the situation of these poor people, when their understanding of importance is displayed continually, not just for special occasions. Of course, this is just as much a wide generalization as my thoughts of them before the "Goodbyes". Sitting in my car watching this strange scene does not make me aware of their reality, but I much prefer the idea I have conjured up over my previous one.
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