Tagged: family
Still She Tugs
Biggest surprise of my life? Parenting. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape feeling the complete and utter awe that surrounds the totality of the parenting experience. And yet, despite parenting being a nearly indescribable wonder, there is one moment–one fairly common and frequent action–that keeps surfacing which illustrates it perfectly.
More than the always surprising bump of my hand into hers as we begin to walk toward and away from the car, more than her exasperating desire to be picked up just when I finally can leave the hamburger helper to simmer on the stove, more than her double-checking nightly that after story-time when I get up to turn off the light I will be coming back to rub her for a bit before leaving her alone to dream, more than all these things is her firm tug on my fingers when she recognizes we will be parting for whatever practical reason.
I make her go to her bed when she’s “not even sleepy!” twice a day, and because I am sleepy I linger in my bed when she wants me to get out of it. Still she tugs.
Recently she brought over a toy digital camera and demonstrated first-hand just how annoying it must be to have me tell her that I’ll only be another minute on the laptop or phone for fifteen minutes at a time. (Point taken.) Still she tugs.
I bull-headedly push my play-time agenda to the point of tears when all she wants is to be with me. Still she tugs.
I make her wait as I putz around doing who knows what because I’m not looking forward to sitting on the ground to play stuffed-animals. Still she tugs.
I dictate the order in which she eats her meal and drinks her drink. Still she tugs.
I never let her play in the bath after she’s clean. Still she tugs.
I choose the bedtime story more often than not because I know that these stories will have a lasting impact. Still she tugs.
And no matter how much I want to stay with her, my decisions have given her the memory of constantly leaving one of her parents for the other for an entire childhood. And still she tugs.
He Likes His Mayonnaise
Before we get to the story, I thought you should know that you can download the Kindle version of Captain’s Log April 2012 – July 2014 for FREE today, Friday, and Saturday (Jan 8, 9, and 10). Enjoy!
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My dad first told me about the amazing sandwiches at Jimmy John’s while I was back home in Kansas City a few years ago. We were on our way to see Josh Groban in concert. Yes. Two adult men, a father son duo, were going to see Josh Groban–himself a man–alone. Nothing odd about that.
We were walking to the new Sprint Center where along the way we planned to grab a bite. And he just kept talking about how much he liked the mayonnaise on these sandwiches. On top of this fact, in classic father style, he shared that he always only ate half and then wrapped up the rest to enjoy a little later. But what struck me was the mayonnaise comment. It struck me because I happen to love the Kansas City favorite Mr. Goodcent’s Subs for the same reason. When I visit, I stop at Goodcent’s at least once just for their 16 inch Italian on white, cheddar cheese please, and I insist on extra mayonnaise. I love their mayonnaise.
So now I am discovering that besides the two of us sharing a love for the ever-chivalristic stylings of Josh Groban, we also love mayonnaise. Nice.
But he’s my dad. So I should’ve known there would be a catch to his passion. Opening the door to the restaurant for the first time, I immediately noticed that they have Costco size containers of their choice condiments on proud display behind and above the counter. So what kind of miraculous mayonnaise does Jimmy John’s use to subdue my dad sandwich after sandwich? Hellmann’s. The same mayonnaise my mom has made his sandwiches with for years. I’m pretty sure that, in its own peculiar way, that is love.
Glenn Hates My Book And I Love Him For It
I stumbled upon Glenn Hates Books while preparing to market Simon Pastor. If you don’t have time to visit his blog, know that he doesn’t actually hate books, he just hates the books that he thinks could’ve been good if only they were better. I love that concept and his blog. Whereas my blog, here, has a tough elevator speech, Glenn’s blog has an eloquence that is enviable.
But there’s something more to this man and his blog. He reads the books he reviews. Seriously. He reads them. You know he reads them because he writes brutally honest reviews. They don’t include flowery, all-positive language that clearly identifies him as a friend of the author or someone who worked on the book and stands to benefit from high sales. They also aren’t in the category of “there’s something good to be found in every piece of life.” (I actually can’t stop laughing when I picture his bearded-faced reaction to someone who believes that hocus pocus.)
As a result, Glenn topped my list of reviewers to ask to review the book early on–to set the tone, as it were. And he didn’t disappoint. He hates my book. He hates it because it happens to be depressing as shit. And he reads to escape from reality, not re-live it.
My response? Sincere gratitude. I love his authenticity. If only everyone could write so nakedly. But the fact is that reading purely to escape is childish to me. I read and I write to go deeper. I want to feel more, feel it more intensely, and feel it for longer. Escape from this thing called life? Never. More. More, more, more.
Tolstoy ended one of his early works with the following declaration. I’m including it here just in case I ever forget why I wrote Simon Pastor. He wrote, “The hero of my tale–whom I love with all the power of my soul, whom I have tried to portray in all his beauty, who has been, is, and will be beautiful–is Truth.”*
Amen, Brother Leo. And again I say amen.
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*Tolstoy, Leo, Louise Maude, Aylmer Maude, and Nigel J. Cooper. Collected Shorter Fiction. New York: Knopf, 2001. Print.
Review of My Church
Well, that’s a lie. It’s not my church. I’ve only been there once. But it was wonderful. And I will be returning every chance I get. The search is over. Finally.
For the record, I am a human. This is worth articulating because, especially when it comes to churches, I want to be treated like a human and not a farm animal. I don’t need to be herded, nor do I want to follow the herd. That said, as I walked into the building I was greeted and I watched as a woman took my name down on some sort of ledger with a pencil. Remember pencils? While there were no children-specific activities that day, I’m certain H- won’t have to be processed and tagged to take part in them next time.
Quickly finding George, I suggested we move closer to the front than where he had chosen and we did. Next thing you know, he and I are standing wide-eyed amidst the seated congregation at the behest of a young women who read off the names of all the guests. Little H- remained seated until our kind neighbors in the pew in front of us urged her to stand when the young woman asked for any guests whom she may have missed to also stand. H- stood proud.
This next part is probably a little too personal, but this is my blog so I’m writing it. It’s been a while since I’ve had much physical contact with anyone but H-. And she’s in that tight spot where I think she does it because she recognizes this. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking this probably needs to change. Touch is important, they say. Well, during an amazing baby dedication that lasted about ten minutes and crowded seemingly an entire extended family at the front, like thirty people, we were asked to stand and next thing I knew my hand was being touched by the lady next to me. I looked down before moving my hand out of her way and noticed that she was simply reaching out to hold my hand during the dedication thing. It was then that I looked around and quickly noticed that everyone was holding their neighbor’s hand. I joined suit and grabbed H-‘s little hand. Next thing I noticed (George too), H- was placing her limp hand in George’s. At the end, my kind neighbor gave my hand a squeeze before she released it.
Did I mention that the three of us were the most under-dressed folks in the entire building. I measured by layers. I had two. All the other men were at least at two, most at three. Probably half the women had hats on. These people dressed with a purpose. And yet they were naked. Can you understand that?
I thought the roof was going to come off at one point during the worship. Talk about Holy Ghost power. A real piano, an un-amplified small drum set, and an organ accompanied a real, though small and old, choir. Though I’m sure no one could hear us, George and I both sang.
Finally, we came to the Word. And here’s where I discovered what I have been looking for all along in a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be smug. A sermon shouldn’t cause my mind to distractedly go academic on it. A sermon shouldn’t teach beyond its speaker’s–nor audience’s–intelligence, nor should it dumb down that which cannot be in order to meet the audience. We’re talking about a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be chocked full of witticisms, nor jokes. The preacher needn’t prove “even though I’m a preacher, I can be funny, see?”, nor should he tell some inside joke that requires his giving a politician’s knowing nod to some poor soul who will undoubtedly feel a little too special for the rest of the afternoon and at the same time causes me to wish it had been me. Most important, I realized that I want a sermon which is a sermon. Not a presentation. Not death by powerpoint. Not a motivational speech. And the sermon that day was none of those things. It was more than those things.
Afterward, we lingered. People lingered. We met the pastor. Oh. And did I mention the service’s total duration was over two and half hours? 10:30 start, when it was over I pulled my phone out and it displayed 1:15. And it did this without filler like Broncos mentions, professional videos with floating words, or hollywood movie clips.
Walking to our cars, George said it best, “Pete. This was by far and away the best church yet.”
Just Humming Along
He whistled loudly as they approached the grocery store.
“What song are you whistling, Daddy?” H- begged.
“My Favorite Things,” he answered.
“Oh,” she said, not familiar with the tune.
“All aboard!” he called, signaling it was time for her to hop on the front of the cart if she was going to.
He watched and heard her begin an open mouth hum as she attempted to demonstrate her own Christmas spirit notwithstanding a deficit in whistling ability. Chuckling, he pushed the cart into the store and began searching for beautiful women whom he could make smile with the assistance of his little helper.
“I said humming to town,” H- said, laughing innocently as congestion in the baking aisle halted their progress.
“What’s that?” he asked.
H- then proceeded to hum the chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Afterward she again giggled and said, “I said humming!”
Squinting and with a cocked head, he looked at her in disbelief and thought, “Surely she knows when she hums no one hears the words?”
“Oh yeah?” he quickly said before the moment passed.
Progressing now to the cereal aisle, another repeat of the chorus was followed by, “That time I said coming.” More humming and another laughing explanation. “I said humming again!”
“Man, I can’t believe they don’t have any corn flakes.”
“Santa is probably humming to the reindeer as they pull his sleigh,” she said thoughtfully, unconcerned with the moment’s dilemma.
“What?” he asked, rising from the crouched position where he had just verified the awful truth that he’d have to get creative to make the cookies.
“I said,” she labored, “Santa is probably humming to the reindeer.”
“A wordsmith is born,” he thought smiling, unable to hide his pride.
Enough About Change, Enough!
Daily, so-called experts advise us to change our perspective, change our job, change our life. They believe we should change our world. It’s sickening. Like you, I’ve followed that message too many times to count and for what? It is a false hope. Change? No thank you.
As the year wraps up I’m happy to report I like life the way it is. And I know you do too. Here’s how I know.
Forgiveness – You forgive me daily. I struggle with why, but am sure you’re the better person for it. It is at once free and invaluable.
Friendship – Again, you give it freely. I cannot imagine a world without the ability to make friends. I don’t want to either.
Peace – The world is close. Real close. Some want to keep the focus on the unrest. The rest of us know to keep peace the focus, and rightly so. Focus on the peace and see what unfolds, I say.
Compassion – Everyone I have ever met understands compassion. While not always possible to act on, their feelings of compassion are always real. I cannot imagine this world before it was filled with compassion. Like most good things, once conceived, the concept of compassion cannot be forgotten. And it never will be.
Love – There is no greater source of strength than the fact that the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean, I’m talking about the most wretched wretch, this man or woman is still loved by at least one person if they’ll only let themselves feel it.
Change that? Never.
Happy Birthday Sam
Brother,
I started this in my head about fifteen times and always discard it because it is too much about me. How to proceed, then?
I shut you down big time earlier this year, as you know. Believe me when I say (again) how embarrassed I am for that.
I can’t promise that I’ll believe this tomorrow, but special for today let me say that I think your life has proven that despite your being the younger brother, you lead the way in exemplifying the best qualities a man can possess, especially when measured against a certain “know-it-all who can’t keep his trap shut.” See? What is the problem?
I’m proud of you. I love you. The last two visits have been very nice. H- seems very nice. Hold her like a butterfly.
Happy Birthday.
Pete
PS – I’m so excited for the speech come April. You are not going to regret your decision. (You should be nervous enough to consider if maybe you should pick someone else, but not so nervous that you do more than consider it. Part of the reason I’m struggling now is I can’t say a lot that I’m saving for that more appropriate setting.)
PPS – I need the next month to go by slow; the fast-approaching trip to Copper is having the opposite effect, no thanks to you.
I Don’t Like It When You Laugh At Me
She was nearly ready for the bath. Her dad began to pull the rubber band out of her hair.
“I’ll get it, daddy,” she said.
“Okay.”
She bent her little head forward and continued pulling from where her father had left it. Once her hair was free, she shook her head the way women do in shampoo commercials and smiled. He laughed.
“I don’t like it when you laugh at me,” she said.
“Huh?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t laugh at people, daddy,” she asserted.
“Oh, H-, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing because what you did was funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said.
“Oh okay. Well, tell me about it then. What’s the rule?”
“You shouldn’t laugh at people, daddy. It’s not nice. That’s the rule,” she said. Her earnestness made him smile.
“Okay, H-. No laughing at people.”
“D- and Mommy don’t laugh at me. Only you laugh at me,” she continued, unaware of the particularly sharp barb her words contained.
“Is that so? Hmm. Well, I laugh a lot. And I think you are funny a lot of the time. And you seem to want to make me laugh a lot of the time.”
“Can I play a little after I’m clean? Mommy lets me.”
“Maybe that’s because you don’t lecture her,” he retorted. Immediate and intense regret followed.
A clean little H- put her My Little Pony onesie on and picked out the story to follow the obligatory reading from The Hobbit. It soon became clear that he wasn’t ready to concede defeat.
“So you don’t like it when I laugh at you?” he asked. “What if it’s because you did something to be funny?”
“It’s like this, daddy. When I do something funny, it sticks to me. And so when you laugh at it, you’re laughing at me.”
On the bed with her, half laying, half sitting, book in hand he stared at her. Not thinking he even twitched, he watched as she began a sustained and genuine-seeming bout of hysterical laughter. It seemed pure, but he couldn’t be sure. And his uncertainty frightened him. If there was one trait he knew he could work on, it was kindness. But he didn’t need his daughter to be the one to force him to learn it. Though, she was probably the only authority to which he would abdicate his power. After calming down, she claimed he had made some funny expression that made her laugh and playfully asked for another. But he had not. Being called out by otherworldly logic had put him nearly in tears, not poised to play buffoon dad. On top of the uncommon display of sage reasoning, is it possible she noticed this and purposefully disrupted the forming somber mood?
Kids.
She Has Become Self-Aware
Even if there was an accredited parenting class, it seems unlikely it would cover bathroom protocol for opposite gender single parents.
“Are you shutting the door, daddy?” H- asked while standing outside the bathroom, as he, in fact, shut the bathroom door most of the way no different than he had done many many times before.
“Yes I am, H-. You’re getting old enough that you shouldn’t be able to see me nor me see you when we go potty,” he answered. “I know it’s confusing because on the car trips you have to come with me. But that’s just because I can’t leave you alone.”
“Oh. Okay,” she responded.
Like an apparition floating passed the cracked door, her locked-forward head led the rest of her body to her room for who knows what reason. Then he saw her pass by once more, heading back to the living room.
“Ughh! I forgot to turn off the light,” she said, exasperated.
Passing by again, she reached up the wall to flip down the light switch.
With a fourth pass she completed her second round trip.
Then, with a giggle, little H- noticed the pattern and blurted out, “It’s like I’m guarding the door!”
He had his very own little volunteer sentry. And that would have been fine until she announced, “I have to go potty now. Will you guard the door for me?”
What It Is Like
Their bags were packed. The car was mostly loaded. H- was sound asleep as usual. It was midnight.
He finished setting his alarm and closed his laptop for the last time before the trip. Experiencing a feeling that, he thought, must be akin to what the great prophets felt so many years ago, he eagerly picked up his phone for one final text.
“I just got excited because dinner and visit might provide good blog material. 🙂 Watch what you say…lol”
Not being awake at that late hour, his mom didn’t send a reply until morning.
“Ha ha ha. I only say intelligent things,” he read, already three hours into the drive.
What with her life only two-thirds complete, her assertion still awaited final judgement. But he knew he had hit his mark.
“She’d never admit it, but she’s nervous now,” he happily thought as he drove on.
*****
H- played with Uncle Sam’s beanie babies from a time long gone as the adults finished their lazy and uninspiring dinner. Then Sam left. Then Pete put H- to bed.
His mom walked by as he quietly left the bedroom door cracked a little.
Heading the same direction as his mom, he couldn’t help but ask, “Really, Ma, what’s it like?”
She turned, “What’s what like?”
His eyes led his answer.
“What’s it like to know that,” he paused, his hand signals emphasized the next bit, “you know, that you, your genes are responsible for creating me?” he asked.
“Hmm. What’s it like?”
He nodded, smiling with great anticipation.
“I guess I’d say that I feel like I’m getting Eve’s full punishment.”
“Nice Ma. I mean, you did have two days to prepare but nice just the same.”
Captain’s Log 