Loving, Laughing, and Trying to Leave a Legacy - heatherijames's Blog - The Bakersfield Voice

First Day Funny

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 17:32:28 PDT

Ethan started another year of pre-school today. But it was big boy's pre-school this time around. The final heave-ho for my December-just-missed-the-cut-off-baby before he makes the final ascent into kindergarten.

I tried to make it abundantly clear to him that behavior was going to be big emphasis this year. The kid can already read (are you paying attention Mr. Superintendent of schools who decides the cut-off is a hard and fast rule???) so, there's not much left to perfect except...um...behavior, I guess.

At any rate, he's got a great teacher and she has some great rules on behavior. She communicated them so perfectly to my son, that when I picked him up today he repeated them verbatim from the sheet she handed me in the morning. He listed all the consequences of bad behavior up and until the final consequence of being sent to the Principal's office.

To which he than adds, "And I think I have to stay there all day and night because the teacher made it sound like a horrible place. Right Mommy?"

"That's right, honey. All day and all night without any food or water." What? I thought it'd be funny. My boy usually knows when I'm joking so I left it at that and we moved on.

A couple of hours later, Daddy called and asked Ethan how his first day went. Ethan proceeded to tell Daddy (on speakerphone) all about the rules and then ended, very dramatically, "And I'll be sent to the Principal's office to sit and suffer all day long without any food or water."

"Wh-wh-what?" His Daddy asked. "Um, honey (talking to me now), are his teachers allowed to do that?"

Well, I have to get my entertainment somewhere.

So Says Solomon

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:34:10 PDT

Every now and then I start to wonder about life. Not so much about mine, not so much about yours, but about life as it is general. I was driving home around half past noon. The same way, the same way always. But, at high noon, in the middle of summer, some things look crisper, some things look duller.

An old house, small on a big lot of full of dry grass, looked crisper. It is quite old. Its lack of size dates it to a time when big things did not matter; the chipped white paint and a shutter hanging by only a single brace also dates it to time’s past.

As if the perfectly centered sun in the sky illuminated only the house itself, I took a good long look at it. There were four vehicles lining the dirt driveway. All, too, were from a different time than the one I find myself in the throws of. One word came to me, one word for the house, the land, and the vehicles. Neglect.

Judging by the design of the vehicles, such material treasures would have been popular in the late seventies, early eighties at the latest. Coupled with the house, the era made sense. Only after this time did size start to matter so much. Only after this time was it inconceivable to not have separate rooms for each child and their toys.

What was the property like, then, in the late seventies? Full of energy, vibrancy, meaning? And if so, what had happened in the interim? Some could say life happened. Some could say it was simply time. I, myself, did not stop to ponder as much. As with a great many things in this world, I inevitably come to the point where I ask, “Will this happen to me?”

Will my home succumb to just passing one day to another for the next thirty years? Will such be a reflection of my life and attitudes? Another word came to me. Complacency. It usually predicates neglect, does it not? And a step further in that direction is pride.

My imagination, overactive to be sure, started to put together a story behind the little old house and the vehicles so untouched their windows were caked with dry dust from year after year of fall breezes.

A family. Father works hard, mother raises children. Most did in those times. There was always enough money. Enough for the cars, enough for the food, enough for the heat in the dead of winter, and a little extra for a brand new pair of roller skates at Christmas. But faith was misplaced. It was put in the now, the have to haves, and of course, their youth.

And yes, life happened. Time happened. Pride, then complacency, then neglect. And finally, the warning. Best transcribed by Solomon for his closing remarks in Ecclesiastes:

“Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth,
Before the difficult days come,
And the years draw near when you say,
I have no pleasure in them”

           * * *
  “Then the dust will return to the earth as it was,
  And the spirit will return to God who gave it.
   “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher,
   “All is vanity.”

* * *

“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:

Fear God and keep His commandments,
For this is man’s all.
For God will bring every work into judgment,
Including every secret thing,
Whether good or evil.”

Ecclesiastes 12:1, 7-8, 13-14

Call Yourself a Parent

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 15:48:53 PDT

When you know the difference between plagiocephaly and craniosynostosis before your baby is six months old, you've earned it.

When you know three different ways to cure diaper rash, you've earned it.

When you take the time to draw a happy face out of ketchup for a corn dog, you've earned it.

When you know the only option of carpet color is anything dark, you've earned it.

When you sacrifice clean for clean enough, you've earned it.

When you can bite your tongue when a window gets broken, you've earned it.

When you designate one thermometer in the house to be the rectal thermometer, you've earned it.

When someone in your household misappropriates the rectal thermometer and uses it to take their temperature orally, they've earned it.

Go ahead, call yourself a parent, you've earned it!

Utterly Unspeakable

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 22:44:50 PDT

Ethan's been potty trained for almost two years now but recently we've been working on him doing the, well...um...the wiping. I should say, however, that we were working on the wiping. After a few botched attempts I told Ethan we would go back to Mommy doing it and try again next month.

But he wouldn't have any of it. Thus, he makes secret trips to the bathroom to hone in on his skills and only calls on me when he's tired of trying to get the job done. Usually, the aftermath is nothing bad at all. But today, oh dear Lord, today was utterly unspeakable.

The toilet seat was.... And in between the sheets of the roll of toilet paper.... He told me he had stuck his finger in.... I had to wipe down his lower back.... Unspeakable things. Such unspeakable things.

The climax of it all was the very poor timing of serving him a piece of chocolate frosted cake immediately prior. There was a certain smudge below his bottom lip. As we were washing his hands I asked, "Is that poop or chocolate by your mouth?" The child proceeded to stick his tongue out and lick at the smudge with both a look of necessity and hesitation until he smiled and said, "Nah. It's just chocolate."

Thank God for small miracles, thank God it was just chocolate. The only thing left from the debacle is trying to strategize a plan of anti-bacterial attack for that toilet seat. Otherwise, I'm afraid I will never use it again.

Nostalgia

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 16:39:41 PDT

Oh, nostalgia. It came for a visit today when all I wanted to do was to put the laundry away. The baby is almost four months old and it was time to move through the newborn clothes to the next size up. I had a box ready to put the old away in, to get it ready to be sold at the next baby items consignment sale. I didn't realize it would be so hard.

It wasn't just Aidan's clothes. It was a combination of both all the new items I had bought for him and the best of the best of his older brother's outfits from almost four years earlier. When I put my older son's clothes in a box four years ago, I knew I was safekeeping them, storing them for the next bundle of boy that I innately knew would eventually bless my little life.

But, this time, it was different. There aren't going to be any more babies in this house, and I am likely to never see these tiny onesies and rompers again. They are getting boxed up to depart forever and I was torn. Each piece has a memory. I can't, for the life of me, recall what exact memory goes with each piece. I simply have this fuzzy little notion that goodness, joy, and love are somehow interwoven in each outfit. Like the blue sleeping gown that both of my sons wore. It looked so good against their blue eyes, those extra-long lashes, I just couldn't put it in the box. Nothing special happened when they wore this gown, but I had to keep it. I knew there was something about it.

Maybe it was on their little bodies when I fell in love with them. Maybe they wore it when I whispered in their ears for the first time that I'd die for them. Maybe I spent twenty minutes trying to spot treat either poop or throw-up on it in the middle of one night, realizing for the first time that all my labor is well worth it. I don't know which one of these things it might have been. May have been all of them. Maybe none of them. But I plan on keeping that gown.

It is a symbol of love only a parent knows, a piece of time that will remain precious even when I am old and alone. And now, the gown has a new meaning. Not of the perfect and small bodies that once were clothed in it, but of the realization that being a parent comes with a price. That at some point in time, whether we like it or not, we have to say goodbye. Not to everything, but most of it.

Thank You Northwest Voice

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 15:37:59 PDT

I was a lucky recipient of a family four pack to the Sesame Street Live production of Elmo Grows Up. I wanted to express my thanks to the Northwest Voice for offering such wonderful things to us, its readers. I took my four year old, and had my three month old strapped to my chest in his sling. We had great seats and Ethan (the four year old) constantly waved at his friends, Elmo and Big Bird.

It was, truly, a bonding experience. At the end of the show, Ethan, who is only prone to holding my hand these days out of threat or coercion, grabbed my hand softly, yet tightly. He wanted to hold my hand as he told me I was the best mommy ever.

This was, of course, the best part of the night. Thus, I am grateful to Dana Martin and her wonderful endeavor in making the Voice an intricate part of our daily lives. From providing a haven for our written words, to being a literary accomplice in our community involvement, to an outlet for entertaining the whole family.

Thank you!

IF I Ever Have Children

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 21:55:39 PDT

I was perusing on Youtube and stumbled across a video regarding random acts of kindness. The gentleman, in monologue form, went on for over seven minutes about making the world a better place though one small kind act after another.

In the middle of his lamenting over all the tragedy prevalent in the world today, he said something that struck me to the core like little has recently. He said, and I quote, "What can we do about it? What can we do to make this world a better place? I kind of feel helpless. I kind of feel like I can only do so much. If I ever have children, I can raise them a certain way...."

But, I, I do have children. It took this man on YouTube to remind me the obligation within my hands, within my voice, within my actions. If I ever have children.... This man was quite astute in concluding that the power to make the world a better place is truly one child at a time.

To teach our sons to respect women. From holding the door open for them, to never pressuring them into physical acts. To teach our daughters to respect themselves. From having a mind of their own, to accepting they are beautiful just as God made them. To show our children that lying is lying from saying they're younger than they are at the buffet, to missing curfew. To instill in our children that everyone is loved and precious because God loves them all and finds each precious.

What a power, don't you see? What a tremendous privilege. If one man thinks he can change the world if he ever has children, what are we parents waiting for?

To My Youngest Child

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 12:25:21 PDT

The camera is ready. Ready to capture you over and over again. From your smiles to that way when you furrow your brow because something has definitely captured your attention. You are only three months old, but I know your older brother has had three times as many pictures taken as you have.

I said I would never be one of those parents. What you are soon to find out about me, is that you can easily call me an "Even Steven." This is why the camera is always ready. Something in me triggers this sense of injustice if I do not give you the exact same things your brother had. What can I say? I'm a middle child. Bring it up with Gammie.

Remember the time I fell asleep feeding you those first few weeks? It was because mommy had stayed up late one night when I should have been sleeping, just so I did not have to endure one more day without an even number of pictures hung around the house of the both of you. Three of your brother, three of you. It could not be any other way. So, the camera is always ready. But why are there still fewer pictures of you? Because you are my last baby.

Something occurred to me today, when I was holding you and I was singing and you were smiling. If I reached over for that camera, I would have broken the moment. You would no longer be staring at mommy's face. You would be staring at a gray box placed in front of mommy's face. I guess this is why I rarely capture you on film with that gorgeous smile.

You do not want to look at the camera, you want to look at your mommy. I can not miss these opportunities. But, they are in my mind. Yes, they are there. I want them there so badly, to enjoy and savor every moment; even though the camera is always ready, I dare not pick it up. I want to see you through my eyes, not the camera's. You are the last chance I get to store direct contact, direct memories, of a gift so preciously given over to me.

Thus, one of these days if you have inherited mommy's unrelenting, meticulous, and obsessive fairness gene, (and poor daddy if that happens), and you ask why there are more pictures of your brother than of you, this is my explanation for it. I feel a need to offer it to you. It would only be fair that way.

Beautiful Things

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 20:03:10 PDT

(I thought I'd add this to my blog as well.)

I saw, I saw some beautiful things, when first I opened my eyes on something other, other than me.

An elderly couple holding hands on a wrap around porch. Still loving each other, still liking each other. How tender.

A passenger on a bus shaking the driver's hand upon exiting. How deserved.

A mother pushing her child in a swing, both smiling. How natural.

Neighbors talking to each other over the fence. How retro.

A young man with a cap, a gown, and a bit of hope. How promising.

I saw, I saw some beautiful things. Will they see these same things when they look back at me?

The Gender Card

Fri, 23 May 2008 19:53:16 PDT

I thought with the addition of the third male in the house, and me being the only female, our second bathroom needed an overhaul to make it less feminine. So, I wholeheartedly meant it when I asked the whole family to go with me to the store and help pick out colors and patterns. But then, I saw it. The shower curtain of my dreams.

I couldn't contain myself. I had to make it mine. My husband tried to steer me towards shower curtains that were striped and not too different in style from most of the shirts he wears. I poo poo'd them all. I just had to have that shower curtain; almost as if my self-identity was interwoven in its majestic silky threads and Bohemic style embroidery.

My husband reminded me the reason we were redecorating in the first place was to find something less frilly, not more frilly, since the boys will be primarily using the bathroom. "But our guests use that bathroom too!" I cried out with my fingers crinkling the silk curtain in a panic. "I don't want our guests to think my tastes are defined by anything other than this shower curtain."

"What about the boys?" He asked.

"One is too young to care and the other one just picked out a plastic curtain with dancing monkeys on it!" I replied.

"What about what I want?" He asked.

And though I was desperately trying to not throw out the gender card, I did. "Between all the burping and farting and wrestling and dirty clothes thrown all over the house, I feel so outnumbered! Please let me have this."

He finally succumbed. Later, when I was putting up my shower curtain, my eldest was patiently watching me, cheering on my good tastes. When I thanked him for his support, he simply responded, "Yeah, because I know I want dinner."

I was touched. They get it when they're young and somehow...it just disappears.

American Miss-Manners

Tue, 20 May 2008 22:51:41 PDT

We were out camping and something odd happened one night. We were at the RV park's pool (I know...not camping) when two gentleman came into the pool area, smiled and said hello.

I gave a half smirk back because I was too busy trying to figure out what their angle was in approaching me and being so pleasant. Were they going to kill me, rape me, take my young? They were just too friendly and it put me off because, quite frankly, not many people are these days. Naturally, I figured they were up to something.

However, a few minutes later their wives joined them and they also gave me a warm greeting. When they actually spoke to me in a full sentence, I was finally able to pick up the foreign accent. Coupled with the few words of German I picked up in their speech, I realized they were German tourists RVing through America.

They played in the pool with my son and husband and were wholeheartedly kind and gracious. Needless to say, I was quite ashamed that my first reaction to their kindness was to prepare myself for the commission of a crime. But, it made me think what this poor country has come to. It isn't the state of our guardedness that bothers me, because we need to be guarded these days. Thus, what bothers me is the necessity to be guarded. How many of us would truly feel comfortable with two middle aged men in speedos playing with their four year old son in a pool if those were American men?

Because as far as this mommy is concerned, if it wasn't for the European accent, the situation would have been completely anomalous to the American norm and I would have been right in assuming something could be afoot.

Maybe I watch too many crime dramas on TV, maybe God has put me on high alert to prevent something horrible from happening in the future, and maybe it's a combination of the two.

Life Can be a Variety Box of Pop-Tarts

Wed, 14 May 2008 22:05:21 PDT

You know those big boxes of Pop-Tarts? Where you get a few of the frosted cinnamon and brown sugar, a few of the frosted cherry, and a few of the strawberry with no frosting whatsoever? Life can be like that. Some days, some moments, some memories, have the frosting. Others don’t. In my households, both the one I grew up in and the one I am building up now, no one ever wanted to touch those unfrosted Pop-Tarts. They would sit in the cupboard, alone in the box, right next to the regular flavored packets of oatmeal in their own variety box.

When I was a child, there was always a reckoning. Mom wouldn’t buy another box of Pop-Tarts (or oatmeal) until the undesirable ones were consumed. Sometimes, we had to take care of three boxes at a time. Triple the amount of unfrosted Pop-Tarts to choke down. Made me re-think procrastination

As an adult, I either throw the unwanted pieces away, or refrain from buying the variety pack. Haven’t really considered making my son do what I know I never liked to do when I was his age. However, it occurred to me that perhaps I should.

Sometimes duty is the unfrosted Pop-Tart, sometimes it is honor, or character, or morals, or maybe even defending the weak. We don’t want to do it, but often, we must choke it down and finish the deed, even when it is undesirable to do so.

Life isn’t always full of frosting and titillating experiences that are pleasing and enjoyable. I shouldn’t be suggesting to my son that it is otherwise. I think he’ll be having an unfrosted Pop-Tart tomorrow. I think he’ll be eating it next to me with my bowl of plain oatmeal. We’ll share in the drudgery together, we’ll do what we need to do together, we’ll do what’s right…together.

Too Taboo a Topic? But, Hey, It's Funny!

Mon, 12 May 2008 21:23:17 PDT

It was a tough day. One calamity after another, begot one breakdown after another. Near the end of the day, I walked in the door to our house and saw a note left by my husband: I haven’t collected the sample yet. You’ll have to do it.

What sample you ask? A stool sample from Ethan. He had been having stomach problems over the last week and the doctor ordered a stool sample. I had picked up the kit from the lab the previous day and was praying that Ethan’s crowning moment of the day (no pun intended) would occur on Daddy’s watch, not mine. But alas, today was my tough day. In anticipation of this eventual moment, I tried to pontificate, how does one collect a stool sample? I mean, there have been times in my past where my own doctors have requested a stool sample from me; specifically, the time I came back from Mexico still feeling ill after I ate an uncharacteristically warm mango on a stick from a beach vendor when I was in my early twenties. What can I say? When you’re young and your metabolism is still fast enough to wear an itsy bitsy bikini, you don’t worry about much, least alone what you put in your body. At any rate, my doctor asked for a stool sample but the sheer thought of fishing in the toilet for my own poopy made me want to take my chances of getting better without knowing exactly why I was sick to begin with.

But, as all parents already know, what we won’t do for ourselves, we will do for our children if the need arises. So, back to the sample. It was nearing two o’clock and I had finally come up with my best idea on how to receive Ethan’s not so tiny turds. A paper plate held in the bowl by yours truly while Ethan did his business. At exactly 4:07 p.m., Ethan ran up to me and said he had to go poop. As I positioned the plate in the toilet and told Ethan to sit on the seat and go, he said, “I don’t want to poop on a plate! We eat on plates! I’m not hungry!”

“Do it!” I commanded. “This is not for food, it’s for the doctor.” He was a trooper and laid what he called “a snake” on the plate and I quickly ushered him out of the bathroom and locked the door behind him. I didn’t want him to witness mommy playing with a plate of poop and giving him a whole new set of ideas of what can be done with his feces. I put on an industrially thick face mask to block the smell and started to open the containers the lab gave me to store the samples in. Thinking the mask would protect me from the smell, I accidentally got too close to the plate o’ poopy during collection and got a good whiff of Ethan’s “snake”. I quickly stood up straight and saw my eyes starting to water in my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Yup, crap still manages to smell like crap, even with a mask on.

Now, with my face a good distance away from the plate, I began to divide the sample between three different containers. Each container was sealed with a lid that had a miniature spork attached to the bottom of it. That’s right, a spork. And it was when I was staring at that little poop smeared spork, I figured my day couldn’t get any worse. To know that the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, have decided a spork was the perfect instrument for school lunches and stool samples alike, and that I, myself, was seeing the rational behind providing sporks for this very purpose, I realized I was engulfed in a world I didn’t want to know anything about and had finally given up on my day getting any better.

But, God’s grace can sometimes be found in His humor. As I was driving down to the lab to drop off the sample, I miraculously began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Yeah, my day had gotten the best of me but the thought of the lab staff handling the sample after I dropped it off made me smile. As an attorney by trade I definitely have to peddle a lot of crap during the day but, at least, I don’t actually have to sift through it for a living. And with that realization, I could end my day on a higher note. I had passed the poop forward.

Evolution Debunked

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 01:21:38 PDT

My thoughts got deep today. Over the last few years, I have been taking various courses and attending lectures regarding science now being able to prove evolution is false. So, I got to thinking about all the children out there still learning about it. Made me want to give a brief synopsis of what I've learned in case anyone is interested.

First of all, my credentials: I actually have a Bachelor's in Anthropology, so I am quite familiar with the theory of evolution and studied it quite thoroughly to graduate with honors. But, I'm also a Christian. The Bible says God created the heavens and the earth and all inhabitants in six days. Obviously, I thought the Bible was wrong when I was getting my degree in Anthropology. Now, I'm a lawyer. If you know anything about lawyers (and not from the jokes) then you know no lawyer is worth anything if they don't pick the dickens out of a problem and analyze it until there is nothing left. Thus, I wanted to see who was right...God or Darwin.

I'm not the first person who has done this. This is what I have gleaned in my pursuit to find truth, and I think I am qualified to base my assertions on the fact that I've been on both sides of the argument. Anthropologists/Paleontologists create a theory and then find evidence to support their theory. This is backwards reasoning and thus, not true science. True science collects all the evidence and then makes a conclusion. For example, a paleontologist finds a tooth and creates a whole sub-species of a human. Off of a tooth. Just a tooth, and you have knew species between ape and man. A real scientist wouldn't make that conclusion unless he had the entire, and I mean entire, skeleton, as well as the skeleton of the species before and after it.

A real scientist can be described as a micro-biologist. A micro-biologist deals more with evidence than theories. The latest task was to see how small one can dissect a single cell. One micro-biologist did just this. Michael Behe coined the term "irreducible complexity." He found a new way to view one of the smallest organisms there is on the earth. A bacterial flagellum. If we came from the goo to the zoo to the you, then we would have all had to start out as something even smaller than a single cell organism. Behe dissected the single cell organism smaller than anyone ever has before. And you know what he found? That the tail of the organism is propelled by a rotor and shaft that is composed of more than 40 parts. If you take one of those parts out, the whole cell ceases to function. Do you see? How can we have evolved (having a smaller whole than the whole that evolved) if missing a piece would mean not existing?

Behe's book is called Darwin's Black Box. He originally started studying the single cell organism to prove up Darwin's theory thinking that it lacked proper scientific standing. Now, he's disproved Darwin because he followed the facts, not the theories. Evolution simply does not exist in light of his findings. So, why are they still teaching it in our schools?

Ben Stein has released a movie by the name of Expelled. It's on this very topic. Science has disproved evolution. But, mainstream academics refuses to acknowledge such. Maybe we should start getting our kids ready to know the truth. And maybe they can make the difference. But, our kids won't know unless we know first. Truth is always found for those who seek it out themselves.

Praying while Driving

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 13:16:14 PDT

What can I say? I'm big into prayer. In the mornings, I tend to pray after I arrive in my little parking spot downtown before I make my brief daily appearance for work. Even if I'm in a hurry, I still wait until I have the car parked. Today, today reminds me of why I do that.

I just didn't feel like listening to the radio on the drive and took the quiet as an opportunity to do my daily prayers right then and there. At first blush, I reckon I shouldn't have. I didn't get very far. I asked God to give me my daily dose of patience, and then someone cut me off and I went in a wee bit of a heated monologue directed at the other driver as if he could hear me. Oops! I was praying!! So, I asked for patience again in light of my obvious lack of it. And then someone stops short in front of me for a right turn in a driveway without their blinker. Again, me and my heated comments, and oops!! I was praying.

Suffice it to say, that happened a few times before I finally reached my destination. I must have asked for patience at least six times and it was the only thing I got a chance to communicate. Wait a minute...maybe this was a good thing. It wasn't as if patience was being withheld from me, it was more like it was being born in me.

So, yeah, I only got around to praying for one thing today. But I think, I hope, it'll stick this time.

The Women of Hall of Records

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 17:27:05 PDT

I walk by the Hall of Records downtown every morning as I scuttle into the courthouse to make my court appearances. I noticed, recently, that the anterior paint has been changed from a pale and subtle pink to a pale and subtle baby blue. Other than that, I had no real involvement with the building until last Thursday. I was contracted to file a quitclaim deed and figured I'd pick up my newborn's birth certificate while I was there.

I walked in and was overcome with a sense of peace, gentleness, and feminine aura. I figured it was the pink shelves and counters. There was a whole lot of pink. But, as I waited for the clerk to give me a stamped copy of the deed, I looked all around me and saw female after female after female. When the clerk came back, I asked her, "Are there only women who work in this building?"

"Yes. Well, except for our supervisor hiding in that back office. He's the only guy. And he's looking at me right now, frowning." She replied.

And me, of course I can't keep my big mouth shut, so I said, "You can definitely feel the female presence in here. It just feels like a perfect environment. Quiet, friendly, just at peace with the world. I can...I can...I can almost feel the SHE-POWER radiating around me."

It got a good chuckle from the five clerk's in earshot. One of whom told me their supervisor was in near tears (the bad kind) at the comment. Guess he knows it's true and didn't need some outsider to rally the troops against him any further.

I'm not picking on the male species here, I'm not. But good mercy, it was a sublime experience. There was an absolute sense of euphoria to that place.

As I walked back out I finally understood why the building had recently been painted. The supervisor's one victory.

Ode to the Crossing Guard

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 21:58:09 PDT

It has indeed been many moons since I first saw the crossing guard guide children across Roberts Lane into Beardsley School. I drive by him each morning on my way to work, often being stopped by that red light at Roberts and Airport to let the children cross the street ever so slowly in complete un-anticipation of the school day ahead of them. But amongst all those small and sullen faces is the crossing guard. A gentleman who appears to be in his sixties, although I’d imagine he is probably older without looking a day over fifty.

Why do I feel it necessary to speak of this individual? Because he perplexes me so. He perplexes me on a daily basis. He perplexes me in a way that makes me look inside myself, and I am rarely willing to do that. He perplexes me because every time I see him, and exaggeration is not an option with this story, every time I see him, he is grinning from ear to ear. I often find myself at that stop light watching him hold up his ever symbolic red octagon with the word STOP upon it, while clenching a polished silver whistle in between his great white chompers. Yes, he still smiles while clenching the whistle between his teeth.

As a natural pessimist, I found myself being drawn toward dissecting his smile from the get-go. Trying to find some sadistic reason why he could smile as much as he did. Was he on some sort of medication? Did he suffer some unusual face trauma where his face froze with a smile on it? No fool would be able to think so if you looked at this man long enough. His oddity was found in his genuine happiness. And as most of us can not help but stare at an accident on the side of the road, many of us can not help but stare at the rareness of someone genuinely smiling for no reason other than smiling in and of itself. When I first gave into the fact that this gentleman was truly full of joy, I could not help but smile myself. I began to look forward to driving to work simply because I knew a little bit of his joy will come my way, even though he does not know I exist.

It has been over a year now, since I first saw him, and I assure you he still smiles. He is smiling in September when mornings can start out at ninety degrees and he is smiling in January when mornings can start out at thirty. And yet, somehow the redundancy of it all has naturally made this incredible man lose the luster in my sights. Sometimes, I forget to notice. Sometimes, I am busy doing other things in my car. But, on those mornings when I am not applying my lipstick in the rear view mirror as I wait at the red light, and am mindful that he is present, I still study him vigorously.

Why is it that a smile is so contagious? Because of its rarity these days? Or because it was crafted to do such contamination? I guess it does not really matter. I find myself not being accountable for the ‘why’s’ as much as I am for the ‘why not’s’. Why don’t I smile more often? Why can’t I find joy in my job if he can find joy in his? Why can’t I be remembered as an unusually happy person? I do not know the story of the crossing guard’s life. I only know that no human escapes life unscathed. And if he can smile so religiously, then my story is not over yet. My final page is not written as to whether or not my tragedies and triumphs will weigh a smile or frown upon my yet to be old and retired face. It’s a choice, isn’t it Mr. Crossing Guard? It’s a choice.

A Husband's Morning

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 21:52:09 PDT

My husband and I have a nice little schedule going on with our work schedules. Since I only work for a couple of hours in the early morning, he has taken a shift at his job that allows him to go in at eleven in the morning, well after I get home from my job. Needless to say, he’s in charge of our two little guys while I am at work. Charles, well, Charles has what I like to call…um…a punctuality problem. Myself, being the polar opposite, figure I’m late if I’m later than five minutes early. Let’s just leave it at it being an ongoing marital issue. At any rate, the one thing I don’t let slide in regards to his un-timeliness is making our son late for school, (even if it is only pre-school.)

I let a lot of the lollygagging slide, but making Ethan late to school ruffles my feathers. I have to take Charles’ word on their promptness because I’m not even home when they leave for school. But today, today, Momma got home early. It was 9:27 a.m. and I turned onto our street being absolutely sure my house would be empty as school starts at 9:30 a.m. Much to my chagrin, I see my husband and son racing into the car, and upon seeing me, my husband put on that “Oh crap!” face. When the cat’s away….

No lecture. I simply told him I wanted a detailed, and written, account of what they did in the morning since I had woken them up two and half hours earlier, giving them plenty of time to get ready and be on time. This was not the first time I had come home early and found them still at home and I was genuinely curious where the breakdown had occurred. Following, is the detailed account Charles gave me. Needless to say, I forgave him. After all, laughter heals many things.

“You were still at home during the brushing of the teeth. From there . . . Oh boy, okay, let's see . . .

I put Ethan in the shower after some chasing . . . finally!

I shaved.

I went to get Ethan's clothes, which only later turned into a minor ordeal; details to follow.

While in the shower, Ethan and I did some of the normal shower activities like throwing water darts, blowing bubbles, ya know? The quality father & son bonding we like to do in the mornings.

We dry off.

I start to put his clothes on. He sees it's the dolphin Cabo San Lucas shirt and says, "Uh, no, that one's not gonna work for me, it makes my boobies hurt, it makes my boobies itchy." I asked him to try it again since that was last year & now that he's bigger it may fit a little better now. He put it on and immediately said, "No, it still hurts my boobies, just like it did when I was 3." I go get another outfit.

I do Ethan's hair.

I let the dogs out to potty.

I do half of my getting ready. Save the other half for later.

I get Ethan started with his breakfast.

I play some music for Ethan to listen to.

I let the dogs in & feed them.

I start your coffee.

I finish getting ready.

I make Ethan's lunch as well as my own.

I take the dogs out to make potty again, and then put them away.

I then remember silent little Aidan, and start realizing that he's swaddled only in his diaper & in need of, well, everything.

I get Ethan up from his never ending bowl of cereal. Off we go to get Aidan.

I start to change the diaper, but decide to leave it for you since you were coming home soon anyway. It wasn't too full, so I got him dressed and put him in the car to come with us to drop Ethan off.

We get in the car, and the rest you witnessed first hand.

Sorry.”

The Failure to Act

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 17:45:59 PDT

I opened a door for a woman with a walker the other day at the courthouse after I realized she was pushing the handicapped automatic opening button with no success. As I held the door open for her, I noticed two disturbing details about the scene around us. One, there were two security guards and a sheriff’s deputy only a few feet away on the inside of the building watching her push the button like it was a scene on television, but not moving an inch to lend a hand. And two, there was a group of five middle aged adults a few feet from the outside of the doors, who were caucusing on how poorly the courthouse allocates its funds because they could not fix a simple button to help an innocent little old lady into the courthouse. Talking about it, but not actually helping anyone.

I was wondering who the bigger culprit was. The men trained to protect and serve who actually just sit and stare, or the civilians who are too busy blaming others than lifting a finger themselves. But, rather than spending time figuring it out, I was grateful I was taught well enough to spring forward to help someone in need without hesitation.

When I was younger, my grandfather watched me in the afternoons while I waited for my parents to come home from work. I bring this up because he was the one who taught me well in these regards. The man had seen it all. Born and raised in wartime Greece, came over to Ellis Island without most of his family, and made money bootlegging booze from over the Canadian border during the Prohibition. He also swore to me his brother was a part of the lesser known Detroit based Greek Mafia and would often remind me that the most loved job of his life was being a florist.

He would have lectured me for hours if he had seen me be one of the many standing by not opening the door for the woman. He taught me mercilessly that you aren’t worth anything if you don’t do anything. Thus, may I suggest that the failure to act is a failure to care; and the failure to care is why we all normally have something to wake up and complain about. The solution is within us. On three now: one, two, three…ACT!

Pros and Cons of Newborns and Pre-schoolers

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 16:22:32 PDT

With the recent addition to our family of our second son only a few weeks ago, and seeing the way my four year old son reacts to his brother, I started to contemplate the pros and cons of both age groups.

Newborn: Pro - Doesn't speak

Pre-schooler: Con - He speaks AND to add insult to injury, usually has an opinion.

Newborn: Con - Wakes up in the middle of the night and cries.

Pre-Schooler: Pro - He'll sleep through the night all right, but first he needs a glass of water, the nightlight turned on, the blanket pulled up two inches below his chin, and oh yeah, he's got to go to the bathroom once all the previous has been achieved just to have it all re-done again.

Newborn: Con - Needs his diapers changed.

Pre-schooler: Pro - Gets his business done in the potty. And the walls, and the floor, and that one horrible day when I didn't realize why he was calling the dog toilet until it was way too late.

Newborn: Con - I have to get him dressed each morning.

Pre-schooler: Pro - He can get himself dressed...if I have an hour to spare and wait for it to miraculously happen.

Newborn: Pro - Is pretty much totable to any location.

Pre-schooler: Con - Is only totable if there is a bribe involved. And, again, that pesky opinion is usually inserted at some point between the house and car door.

Did I mention that I love both of my sons? I do. But, a girl's gotta vent.