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!!
10.17.2006
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
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