Little m Long a

Today, the world is yours. Go ahead and scream!!!

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Maybe it’s the magnitude of deeply significant events.  Could be my complete lack of mental capacity.  Maybe I’m finally manifesting the negative consequences of poor choices at an earlier age.  Or maybe I’m just forgetful.

The raccoons, Zander and Zella, turned four years old yesterday.  Four.  Years.  Old!  Customarily on each childs’ birthday  we recount the day of their birth.  The details surrounding how each child came screaming into the world.  The kids love it, so much so that the stories are often repeated throughout the year.

I should be able to recount the twins’ birth with ease.  A multiple birth after having been through multiple births should stand out.  And yet I have great difficulty doing just that.

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Yesterday, I had a little girl.

Yesterday...

And then…..

A few years passed by

And suddenly….

She grew up.

And I love her more and more with each passing day.

Still My Little Girl

Happy Birthday, Zoë!

Ten….

It’s the perfect number.  Unless you roam in über religious circles that would consider 7 perfection.

Seven makes me scratch.

No, 10 is the pinnacle of the scale.  It’s the measuring standard, the bar.

Or not.

For me ten is the beginning, the foundation.  Upon ten we grow.  We anticipate tomorrow.  We build our lives.

It seems an instance yet ten years have passed.

I’m not sure I’ve fully exhaled.

Happy Anniversary, Honey!  I love you.

(Post edit:  It would seem that after 10 years I should be able to articulate more fully your magnitude in my life.  First off, I’m from Louisiana.  Articulation is not what we are about.  Second, you know my family–we don’t communicate.  Thanks for loving us all the same.

I want to say more, to do more, but words escape me.  Actions seem meaningless.  Please do not mistake my inability.  I love you more today than yesterday but not nearly as much as I anticipate loving you tomorrow.  You are my world, my reason.

I am because you breathe.)

Thirsty for things that are beyond his realm, far and above what little boys should be concerned.  He looks at the world around him with a discerning eye.  Inquisitive.  Seeking more.  His world is concrete and solid.  Uncertainty and grey confuse him though they do not deter.  Frustrated but never discouraged.

He is confident.

He absorbs the world around, processing and analyzing.  Hours may pass before the questions start.  They are always well thought out and often difficult to answer.  Be prepared.

He plays with bugs and mud and fashions weapons from sticks and broken toys.  He throws his ball to no one and tackles them as if they were.  He is engaging in a crowd, content with solitary.

He laughs and you can not help but join him.  He is in a place where you wish to be, where you need to be.

Seven years passes in but a moment.

I once had a little boy.  Face of an angel.  A cherub.  A little boy that hated carrots and spewed vomit like a child possessed.  It made him no less endearing.  That little boy is gone, long since replaced by the young man before me now.  Face of an angel.

How do you encapsulate the essence, the wonder that is a boy becoming?  My words are certainly insufficient.  My heart inadequate.  Fortunately–none of that matters to him.

He’s happy and therefore I am.

Happy Birthday Wildman!

(Zane turned all of seven on August 1.  We’ve been celebrating all week!)

Related Posts:  A Boy and His Mission

I think I need a list though I’m not quite sure why.  I’ve never been too crazy about lists.  There’s pressure, urgency, in the incomplete and I don’t need that.  An incomplete list is an ever present reminder of how far I have fallen short on any given day.  Conversely, there’s little solace in a completed list.  Totality, completion, somehow equates to finality and I’m definitely not ready for that!

Clearly, I have list issues, but for some reason now, I feel I need a list.

Ed’s List of Things That Need Being Done

First entry:

Forty five.  Fifty three.  Seventy two.

A random string of numbers.  What exactly does one do with a random string of numbers and why would these particular three merit inclusion on a list?  (I knew you were thinking that.)

Those numbers represent the respective lifespans of my father and both of my grandfathers (paternal then maternal).  They all were young men with many years seemingly ahead of them.

I was two years old when my father died.  Too young to have formed any significant memories.  Specifically–none.  I never met my paternal grandfather.

My Papaw was one of the greatest men that ever lived.

A simple man.  Giving.  Caring.  He was full of life and he loved living.

I am the legacy of these three men–and in some weird way so also are my children.

Today is my birthday.  I’m 44.  And while I can only pray that I have sufficiently stocked the memory banks of my children (the twins are three) I sometimes wonder about exactly what those memories will be long after I am no longer.

45, 53, 72.  These numbers represent the lives of the men who directly or indirectly are responsible for who I am.

You know what?  You’re right.  There’s not much I can do with a string of numbers.  But it’s on the list so I guess I’ll have to work it out.

Somehow.

Wow!  I really suck at lists.  Especially ones with intangible items.

I suppose I’ll just have to let it evolve.  Slowly.  Without pressure.  No set value and certainly no timeline.  It’ll be like some sort of Karmic Guideline to the Goodness of Ed.

It will need more tangible items.

I may share the items as I click them off.  I may not.

Rest assured, though, that when I milk a cow–you will hear about it.

Watching my kids grow up sometimes hurts.  Watching them have fun doing it though makes it all worth it.

We capped off Zia’s Day of Fun just as we did last year, at the Easton Fountains.  It never gets old!

It’s happened before–and probably will again. I’ve been blanked in the past but tonight was quite the opposite.  My head just too full to organize a rational or coherent thought.  So I turned to the most rational, coherent person I know and asked for help.  “I need a guest post.”  Begrudgingly, she acquiesced in a fantastic way. Thanks, Maura.  I owe you big.  I give you—Zoë’s Mom and her very first blog post.

This started about 2 years ago.  We were planning my son’s 5th birthday party and my husband and I had no idea for THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.  I had been becoming progressively more soured on the vast amount of gifts that I had been seeing kids get for their birthdays.  By the time  some school friends, Aunts and Uncle and Grandparents threw in their presents, it was hard to distinguish one from another.  By the time the child got around to your gift,  they were in major gift fatigue mode.  So I suggested the idea to my husband – what if we got Zane no gifts at all?   What if the gift was a day with his parents, all by himself?

You have to understand that I come from a family of ten.  The first five births were all fourteen months apart and I was one of a set of twins (yes, Catholic).  We had working parents and we were raised mainly by my grandparents.  In those days, my grandma would go to the grocery once a week on a Wednesday and take one (or two) of us with her.  Those days were absolute highlights of my youth.  Don’t get me wrong, I loved growing up in a large family, but occasionally it was nice to be singled out and be treated like an only child.  My grandma would get the lucky kid a piece of candy at the check out counter and maybe lunch at Friendly’s afterward.  During that day, you  had the chance to be seen just for yourself, to be heard without shouting. These days would come along once every 3 or 4 months and we fought for them tooth and nail.  My grandma just wanted help getting her 3 to 4 carts of groceries but she gave us in return an afternoon of feeling singularly loved.

I was a little hesitant to suggest this to my husband.  But I must of caught him in just the right mood because he said yes immediately. Then we launched the idea to Zane and he, quite to my surprise, couldnot have been more enthusiastic.   Since then we have not bought a single present for our children’s birthdays.  They get a day of fun and in that day they may get an outfit and a stop at Build a Bear,  maybe a book at the Barnes and Noble.  But the focus of the day is on spending time over the course of day one on one with us.  And we get a chance to show how singularly loved each of our children are.

Today was Zia’s Day of Fun (the evolved name for the event).   She turned 5 on April 28th.  If ever there was a child who could break your heart just by smiling, it would be Zia.  I have found in the planning of these days that less is more.  It is better to be able to walk around an art museum or through a city park than to go to a place with lots of noise and games for kids (an amateur mistake on our first outing).  The highlight of the day comes when you actually get to hold a conversation with your child about flowers or art or your memories of growing up.

Today we started out at the Columbus Zoo because they just had a baby elephant born there one month ago.  As soon as we got in the 30 minute line to wait to file quickly by this newest zoo arrival, I thought to myself, “We have got to get out of here as soon as possible”.  Too many people, too much chaos, not enough quiet to get a chance to talk to my daughter.  We saw the elephant and a few other zoo sights but then we took off to this lovely city park on a beautiful sunny spring day.

And it was there, over the course of the next hour and a half that Ed and I had a chance to talk to Zia, watch her chase butterflies, see her run up and down the walking paths of the gardens, and revel in the beauty that is my third child.  And it is for these moments that the idea came to be.  Zia got a chance to shine today for her parents and a chance to see in our smiles and laughter the deep love we have for her.  It is always on these days that I take a moment to tell my child about the moment they were born.  (That tradition actually started with my mother, who, despite giving birth 9 times, remembers the day we were born very precisely).   So I told Zia today about the perfect spring day she was born on.  The first time that year that there was a day that showed summer would again come to Ohio.

On that beautiful day, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who has come to personify for me Spring and its promise of joy and beauty.  It was a day very much like today.  And so it continues, the joy of being Zia’s mommy.

Without a doubt, the best Red Velvet Cake I’ve ever had!  Maura found a recipe and we whipped it up yesterday afternoon for Zia’s birthday.  The kids gave it OK marks.  I cried a little when I realized it was gone.  That cake was GOOD!!

(OK—so before you ask, no we did not eat the entire cake last night.  But—–there’s not enough left for everyone to get a piece this morning.  And I don’t feel bad about admitting that either!)

My littlegirl.

My Curly Sue.

...Tyrone,
you know how much I love watching you work, but I’ve got my
country’s 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to
murder and Guilder to frame for it; I’m swamped…….

That’s kind of how I’ve felt the last couple of days.

OK.  The last week, really.

Today my little Zoë is 8 years old.  EIGHT YEARS OLD!!!!

My head is still swirling trying to grasp the enormity of that
one.

As a matter of tradition on each child’s birthday we recount the
details surrounding their births.  The kids love hearing the
stories of how they arrived and what Maura and I were experiencing on
that special day.  It’s kind of sappy, but I feel it lets them
know in a real way just how special their day really is.

This is Zoë’s story.

This
entry is adapted from the entry I placed in Zoë’s baby book.  Today is
her eighth birthday and I felt it was appropriate to post it.  Please
bear with me as I tell the story of my daughter to….my daughter.
(Edited and reposted from Jan 18, 2008)

You
arrived triumphantly into this world 8 years ago today at 3:54pm but
your story actually begins much earlier.  I was working the night shift
and was unwinding after a long shift when your mother arrived home
having pulled an all nighter herself and announced, “Come upstairs.
Quickly.  I’m ovulating.”  What happened next….well, that’s a whole
other story for some other time.  Let’s just suffice it to say that on
that early morning of May in the year 2000 your story really began.

I
remember the morning your mother announced your impending arrival.  She
suggested we take a short vacation in January.  Hey, it’s cold in
Middle America in the winter so I was all for it.  Then she suggested
our resort stay as a hospital on the North East side of town.  I
thought she had flipped.  Then, as my good buddy from Louisiana used to
say–”the clouds parted to cast a true shadow.”

The
next several months were a blur of doctors visits, baby showers,
miniature furniture purchases, purchases of baby powder and onesies.  I
remember the first time your mother and I walked into Babies R Us.
There were things there we knew we needed.  (People had told us this.)
This was a place where we could get everything we would need to
accommodate a new baby in the house.  (People had told us this also.)
We were not ready.  It was apparent to the seasoned shoppers scurrying
through the aisles of the store that we were out of sorts.  More than
once  we were asked if we needed help.  More than once we responded to
those queries much like a doe caught in the mesmerizing glow of an
oncoming Peterbuilt. After 40 minutes of shopping we left the store,
empty handed and disheartened.  We were not ready.

As the days
to your arrival grew fewer, our trips to the doctor grew more.
Ultrasounds became more frequent and more than once concerns were
raised that you might be growing a bit too large.  These concerns were
transformed into full blown paranoia by your mother who made no bones
about the fact that she was none too excited about passing a small
rhino through her nether regions.  An induction was in order.  Your
mother and I sat with calendar in hand and selected a day.  Your
birthday was now set and part of our grand plan.  It was out of your
control, or so we thought.

The night before the induction we
went to dinner (I have no idea where) and we saw a movie (I have no
idea what).  Conversation was brief and superficial.  We both were
quite nervous as to what the next morning held for us.  Uncertainty has
a way of doing that to people.  Anticipation has a way of doing that to
people.  For in less than 12 hours our lives were to be changed
forever.

The induction began early the morning of the 18th.
Your mother was a trooper as she was poked and prodded and connected to
all manner of monitoring devices.  I tried to be as supportive as
possible yet my attention quite often turned to the monitors.  I
suppose it’s the curse of being a nurse and knowing just enough about
what was going on to make me totally neurotic.  I had observed the dips
or decels as they are referred to but attributed them to your mother
being uncomfortable and moving around too much to get an accurate
reading.  The morning came and went.

At the mid afternoon shift
change the oncoming nurse noticed something concerning.  Seems your
cord had made a bit of an appearance before you.  (This, according to
the nurse and as evidenced by the flurry of activity that in mere
moments followed her fortuitous finding was not a good thing.)  All of
a sudden those decels took on a whole new meaning.  A whole new
significance.  In what seemed an instant your mother was whisked away
to the surgery suite.  After an eternity (3 minutes) I was allowed to
join her.  Pale and stoic, she was giving one word answers to my
questions.  I knew that she was OK but your mother is such a
tremendously strong person, seeing her like this was a bit unnerving.

An
emergency C-section.  Who would have thought?  When the doctor pulled
you out, you looked like a spool of thread.  Cord was wrapped around
your neck, over your shoulder, around your waist and through your
legs.  (You were very active in the womb!)  I couldn’t hold back the
tears.  You were the most beautiful sight I had ever laid my eyes
upon.  My darling baby girl.  The whole process from decision for
emergency C-section to your delivery took 9 minutes.  A truly grand
entrance.

Zoë, you are the joy of my life, the culmination of
who I am and my greatest dream come true.  For as long as I can
remember, all I have ever wanted in this life is to be a father,
something I never had.  I can only hope and pray that as you grow and
learn and experience life you will be able to look back and remember
your Dad with love and with smiles.  I can’t promise you the world.  I
can’t promise you that I’ll never let you down.  I can’t promise you
that you will never be disappointed or hurt.  But this I can promise.

I will always love you and will always be here for you.  You are my heart, my joy, my soul–my little girl.

Happy 8th Birthday.  I love you, Zoë!

Dad

Sunday Sonnets–September 21, 2008.  Without question the single most significant day in my life for without today–there would be no you.
Today is..

As days go, today would be most ordinary,
Should be–most ordinary.
Filler in a month.
A spacial division between yesterday and tomorrow.

But today is special, at least to me.
For on this day there was you
And therefore
I have purpose and joy.

Today is special to all of us
Because of you we have yesterday–and happiness.
Because of you we have tomorrow–and peace.
Because of you we have family–and love.

Today is yours most extraordinary
But to us so much more.

Happy Birthday, Honey!  You are loved!

We were in New Orleans when the call came.  We had just finished some coffee and biengets at the Cafe du Monde and were on the levee about to take a stroll down the river walk.  I recognized the number and the voice.  Fearfully, reluctantly I handed Maura the phone.  Silence and what seemed to be hours passed.  Then screaming.  Lots of screaming.  I’m quite certain the people in Algiers just across the Mississippi River from where we were standing heard it.  Certainly the hordes of people in Jackson Square heard it.

Until that day, I did not think it possible to garner the collective attention of the crowds of people passing through the French Quarter.  I now know.

The tears came.  Huge alligator tears released from their caches having been contained some five months, probably longer.  She screamed.  I smiled.  She cried.  I laughed.  I knew.  And now most of Greater New Orleans knew.

We were going to have a boy!  Zoë was going to have a baby brother.  My wife could have died right then and there and I’m sure would have not counted a single moment in her life more precious.  Her dreams certainly were coming true.

I was a bit more reserved.  Cautious.  You see, I was afraid of what a second child might do to me.  What a second child might do to the bond between Zoë and me.  I had loved Zoë unimaginably and could not fathom splitting that love between two.  Sharing it.  It’s one of the still unexplained mysteries of parenting.  How can you possibly love each child as much as the other without loving any or either the less?  I’ll give you the answer I was given–YOU JUST DO.

Zane arrived on August 1, 2002 on one of the hottest days of record.  It was miserable hot.  Undaunted, Zane set about on that day on his mission to affect the life of every single person with whom he came into contact whether it be the surgeon and anesthesiologist in the delivery room whom he peed all over, the neonatal nurse who he pooped on (immediately after his first bath),  his aunts who were instantly smitten with his charm or his dad who wasn’t quite sure he could love another as much as Zoë.

Zane has transformed me, my whole way of thinking, my life.  He has a heart that is bigger than he will ever be.  Every ounce of his little body exudes happiness and he wants nothing more than to share that with everyone he meets.  His laughter is infectious.  He’s playful.  He’s serious.  He’s brilliant.  His determination to succeed is amazing.   He’s at that age where people will ask–as people often do–so what do you want to be when you grow up?

He’s quick to answer, “I want to be a quarterback but I’m kind of small so I’ll probably be a kicker, too.  I’m also going to play baseball, and basketball and soccer.  Then I want to save all of the animals in the South Pole.  And…..I want there to be peace.”  With each passing day it seems he wants to add another thing to an already impressive potential resume.  He always asks, “Dad, can I be…..?”  To which I always reply, “Of course you can.”

Because when you’re a six year old little boy you need to believe that anything is possible and that every dream can still come true.
Not many people ask me anymore– what do you want to be when you grow up?  That’s OK.  I’ve never really had an answer.  But I think I’m getting close.

When I grow up, I want to be like my son.

Happy Birthday, Wild Man!

Every day above ground is a good day.  My mom used to tell me that.  Of course, she also used to tell me that Brussels Sprouts were good for you and that sour kraut would put hair on my chest.  What did she know?  Today marks the fifteen thousand six hundred and ninety fifth day (that’s 15,695 days or 301 dog years) that I have spent atop this little orb.  It truly is a good day.  Maybe the best day ever!

I may also be celebrating on the 14th in honor of my mom..  That’s Bastille Day but for some reason my mom always got my birthday mixed up with the French holiday.  Seems like every year the 10th would roll by and I had no cake or presents, not even well wishes.  Then on the 14th—SURPRISE!!  I can’t remember the last time she got it right.  Funny, the things that hold memories.

Today is my birthday.  Now let’s go eat some cake!