Little m Long a

I wasn’t quite finished with the mowing when I looked up and noticed my wife walking across the yard to me, arms waving to get my attention.  She was waddling really as she was, I believe the saying is “great with child.”  She had just returned from her weekly visit to the OB and I assumed was letting me know she was back home and wanted to know what I had planned for dinner.  She’s thoughtful like that.  Being that I had been mowing for the last three hours (hey, it’s a big lawn) I had surely given some thought to the matter of dinner and would have a hearty meal whipped up before the hum of the mower had died completely.

I knew immediately that she was not flagging me down for the purposes of discussing dinner preparations.  Something else was going on.  “Doc says the amniotic fluid level has decreased significantly since last weeks’ visit and that the uterine wall has a marked area of thinning.  He wants me back at the hospital for monitoring.”

“Monitoring?  What exactly did he say?  This does not sound like routine monitoring.”

“Well…He said the uterine wall is thin enough that it could spontaneously rupture and that the fluid level is low enough that the baby may be in danger so he just wanted to monitor for a few hours.  He said if everything was fine after a few hours of monitoring we could go back home and he would probably deliver the baby tomorrow.  Other than that the visit was great!”

We weren’t ready.  Is anyone ever?  Immediately we sprang to action calling family, my sister-in-law dropped everything to keep watch over Zoe and Zane and my wife and I made way for the hospital.  (Yes, I did shower first.)  They had been expecting us and in short order my wife was connected to all manner of monitoring devices and paraphernalia.  Not sure if it’s because my wife is a doctor at the hospital or if the people on the OB ward treat everyone this way but I felt like we were the only people there, that our situation was real and important to them.  They were caring and comforting and could not have been more pleasant.

To my great relief, everything the monitor was showing us reflected the way that my wife was feeling—just fine.  After about an hour, the doctor stopped by to discuss the situation.  His words were, “everything looks fine, baby is doing just fine and your vitals are all fine.  If you feel OK you can go home and we’ll schedule the C-section for in the morning.  Or…, since you’re here and I’m here and the OR team is here now we could go ahead and do this now.”  His eyes were saying, “Pick B! Pick B!!”

As my wife would say, “That’s a softball.”  Her little term for a no brainer, an easy one, get your head out of your ass this is as clear as day kind of question.  We picked B.  And so it was that around dinner time our little Zia came screaming into the world, pulled from the relative comfort of the womb that had kept her safe and warm these past months.  Screaming, I say because I vividly recall this scenario.

After the delivery, as is customary, Zia was taken down the hall to the nursery to be cleaned and swaddled evaluated and whatever it is that they do to newborn babies.  My wife was quite sore from the C-section and still quite loopy from the medications that had been given her during the delivery.   Not ten full minutes had passed when the phone rang in the OR suite (yes, we were still in the OR suite) and the nurse on the other end of the phone said, “Come get this screaming child!”
You know, she still screams louder than any of my kids.  I can’t believe it’s been four years.  Happy Birthday, Zia!  I love you, Curly Sue!

My complete mangling of the English language is no more apparent than when I wish to put into words sincere emotions.  Emotions of love, remembrance, gratitude.  I’ve been trying for almost a week now, starting and stopping, deleting.  A lot of deleting.  For some reason I didn’t want this one to pass, though.  Bear with me.  This past Monday, the 21st, my Grandmother would have been…..well, really old.  She passed many years ago.  I no longer celebrate the day save to note that it would have been Mammaw’s birthday.  I think of her often but something caused quite the pause just yesterday.

Our fruit trees are blooming and that means in just a few short months–Mammaw’s Lazy Cobbler!  That’s right.  My grandmother made some of the best fruit cobbler I have ever tasted, or will ever taste for that matter.  I suppose a lot of it has to do with the fact that she didn’t have to work at making food taste good.  She enjoyed cooking and did it well.  My poor Mom, on the other hand, was not quite as talented in the culinary arts.  She did not inherit Mammaw’s touch.  If my grandmother was Midas in the kitchen my mother would have been…..not Midas.  She could burn water trying to boil an egg.  But I digress.

So back to the Lazy Cobbler.  A quick internet search will provide hundreds of variations on the theme but I think my Mammaw’s was not only classic but truly lazy.  And it tasted great.  Ready?

1 cup flour
1 cup sugar
1 cup milk
1 stick butter (melted or very soft)
1 tsp baking powder
Fresh Fruit peeled and sliced (peaches, pears, apples, cherries–your choice)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
(When using the fresh fruit) In a sauce pan mix the fruit with some sugar (eyeball it) and some water (about 1/2 cup) and cook until soft.  Place fruit in a baking pan—drain excess juice if needed you don’t want it too runny.  (I use a 9×13 Pyrex dish–use what you’ve got).
In a large bowl mix the flour, sugar, milk, butter and baking powder.
Pour batter over fruit in pan.
Bake about 35-45 minutes or until golden brown.

This cobbler is great hot, cold, with whipped cream, ice cream or on it’s own.  I know that whenever I make it the counter life is pretty short.  I can not think of a more fitting way to remember my grandmother.  The spring time blooms nearly coinciding with her birthday are pretty cool!

*Disclaimer:  I can cook–very well–I just can’t tell anyone else how to do it much less write down a recipe correctly.  Before trying this or any other food preparation I may suggest to you it would be wise to reference an expert!*

Intended to inspire an awareness of and an appreciation for  the Earth’s environment, Earth Day is celebrated today at it has been each April for the past thirty eight years.  A grassroots campaign initiated back then served as a wake up call of sorts to help people to realize the impact of our actions on the planet and give the environment a national spotlight.  A movement was born and today Earth Day is celebrated not only in America but in countries all over the world.  But are we really doing right by our dear Mother Earth?

People take to the streets celebrating, organizing rallies, staged marches on political institutions, speeches, concerts and festivals.  One can don their favorite “Be Nice to Your Mother” t-shirt pack up the ice chest and Styrofoam plates with plastic sporks, maybe even the hibachi, and head off to the park with thousands of other like minded enlightened to listen to your favorite bands perform their favorite tunes at ear bleed decibels all the while trampling Spring’s offering of new green grass and hopeful flower buds discarding used cups, plates and napkins along the way because someone neglected to pack trash bags.  These same people will spend forty minutes looking for the recycle bin for their beer cans and in that same time span flick half a pack’s worth of Marlboro butts on the ground.

Zoë’s school had a poster campaign and a dress down day in honor of the event.  Innocuous enough I suppose, yet I hardly believe that any of the paper used for the posters will be recycled (I know the three rejected ideas in our house were not).  And the money collected from dress down privileges.  Well, that’s going towards the purchase of microphones for the auditorium.  A much needed item, mind you but in my advanced and cynical age I tend to view amplified noise as not very environmentally friendly.

So it’s Earth Day.  Again.  Like the saying goes, Every Day is Earth Day, and unfortunately I’ll have to delay my observances.  As much as I’d like to reduce my impact, if even for the day, I’m off to fire up every piece of power equipment I own because Spring has sprung and my yard is rapidly overtaking me.  Sorry, Mom.  But you need a haircut!

Anyone doing anything special for Earth Day?

Peace, Dude!

As I often do when it’s just the twins and myself in the car I turn off the radio and drive in silence eavesdropping on the conversation taking place just behind me.  It’s a foreign language, mind you,  scarcely intelligible mumblings and loosely formed consonant and vowel sounds.  Much is lost in translation but they seem to understand each other.  At least that’s what I thought until this morning.

Zella:  Wa di dō ar ssay?

(Me thinking to myself:  Ohh I know this–pick me, pick me!!  Woof, Woof)

Zander:  Bar. Bar.

(Good job, Zander–I thought to myself.  A dog does say bark.)

Zella:  No.  Wa di cō ar ssay?!

Zander:  Moooo

(Me thinking still–I’m not so sure that’s what she’s saying, buddy.)

Zella:  NO! NO!  NO! A CŌ AR!  A CŌ AR!!

Silence.  Silence.  Silence.  Then….

Zella:  Rooom, Rooom

(What does a CAR say?)

Zander attempted to say something, I can only imagine in his defense as Zella clearly was not enunciating and had put us all at a disadvantage.  Tempers flared.  There was screaming.  And then she threw a book at him.  I could almost swear I heard her mumble under her breath,

“Fucking idiot!”

Thanks once again to Pat over at Annoyingly Boring I find myself in a position where a response is in order.  You may remember, his photo of the goldfinch at his bird feeder was the impetus for me getting my own bird feeders filled.  The kids and I have been enjoying watching the birds feed, as have my cats.  Each day the feeders seem to be alight with increased activity and watching the blue jays, cardinals, woodpeckers, wrens, morning doves and finally goldfinches return to the yard has been good for my psyche.  Something about standing at the kitchen window with a  fresh cup of morning coffee and watching the birds eat seems to make me feel good.  I am also happy to report that as of yet, no feathers are missing from any of the birds that have chosen to dine at Casa de Zoë’s Dad.

Anyway, it seems Pat, after watching the great piano showdown has found a striking image likeness for myself.  Pat feels there is an uncanny resemblance between myself and Don Music, the bungling composer from Sesame Street who in moments of frustration would bang his head on the piano.  As much as I would like to disagree with him, he may be right.  He e-mailed me the picture below.  (THE ONE ON THE RIGHT!)

In other developments regarding our innovative piano rehearsals, it appears that Dan over at All That Comes With It has prepared a video of his own where he and his absolutely adorable daughter perform marvelously together a wonderful selection that is sure to entertain.  I only wish that my Zoë’s fingers were as light on the keys as little Amy’s appear to be.  If I didn’t know better I would say they were actually floating somewhere above them as the music played on effortlessly below.

(Dan has indicated that he will post his video on his blog on Thursday.  Be sure to check it out.  If for some reason he fails to do so, e-mail me and I’ll forward the link or post it here.)

There are two schools of thought on the whole let your kids win thing.  One states that you should never let them win.  They should have to earn it just as in real life.  It builds confidence, strength, character and a greater appreciation of the victory.  The other school of thought is to toss in the towel, let your kids win every once in a while.  It builds confidence, strength, character and a greater appreciation of the victory.  I’m torn on the whole issue.  While I’m all for winning and building up of a child’s confidence, I also believe that losing builds just as much confidence and strength of character.  It takes a lot to come in second or third.  I’m an also ran, always have been.  As our local paper would recount our high school track and swim meets listing top finishers in each race, they also had the kindness to publish the names of all of the competitors in each race–the also rans.  That was me.  I never recall making it out of the also ran column.  It’s easy to be a winner, but you know what?  Not everyone gets to be that person.  Every race or competition is filled with also rans.

Some of you may recall how last week I was forced to find new and creative ways to get Zoë to practice her piano lessons.  She’s done much better and practices are enjoyable once again.  An overwhelming number of those who commented (thanks Dan and Jen) asked about the actual sound bites that accompany my demoralizing.  Sadly, I was unprepared that day.  I did, however, put in minutes of practice this past week and challenged Zoë to another duel.  A showdown.

Me:  That’s a new cup.  What is it?

Her:  It’s the supposed to be the new coffee from Starbucks.  I’m hoping they just forgot the Equal (she says adding some to the cup) because it tastes like a-s-s. (spelled).

Not so very long ago my wife and I were able to converse freely, adult stuff with adult words.  We spoke above innocent ears that were oblivious to the words or context of our conversation.  As those ears grew our conversation methods evolved and we found ourselves spelling words deemed inappropriate for virgin ears.  We may have to stop talking altogether.  Case in point:

Zia: A–S–S!!

Stagnant.  Stalled.  Halted. At an impasse.  Distracted.  Amotivated.  Indifferent.  She just won’t do it!  I don’t want to.  I’m not going to!  These are just a few of the words or phrases that I could use to describe the current state of Zoë’s piano lessons.  It would appear that as the temperatures rise outside her willingness to apply energy towards practice inversely falls.  Two weeks in a row she has failed to meet her contracted practice commitment of 90 minutes.  (That’s a week people, not a day!)  My frustration level is at an all time high. 

Pressed for solutions, I expressed my concerns to my wife.  Make it fun she said, otherwise she’s going to hate it and we’ll lose her forever.  No easy task, mind you because right now, I’m not having fun.  I’m still looking for ideas (begging really.)  But this is what we did today and she really seemed to have fun…..again.

A little contest Zoë.  You pick the song.  I play it first, then you play it.  We’ll see who can play it better.  OK?

Well, OK, Dad…..You are so going to lose!

(Disclaimer:  It should be noted at this point that the extent of my piano knowledge and playing ability spans the exact amount of time that Zoë has been taking lessons.) Catwalk was the first selection.  I thought I had done a decent job.  She smiled at me and played it better.

Dalmations, she  called next.  Again, I thought my effort was decent, worthy of competition.  When I had finished she asked if that was my warm-up and was I ready to play it for real.  Again, she played it better.  I love you, Daddy.

Just call the next song!

Creepy Crocodile.  She openly laughed at me before I had finished.  Dad, are you really trying she said mocking me as I wiped the sweat from my brow and discretely a tear from my eye.  She played it better.  I was being handed my hat by a seven year old.

And so it went.  Long, Long Ago.  Better.  Claire de Lune.  Better.  I didn’t even try Chant Arabe or Allegretto I.  But she did and performed beautifully.  I was demoralized.  I thought I could get one better, just one.  One of the easy ones.  BUT NO!  The kid pummeled me.  You know what, though.  She practiced.  And she had fun. 

Who’s playing who now, you little imp?!

Sometimes, things just hit me in the right manner.  They seem to appropriately apply, I guess you could say.  Mostly it’s music, but it could be other things.  A book, an article, a comic strip, a quote or quip.  Even a word or sentence.  Like I said, it could be anything but mostly it’s music.  I’m in the van the other day which is not so unusual as I spend a great deal of time in my beloved Grand Caravan and the station plays a song I have heard countless times over the last twenty five or so years.  I’ve never given it a second thought, never considered the words or the meaning.  Never attempted to dissect what was going on in his head when he wrote the song. 

Oh, there’s plenty of conjecture about what he meant and what he was trying to say.  I’ve just never paid it any mind.  Still haven’t.  And probably won’t.  You see, the song hit me in just the right way the other day and I was able to appreciate it’s meaning and intents for how it applies to me, to my life now.  Twenty years ago it was just a cool song.  Today, it does a pretty decent job of describing where I am in my life and it’s still a pretty cool song.  I am a dad and this is my life.

 Old Man Winter may not be asleep just yet, but he’s definitely sporting his Superman pajamas and sipping on a warm glass of milk.  The last embers of the fire are smoldering, covers have been turned down, he’s finished reading Goodnight Moon and The Velveteen Rabbit and eaten of the chocolate left on his pillow by housekeeping.  Yes, folks, winter is coming to an end here in America’s Armpit and I could not be more excited.  It’s been long, harsh, physically and mentally draining.  Frigid temperatures, snow, ice, sleet, rain all repeated in a dizzying cycle over the past five months.  But the thick gray clouds of winter gloom and misery have broken and for two days consecutively the sun has been shining bright.

Oh, it’s still chilly (31 this morning) and the heater is still on but I can see the light at the end of winter.  Really?, you ask.  It’s 31 degrees, you say.  On my thermometer that’s still freezing.  What makes you think winter is over? 

My flowers have started to bloom!  OK.  So not bloom just yet but they are forcing themselves from their winter slumber and stems and leaves are emerging from the ground.  It’s only a matter of weeks or even days before I’ll get to enjoy my tulips and ….. well, I know there’s tulips.  I’ll have to see what else blooms before definitive identification takes place.  You see, my gardening techniques are probably not what one might consider emulatable.  Most people map out their flower beds lovingly planting each bulb making sure the spacing is correct and even go so far as to label the plots. 

I hail from a different school of gardening.  Dig a trench, empty the contents of the bag into the trench, cover the trench with dirt.  Move on.  No labels, no maps, no weekend consuming labor intensive gardening schemes.  Just dig, plant, cover.  That way there’s more time to move on to more enjoyable weekend activities–frosty adult beverages and ball games.

Which brings me to the second tell-tale sign that winter is soon to be a thing of the past.  Baseball!  Sure, they’re wearing sleeves and jackets but they are playing and that means winter is a thing of the past.  Am I a fan?  No.  No, no.  I can’t recall the last game I actually watched start to finish.  Oh, yeah I can.  Two years ago the weekend of May 19, Indians vs. Pirates at Jacob’s Field.  Indians won.  How do I remember this?  My wife and I had taken a trip to Cleveland to see the game and a Pearl Jam Concert.  While neither events were alarmingly memorable (my wife would argue that any time with Eddie Vedder regardless of how many other thousands of people are sharing that time is alarmingly memorable) I recall the day because I had quit smoking the day before we left, May 18.  Hence, that weekend will forever be entrenched in my memory. 

And finally, and this may be the most significant indicator, the ice cream shops are opening back up!  Or as my kids would say—

   ICE CREAM!!!!!

Laughter fills the room where children are playing oblivious to my exasperation.  Lessons have ended far from complete.  I clear the table.  Distracted, detached or otherwise completely uninterested in either content or purpose they have moved on.  Wooden puzzle pieces clank to the floor as they are dropped from their formed cutout containers.  Crayons and colored pencils are scattered around the room as they would rather toss undesired hues than set them aside.  Crumpled scraps of paper dot the floor, artwork in various stages of completion.  A trail of books leads to the shelves from which they were housed, a trail that most assuredly will remain as the need to re shelve is clearly not a priority.  Squabbles escalate.  Declarations of “Mine!” become shouts then screams.  Eventually tears.  “I’m sorrys” and “that’s OKs” are exchanged.  Hugs.  The cycle repeats itself.  Typical. 

Unable to see the importance, to grasp the implications they move carelessly and thoughtlessly from task to task without ever really applying themselves.  I attempt to draw focus, to rein them in, to pinpoint a purpose eventually conceding the effort’s futility.  At least for tonight.  Why do I bother investing of myself, my time, my energy, my heart?  Why do I care if they refuse to do so?  No epiphany.  Quite simply, it’s my job as a parent.

The lessons will be there tomorrow, and kids will be kids.  Tomorrow, though, I’ll be rested.