Little m Long a

I’ve had visitors today.  Uninvited visitors.  I’m typically a pretty amicable host and will go out of my way to make sure that my guests are comfortable.  OK, so that may not be entirely true.  I mean, chances are you’re not going to get my last Izze and if for some reason I happen to divide the last steak, my portion will most assuredly be a tad larger than yours.  But you’re not going to starve or die of thirst. Hell, there’s even a pretty good chance you can sit in my chair.  (I don’t really have a chair but if I did, I’d probably let you sit in it.)

But I get to keep the remote. Read the rest of this entry →

To roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I —-

I bent down to tie my shoe and lost my balance.  I grabbed for a branch to no avail and fell headlong into the fucking stream.  Now I’m soaking wet, bruised, and so far from either path that even if I did find my way back I wouldn’t know which way to turn once I got there.

The delusions of control, the fuzzy feelings way deep down that let me rest peacefully each night are slowly eroding away.  My life as a Rockwell painting is becoming a Dali.  Or a Pollack.   Maybe it’s the onset of spring, the final push toward the promise of summer.  Patience is an ideal and my children live in the I want it now.  They grow restless with anticipation, weary of the toils of an unusually long school year, and by restless I mean annoying.

They are at each other constantly.  Yelling, hitting, pushing, fighting, arguing.  Crying, whining, pouting, sulking.  And by constantly I mean IT NEVER STOPS!!!  Their behavior is bad.

It’s worse than bad.  It’s reprehensible.  Hell, I don’t even know what reprehensible really means but it sounds a lot worse than bad, so that’s what their behavior has been.  REPREHENSIBLE!!

Or maybe they’re just tired.  It could be that they just haven’t adjusted to the fact that the sun is still up when they are supposed to be going down for the night.  I’m tired, too but I’m not afforded the luxury of that excuse.  My lot is have to.

And so I will.

But I’m going to need a lot more motrin…..

And maybe Vodka!

Always tell the truth.  That way, you never have to remember what you said. Mark Twain

According to legend, and other manuscripts held in general high regard, there are ten commandments.  Ten rather specific edicts which, if  followed closely, serve a fairly good moral foundation.  Arguably, a person that holds to these tenets would be in pretty good standing with the rest of society.  God, too.

Conversely, the person (whomever he or she may be) that voluntarily acts in such a manner that directly opposes these ten simple rules would as a result fail to maintain such elevated standing with society.  Or her parents.

Read the rest of this entry →

I stepped on a moonbeam at the top of the stairs last night.  The damn thing nearly tripped me.  Funny thing, moonbeams.

That actually has nothing to do with anything but for some reason I felt it needed sharing.  My world seems to be spinning at an alarmingly fast pace as of late.  Not out of control, mind you, just faster.   I’m struggling to keep pace fearful that I’m going to miss something important or at the very least fail to recognize that something significant is happening.

Read the rest of this entry →

Actually, it’s a virus.  It’s the kind of virus that thrives on exposing partially digested stomach contents to ambient air or putrid liquefied bowel to a toilet.  Or underwear, whichever comes first.  The virus in non-discriminatory and has spared no one in it’s wake.

Maura has said that it is all she has been seeing at work for the past week.  Is it wrong for me to blame her for it’s appearance in our home?  Seems only fair.

Brings up a point of contention though.  What could possibly possess a person, I mean what triggers in their mind to connect an episode of  vomiting to a hospital visit?  I just don’t get it.  I remember working triage sitting at the desk when a frantic parent would rush in at 3:30 in the morning exclaiming, “He’s vomiting!”  Now don’t get me wrong, the inability to hold down any form of sustenance for an extended period can have deleterious effects and could certainly require some form of medical intervention.

Read the rest of this entry →

(a scene from the car)  “Oh, that’s the Jonas Brothers.  There’s Kevin, Joe and Nick,” Zane pipes up from the back seat.

“Zane, I honestly can’t say that I’m proud you know that.”

“Good Lord!” I screamed from the front of the car to no one and to everyone.  “What is wrong with this picture?  Zane, please tell me it’s just a piece of worthless trivia.  Something you’ve stumbled upon and for whatever reason it stuck there in your head.  Quick–who were the Beatles?”

“Ooh, they were a band.  I like them.”

“Yeah, but who were they?  What were their names?”

“Uhmm…”

“Nooooo!! This can’t be happening!  Led Zeppelin?  Who was the lead singer in Led Zeppelin?  What about the Rolling Stones?  Name someone from the Stones.  Or The Who.”

“Who?” Read the rest of this entry →

Towards the end of last spring, in the final days of the school year, Zane brought home a styrofoam cup filled with dirt.  Two tiny green seedlings were pushing their way from the center, barely visible above the dirt.

“What’s this?” I asked calling to mind a similar offering from Zoë at the end of her first grade year.  That little plant died a horrible death having experienced the extremes of sustenance and thirst.  Heat and bitter cold.  It was difficult to watch.

“It’s a sunflower!  We planted them from seeds in class and now it’s going to grow.  I’m gonna help it!”

I feared the worse, my optimism jaded by past experience, though I tried to remain positive.  “That’s great, buddy.  We’ll have to make sure to take care of it.”

Take care of it he did.  When the plant grew too large for the little cup he transplanted it into a larger planter at the foot of the driveway.  Diligently he watered the plants throughout the summer.  And incredibly, amazingly, the plant grew, continuing it’s ascent upward above the smaller plants already mature in the pot.  It thrived under the careful attention given from a little boy that knows of no other way than to whole-heartedly care.

Just this past week, it bloomed.

I have to say that there are few things more rewarding than to experience the joy of a child, proud from having accomplished.  And I can’t help but think every time I see these little sunflowers at the end of my driveway that I am peering into the heart of a kid that’s filled with good.

“Light! Give me light!” was the wordless cry of my soul .. Helen Keller

The true miracle of schooling our children, enlightenment through oration, erudition and rote memorization is not that they will learn anything but that they will remain passionately curious of the world around them.

I spent the better part of the morning wrapping arms.  Casting arms, really.  In some convoluted and seriously disturbing realm of the make-believe an accident had occurred.  There were injuries.  Possibly deaths.

A good medic turns attention from the hopeless and focuses on hope.  Salvaging those who realistically have a chance.  There’s little time to mourn the lost.  I didn’t want the details.  “Stay detatched.  Guard your heart,” I kept telling myself.

“You’ll live to fight another day, kid.  You were lucky.”

“Oh, and the pink felt really makes a statement.  It brings out the color in your eyes.”

Zoë offered her arm wrapped in a paper towel and asked for tape.  “I need a cast,” she had said.

Now, I’ve got no qualms with a paper towel cast, but if you’re going to have one it should be done properly.  Batting.  Felt.  It should at least look like a cast.

And so went the morning.  The afternoon was spent at the pool.

We hadn’t made it three feet inside of the door when Zoë made for the casting supplies and ran upstairs to Maura.  “Mom, can you give me a cast?”

“Sure.”  And Maura promptly began applying a textbook sugartong splint.  (It’s what it’s called, seriously–she’s a doctor, she should know.)

“That’s not right!”

“Zoë, it most certainly is right.  This perfect.”

“Well, that’s not how Dad does it.”

“Oh really.  Well I do this all of the time.  In fact, I did this exact splint last night.  When was the last time your Dad made one?”

“This morning.”

Well there you go..

Intents of an afternoon carefree and lazy at the pool were abandoned quickly.  Lightning and frolicking in a 55,000 gallon electrical conductor should never be paired.  Home, however humble, is always more appealing than death.  It’s 15 minutes, more or less, but sufficiently far for a fast moving front to pass us by.

To our good fortune, we drove to where the storm had been.  We drove toward sunshine.  To puddles shimmering in light.  Kids scattered to where they were comfortable.  There were no instructions, no expectations.  Wet clothing tossed on the floor, a trail of towels from the door to the stairs.  Insouciant disregard for order.

Games were resumed.  Chapters completed.  Art created.

And silently—alone—he rode.  Slow and methodical on a continuous loop in the drive.  Content in his own thoughts, comfortable with my presence.  He never stopped to ask what I was doing, nor I he.

He rode.

It wasn’t long before his little brother joined.  Also silent.  Equally content with whatever thoughts might fill the head of a three year old boy.

He too, rode.

The two of them spent what seemed an eternity circling the drive.  Passing each other.   Determined.  Methodical.  Silent.  A silence broken only by the occasional convergence of tire and water.  A chorus  of cicadas.  The closing of the shutter on my camera.

I longed to be inside his head–their heads.

I didn’t ask.

They never offered.

I feel honored, though, to have been allowed the audience.

Why is it that when history repeats itself—it’s usually in a bad way?

We made it back from our vacation last night.  Late last night.  In fact, if one were to be a stickler for the technical you could say we made it back from our vacation very early this morning.

The kids, of course, slept most of the latter hours of driving and woke only slightly later than their normal waking time.  I woke, tired, still very sore from the drive and a week of getting pounded by relentless surf–I know, boo hoo–to a very long list of to-do’s.

Unloading the car, unpacking the suitcases, laundry, sorting, groceries, etc.

All I wanted was a nice cup of coffee to get the morning and my day kicked off.

I was greeted, instead, not with a “Good morning, Dad!” but a rather somber “Dad.  I’m sorry to tell you this, but—-

Zane broke your coffee pot.

Again.”

It is now official.  Vacation is over!

I lost my sandals, today.  They just vanished.  One minute, they’re on my feet and the next—gone.  I’ve no idea.  I blame the little girl in Escape from Witch Mountain.  She moves things.

It really would have been no big deal, they were a cheap pair, I think I got them at the grocery store for a buck fifty (maybe three), and I really don’t like them all that much.

So really, no big deal.  Except for the fact that I spent the better part of my day wading barefoot—–

through vomit.

Dog shit is funny, and it’s squishy when you happen upon a fresh pile.  But usually, dog shit is in the yard and to happen upon it you normally have to be playing in the yard.

Playing.

Outside.

Fun stuff.

Laughing and frivolity.

The dog shit becomes ambiance and scarcely dampens the mood.

Dog shit is funny.  It stinks–but it’s funny.  Someone steps in dog shit and easily becomes fodder for the afternoon, maybe even the whole week.

Vomit is not funny.  Not funny in the “Dude, that’s just not funny” sort of not funny way.

Vomit stinks and it’s impossible to get used to it’s squishy consistency between your toes.  It’s also slippery.

Vomit is the manifestation of misery!

I know misery.

I’ve got vomit all over my bathroom floor, in the hallway, on the rug, on the couch, on the pillows that are on the couch and yes, it’s in my toes.

My olfactories have dined on the pleasing aroma of Powerade-vomit and Lysol–original scent–for the better part of twelve hours now and I believe I can honestly say–I’ve had my fill.

Oh, and guess what?  I found my sandals when I was cleaning up the living room.

They had vomit on them.

He crashed into the car.

He crashed into the garage.

He crashed into the basketball post.

I tried to be encouraging and made a mental note to get more Bandaids.

He crashed into the dog.

He crashed into his sister.

He crashed into the fence.

I offered a few pointers and tried to recall if there were ice packs in the freezer.

He crashed into the grass.

He crashed into the tree.

He crashed into nothing.

Clearly, his frustration was peaked.  I offered more words.  He glared in a manner that told me I should stop talking.  This was something he was just going to have to figure out on his own.  There was no amount of instruction, encouragement or hand-holding that was going to make the process any easier.

I feared he would quit.  Just give up.  Let emotion get the better of him.  But he kept at it.  Determined.

And then it happened.

He didn’t crash.

He sat up tall in the seat, gripped the handlebars and just pedaled.  No crashes.

Zane learned to ride his bike–sans training wheels.

A late bloomer, I know.  We took his trainers off at the end of last summer, but he just couldn’t get the hang of it and refused to try, fear of failure having bettered him.  Fear of crashing, really.

This time though, he was determined.  Resolved to conquer.  And with each turn of the pedal his confidence grew.  I could see it in his body, in his posture, in his face.  The farther he pedaled the stronger he grew.

We went to the park where the wide open spaces would only fuel his confidence and push him farther.   We rode our bikes around the cinder path, laughing and cheering all the while.

Zane learned to ride his bike.

We celebrated with ice cream.

All in all, it was a pretty good day to be a kid.  It didn’t suck to be a parent, either.

From the bench I watched as the kids played, excited to be in a new park.  The thrill of unexplored slides, swings and ladders fueling their excitement.  I watched as they played, proud for their confidence.

I watched from the bench and I saw Zella take the little girl’s hand and, smiling, walk with her toward the slide.  The innocence of a child so willing and so accepting.  I could feel myself smiling, too.

And almost as quickly I could feel the smile fade.  I began to notice that the little girl, probably five, maybe six, was no longer helping Zella, but dragging her.  She spoke harshly without consideration.  Zella’s face had in a moment turned from happiness to one of fear and apprehension.

Calmly, I walked to where the girls stood on the steps leading up the slide and I called Zella to me.  And then I leaned just a bit closer to the little girl.  Closer so that I could speak emphatically without raising my voice.

“Tell you what, kid.  I think it best that you find someone else to play with while you are here at the park.  Do no talk to my daughter.  And certainly do not touch her, again.”

The little girl did not say a word but looked at Zella and then back at me in a manner that almost asked, “Or what?”

So I leaned in just a bit closer and almost whispered.

“You think I’m kidding?  If I see you touch my daughter one more time, I will rip your tiny little arms off and bash your fucking skull.  Do not touch my kid!”

The girl said nothing, but turned and ran toward her mother on the other side of the playground.  I smiled at the woman and waved as I mouthed the words, “Your daughter is a bully.”

Clueless, she waved back.

I returned to my bench and resumed a conversation I was having with another mom.

“That little girl is not very nice,” she said when I sat back down.  “I’ve been watching her.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to have any more trouble with her.”

Sometimes, they are just words.  They should have meaning.  Depth.  Instead they are hastily formed without emotion, little more than making sure the spelling is correct.

My head was full this morning of thoughts and ideas.  Words to express how truly grateful I am.  How fortunate I am.  Emotions muddled.

Words like–my greatest joy–mute when I tried to speak them.  Others like–my true, my purpose, everything, beautiful, happy were left swimming in my head.

These words and more I wanted to shower upon you this morning,  This day that is yours.  This Mother’s Day.

And now it’s too late.  For nothing that I could say or pen will ever compare, let alone compete, with the outpouring of genuine emotion that came from our dear son, Zane.

“Dear Mom,

Thank you for working so we don’t have to live in the street.”

How am I supposed to compete with that!