Forgotten artifacts carelessly tossed in a corner of the attic.  An old coat or shirt dry rotting on a hanger in the back of the closet.  Dismantled or broken appliances, furniture or toys.

They all offer insights from which we might postulate as to whom we really are and why we may be or act a certain way.  Our past defining us, presently.

Solid answers, however, are in the tangible.  Scrapbooks, notes, letters.

Photographs.

I spent some time in the attic a few days ago on a completely unrelated quest and stumbled upon this little gem from my past.

I think it explains a lot.

At 5:30 am there is time to prepare coffee.

Time to check the weather or stare at an empty in-box.  Save for the reminders from my Google calendar that I have nothing to do today.  At least I’ve got all day to do it.

At 5:30 am there is time to prepare lunches.

There is time to gently rouse sleeping varmints.

Time to fold a load of laundry or start a new one.

At 5:30 am there is time to … take time.

At 6:15 am there is panic.

There is no gentle easing into the day.

At 6:15 am we are diving headlong in to the icy waters of running behind.

There is confusion.

There are disgruntled moans.

There may be tears.

There is no joy realized from the changing colors of milk at the bottom of the bowl.  Cocoa Puffs need time to work their magic and we don’t have it at 6:15 am.

“You’re buying lunch today,” I announce.

They already knew that.

And so another day begins as so many of them do.

Long before we were ready.

I should believe my clock.

Because reality is a bitter pill, especially when you can’t wash it down with a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

Today was a good day.

The sun was shining this morning and my resolve to will spring’s arrival seemed to be working.  I’ve done things to make sure that spring will be here in very short order.

Tangible things.

Noticeable things.

I shaved the beard.  Actually, I had it shaved.  Remember the Karmic List of Good Things for Ed to Do (or something like that)?  It’s not a bucket list.  Bucket lists have certain connotations of finality.  I’m not there yet.  Karmic goodness is enduring.

So I decided a few months ago that one of the things I should include on my Karmic List of Goodness should be a straight edge shave when it came time to get rid of the beard.  Blood loss and excruciating burning aside, it was an overall pretty cool experience.

But certainly not life changing.  But it’s done and I can scratch it from the list.

As I said though, tangible things.  The sun was shining this morning so I donned a Hawaiian shirt and some summer loafers.  I sent the kids to school sans jackets.

It’s colder than it looks outside.

Like — it was 20 degrees when I sent the kids to school this morning.  Without their coats.  (I’m just making sure my name stays near the top of the list for Parent of the Year.)  But hey, the sun was out so it’s all good.  Right?

Back to the scene in the car.  Sun… shining…, there’s a bounce in my step and a smile on my face.  The radio is on.  That Sting-feller is warning me not to mess with him or he’ll blow me up.  Or something like that.  I’ve pulled the trifecta of participatory listening.

I come to a stop, because the light is red and it’s what I’m supposed to do, and notice an elderly woman in the car next to me bobbing along in a sweet syncopated rhythm that fits perfectly to the beat I’ve got surrounding me in my car.  “No way!  There’s no way this old lady is also listening to The Police,”  I think to myself.

We make eye contact and I smile, bobbing just a bit more exaggerated now as I feel we’ve connected on some weird multi-generational level.  For a moment we bob along together.  I pretend to play the bass and look to her anticipating an accompanying high hat ride or crash cymbal.

And then it hits me.  We are not listening to the same song.  Fact is, I doubt very seriously that she was listening to the radio.

She had Parkinson’s.

“And that!”

She was an easy target.  Her reflexes have little definition and she’s easily distracted with false moves.  I alternated stabs from ribs to stomach and back again.  She was powerless against my superior swordsmanship.

She fought gallantly though, without fear.  Laughing in the face of defeat.

I stopped for a moment to let her catch her breath.  If nothing else when it comes to sword fighting, I’m merciful.  She mistook my gesture as a sign of weakness.

Bowed up on me.

Even flexed, holding up two of the tiniest clenched fists you will ever see.

“You don’t scare me, little girl!”

I turned to the counter to reach for a sip of water and she pounced, seizing the opportunity of my momentary lapse.

She punched me.

Right in the balls.

I lay in a heap on the kitchen floor, a powerless, quivering  mass at her feet.  And without a word she reached down and took back her sword.  With a little “hmmf” of indignation she turned and left the room.

I think I heard her laughing as joined the rest of kids in the next room.

“Where’s dad?” I heard them ask.

“I killed him.”

St. Francis of Assisi

I’ve had this tile of St. Francis for years.  About 12 years, actually.  Maura and I had picked this up when we were looking for remodeling ideas for the tiny kitchen of the very first house we bought.   It never was used but I thought it was kind of cool so I fastened a little hanger to it’s back and it’s been hanging on the walls in our kitchens ever since.

Come Easter, it will finally have meaning.  To me, at least.

This Easter, for the first time in well, ever, my wife and I will share a meal together.

The meal.

Together.

You know, sometimes we start off on a journey not realizing we’re going anywhere.  We just walk.  And plod.  At times we’ll run, but not a lot because it hurts our knees and makes us sweaty.  And smelly.  And feel like puking.  Sometimes our direction is focused.  Other times  it’s just bizarre and misguided.

After years of what had seemed to be aimless wandering we reach a destination only to realize that we’ve actually been walking with a purpose for quite some time.  We look back, reflecting on the paths we’ve traveled, and epiphanies glow, brightly illuminated with the awareness of what we’ve accomplished.

This year I am participating in the season of Lent for the first time.  Well, for the first time with a purpose.  It means something this year, more than it ever has.  And I am sharing the experience with my family making it all the richer.

Maura gave up Starbucks for Lent.

And Diet Coke.

She’s been a real peach to be around lately.

My son gave up television.  It’s been a remarkable sacrifice as he’s the only one in the family to do so.  He has not complained once.  Just finds other things to do.

Zoë is trying to help more around the house, taking on the evening dishes and kitchen duty.  I’m hoping she develops a greater appreciation of what it means to apply yourself whole-heartedly to something that is not necessarily a pleasant chore.

And me?

What am I giving up?

I’m giving up being a Baptist.

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.

Around these parts, and by these parts I mean my family, this time of year tends to become a bit hectic.  The kids’ school work continues to increase in complexity as more is expected of them.  Projects are assigned, displays and presentations are  prepared.  Zane just completed his Second Grade biography project.  He chose Gandhi.  Yeah, Gandhi.  The rubric suggested that the children include 3 or 4 interesting facts about the person as well as things like are they living or dead, places they may have lived or jobs they had.  Typical stuff.

Zane’s report was just over 12 written pages!  All the while I kept asking him if he wanted to whittle it down a bit and he insisted that it was all important.  He informed his teacher that he was going to need about an hour for his presentation so he should either go first or last.  (We condensed and got the thing down to about 6 minutes.)  The thing that made me the most proud was after the presentation when he began to field questions from his classmates.  He stood there with total confidence and rattled off answers without hesitation.  It was impressive.  (Disclaimer:  I may be biased.)

Last night I took Zoë to our church’s Parish Organization of Women’s Lenten Candlelight Service .  No, she’s not an organization member.  Yet.  She was the opening entertainment.  The group had called the music director at the school to see if he had anyone that could sing a couple of songs for the service and he immediately thought of Zoë and two of her classmates.  For the past couple of weeks the girls have been giving up their recess time to prepare for their performance.

The hard work definitely showed as they did an outstanding job.  Video of the performance was a fail as it was a candlelight service.  The room was dark and there were unfortunately no candles anywhere near where Zoë and her friends were singing.  You’ll have to trust me, she did a superb job.

The Entertainers

Oh, and not to be outdone, Zia brought home her 100th day poster from school last week.  We had prepared the poster for spirit day and the 100th day of the school year by sticking 100 sparkly butterflies, dragonflies and flowers to a cut out poster board of a big 100.  (I totally stole the idea.)  In typical Zia fashion the poster was rolled up and bound with a rubber band.  She made no pertinent statements about it only that she was bringing the poster back home.  When we got home I unrolled the poster to find a small blue ribbon stapled to the top of the poster that simply read FIRST!  She won first place in her class for the best 100th day poster!!

I Won First Place!

(Another Disclaimer:  I have no idea of knowing for sure but I suspect that every other child in the classroom received the same blue ribbon.  It did not stop me from gushing about how proud I was of my little Curly Sue.)

Me:  You’re sitting right next to it.  I told you that you’d see it again.

I made a nod towards the bag from Panera.  The bag from Panera containing the uneaten portions of sandwiches and soup that were left over from lunch.  The kids had begged for something to eat and were beside themselves with excitement when we stopped to pick up the soup and sandwiches.

They ate practically nothing.

Zia, whom I thought was sleeping, chimed up from the back seat:  Well, in my world again means tomorrow!

(We had spaghetti.)

This is not the case.

The allure of winter wonder has all but faded.  The varying degrees of contrasting shades of white and gray have grown monotonous.  Sky gives way to barren landscapes.  The lines are blurred.   They are all vying for the same colors and the palate is as monochrome as it is cold.

The pilot light of a boiler 60 years past it’s prime provides singularly the warm hues I seek yet thoughts of it’s ceaseless activity, it’s constant labor, do little to provide the warmth I so desperately need.

There are drafts everywhere.  Small children are incapable of appreciating the value of sealed entryways.

The occupants in my head have grown as restless as those in my home, confined for too long in spaces that are small.   And confining.

Such is the nature of winter.  Once again it has persisted beyond tolerance.  Like conversations with acquaintances that offer detailed soliloquies to the cursory “how are you today?” I’ve grown weary.  And yet, I am powerless to make an exit.

And so I’ll make do.  I’ll continue to smile and nod agreeably maybe even chuckle from time to time as if I’m interested, at least I’ll try, and I’ll get through another one.  But just to be safe, I’m gonna keep my head down.

Holy crap!  Someone could lose an eye!

Red on White

There have been times where I’ve seen 15-20 of these guys (male and female) waiting turns to get at the bird feeder.  Thing about cardinals is that they tend to be a bit camera shy and it was way too cold out for me to keep standing motionless waiting on the herd to return.

(I know it’s a flock.)

Anyway, I just love the contrast of the brilliant red of these birds with the stark white of snow and barren trees of winter.

It’s day 41 of my go at project 365……

That’s all I really have to say about that.  I’ve yet to glean any great wisdoms or similar life altering knowledge from the experience.  You can see all of the pictures to date at the three six five page (the link is also at the top) or by heading straight over to my flickr 365 set.

(By the way–full disclosure time.  The above photo was cropped.  To my knowledge, there is no 365 rule about cropping of photos.  Or crappy photos for that matter–good thing.)

But it’s not.

It feels later.

Not hours.

Days.

Like maybe Sunday.

But I’d be watching football.

Not sitting here.

Wondering.

Why the week isn’t through.

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.

I can recall insignificant, peripheral type things.  Like the paramedic student that had asked permission to observe the birth.  I had told the guy, “sure.” Only to have him turned away at the door by the nurse.  “There’s too many people in the room.”

Come to think of it, there was quite the gathering in that tiny delivery room.  As with our previous births, a C-section had been scheduled.  There were two physicians, two neonatologists, two teams of nurses and techs, the anesthesiologist..oh and Maura, me and two little babies.

Maura had been to the hospital the previous evening for some preliminary labwork.  She came home in shambles, nearly frantic.  The neonatologist had told her that if either of the twins had any complications that both would be sent to Children’s Hospital an hour’s drive to the south.

Until that moment, less than twelve hours before our planned C-section, the thought that anything could go wrong had never occurred to us.  The pregnancy had been completely normal.  Not a single problem throughout.  Both babies were growing as expected and all tests and ultrasounds had been nothing short of perfect.

“You mean, even if they need oxygen for a day or two?”

“Yes,” she told me through her tears.

Calls were made and contingency plans put in place.  I’m sure I put gas in the car but I don’t recall doing so.  I’m fairly certain we did not sleep.

Unbeknownst to us, the hospital staff had also spent a rather sleepless night.  The neonatal ICU was at capacity, yet they were making arrangements to accommodate us.  To accommodate Maura.  An electrician worked late into the night running power to support an additional infant bed.  Extra staff had been called in.

We arrived at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, anxious, numb and completely exhausted.  The nursing staff had let us know that they had made arrangements to keep the twins there unless, of course, anything really serious was going on.

It helped set our minds at ease yet only minimally.

The scene in the delivery room can only be described as chaotic.  Not that there was a heightened state of emergency but simply because it was crowded.  Dang there were a lot of people in that room!

The procedure, however, could not have been more smoothly organized.  Well, except for the 4-5 minutes that we, yes we, had to breathe for Maura.  She had continually complained that she was still “feeling that!” and by the time the anesthesiologist achieved numbness, she had achieved near coma-ness.  I’m standing there holding an ambu bag, breathing for Maura, the anesthesiologist is titrating medicine and all the while I’m trying to observe the birth  of my children praying that nothing goes wrong there.

Surreal?  Yeah, kind of.

Anyway, the birth.

Zella came first.  Butt first.  Choose your allegory there, people I’m just saying how it was.  Zander followed a minute later and for the life of me all I can remember is that he looked relieved.

Apgars and other significant birthing details have escaped me.  But this I do recall.  Two pink, healthy babies crying like pink, healthy babies should.

Oh, and this.  Typically after the birth the children are taken to the baby ward for their initial assessments and a quick bath.  Our stay in the delivery room was delayed, however.  In all of the hospital’s frantic anticipation of preparing a spot in the NICU, there were no beds ready in the regular well-baby ward.

Zander and Zella were the two healthiest kids in the hospital!  Not even five minutes into the world and they’d already started exceeding expectations.

And they’ve done so with aplomb over and again these past four years.  The happiness and sheer joy those two have brought into my life has far exceeded any in my wildest dreams.

Happy Birthday,  Zander and Zella.  My two little raccoons.

The twins, bright eyed and animated as ever came running into the kitchen.  They clutched my legs, trembling.

“What do you think it was?”

(I knew exactly what it was.  I had overloaded the washing machine—again—and as it tried to start it’s spin cycle began to shake pretty strongly.)

“I don’t know,” Zander timidly responded.

“Was it the cat?” I asked.  (Let’s see how far I can take this, I thought to myself.)

“No.  The cat ran.”

“Was it Zane?”

“Dad!  Zane just went to school.”

“Was it Rusty?”

“Rusty is outside.”

“Was it a frog?”

“No.”

“Was it a–a monster??”

“Uhm…”  Zander’s eyes grew even more wide.  Clearly I had touched a nerve.  Maybe pushed a bit too far.  (Unusual.)

“Or could it have been the washing machine?  I think I put too many clothes in it.”

Zella then interjected, “I’m pretty sure it was a gorilla!”

It was expected.

It was generally assumed that if at the end of the third grade school year your name is on the list of students moving to the fourth grade that you had completed the requirements for the third grade.  There were no ceremonies, no pomp.  Just move along.

How is it, then, that I find myself once again in Mrs. Reed’s third grade classroom?

Zoë had a social studies project due this morning.  We’ve had approximately three weeks to complete the assignment.  Three weeks we have had to research and gather information.  Three weeks we have had to organize the information and place it on a display board.  Three weeks we have had to prepare a visual and oral presentation.  Three weeks.

It took me two days!

Karma is a bitch.  Don’t let anyone tell you that shit won’t come back and bite you because I just spent the better part of my weekend repaying 36 years of bad vibe for dialing-in that report on Grover Cleveland in the third grade.

(Karma is also very patient.)

You see, Zoë is what we might call in the business—a procrastinator.  A dilly-dallyer.  A why do today what you can leave for tomorrow type of person.  The project was due this morning and as of Friday afternoon, she had not started it.

She was so far under the gun that the task of getting the project completed on time had become immobilizing.  Left to her own accord the project would have never been completed.  She needed help.  Big time.  And as much as I would have liked for this to become a life lesson, a monumental teaching moment, I couldn’t face the prospect of knowingly letting her fail, which she surely would have had I not stepped in.

So yeah, I spent the better part of my weekend helping Zoë with her social studies project.  And by better part I actually mean my entire weekend.  And by helping I mean doing.

Karma has been repaid.

I took Zoë to school this morning and as I made the way to her classroom couldn’t help but eyeball some of her classmates’ work.  Decent for the most part but let me assure you kids—and you know who you are—karma will haunt you.

We don’t have the van anymore.

In all honesty, that is the only feature I miss about that van when compared to our new vehicle.  Well, new is kind of stretching it.  It was new to us in June.  New to us I have to say because the actual newness of the vehicle wore off some two years earlier when it was in fact at that time a new vehicle.

The lift-gate is not automatic.

It’s not really that big of a deal.  I mean, though having an automatic button for your lift-gate is a rather convenient feature to have in an automobile, so is the built in satellite radio or the dvd player.  The Dolby surround system.

We make sacrifices.

Besides, Zoë has become rather adept at closing the lift-gate on her own.  She climbs into the back of the vehicle, grabs the looped strap that hangs from the bottom of the lift-gate and jumps.  To her, its’ a game and she’s pretty nimble at it.

Maybe too nimble.

For you see, Zia having noticed how easily Zoë is able to climb into the back of the vehicle, grab the looped strap that hangs from the bottom of the lift-gate and jump felt that she should likewise be able to close the lift-gate unassisted.

And so she did.

Zia climbed into the back of the vehicle, grabbed the looped strap that hangs from the bottom of the lift-gate and jumped.  She may have pulled as well.  Actually,  I’m not quite sure of the entire sequence of events but I do know that something went terribly awry.

She came into the house screaming holding her hand cupped beneath her nose.  A nose that was dripping the most brilliantly colored red blood I have seen in quite some time.

She tried to explain but it was very difficult to understand what with all of the crying and blood and such.

After great length, and much cleaning, I was able to ask exactly what had happened.  She began her story with, “Well Zoë does it and she……”

And before I could catch myself, before I even knew what was happening, I became my mother.  Incarnate.  Her voice emanating from me.

“Well, Zoë is an idiot!  If  she jumped off of the roof would you do that, too?!”

I laughed when I heard myself, thinking that the laughter might set things a bit back at ease.  I think it came off as more of a maniacal, dad’s really snapped here kind of thing.  I battled some old ghosts and they wisely kept their distance for a while.

Yesterday we took Zia to her pediatrician for some x-rays.  He said that he would call me with the results but as of this evening, I still haven’t heard anything.  I’m sticking with the old adage that no news is good news.

But I’d Swear That Thing is Broken

Oh, and in case you were worried….

The lift-gate is fine.

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!