My alarm went off at 6:00 this morning like it always does. I hit the snooze button like I always do. My wife got up and went straight for the shower like she never does. This could only mean one of two things. Either she, and all three kids, slept perfectly last night and she is feeling refreshed and full of energy or she is sick and had been miserable all night just waiting for morning to come so she could get out of bed. I thought back to the night before. Yes, I seemed to recall bringing the baby into bed with us at some point. That’s not a good sign.
“Do you need me to stay home today?” I ask peeking my head into the bathroom.
“I don’t think so,” she replies. Whew. A bullet dodged.
Then came 6:15. The shower was over and I could see what she really looked like. It wasn’t pretty. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home today, Honey?” I ask.
“I don’t want you to stay home until I really need it. What if I feel worse tomorrow?” she says. I look her over one more time. I put my hand on her forehead simply because that’s what you are supposed to do.
“I don’t know how to say this nicely, but I don’t think you could get any worse,” I reply. And so begins my day as a stay-at-home dad. Kindergarten starts at 9:00, so getting three kids dressed and out the door in time shouldn’t be difficult. To help get organized I make a list of all the jobs I would need to get accomplished. I begin by consulting my wife’s calendar and then inserting a few of my own agenda items. Around 8:40 I comment to my ailing wife that I feel as if I had too much time to get our son to school.
“Have you packed his snack yet?” she asks.
“No.”
“Did you brush their teeth?”
“Not yet”.”
“Do they all have shoes and jackets?”
“Uh-oh.”
I start scrambling. “Zach, pack a snack,” I bark. “Girls, to the bathroom and brush your teeth.” We all run around for a few minutes getting things done and then head out to the car.
“Dad, the clock says 8:51,” Zach announces as we are pulling out of the driveway. “That means we should get to school at 8:56.” To the non-parent, that sounds like plenty of time. However, to the kindergarten parent, that’s cutting it close. Kindergartens have this annoying habit of making parents sign their children in and out each day. It is a token effort to control who takes the kids, but it is really inconvenient when your kindergartner has younger siblings as well.
Right on schedule, we pulled into the parking lot at 8:56. Then I unbuckle the younger girls, hold their hands and walk them as fast as I can across the parking lot. It is now 8:59. I sign my name and leave. Job 1 - done!
Now on to Job 2 - Buy hot dogs for the school fundraiser Friday night. Easy enough. We drive across town to the store and buy the biggest packages we could find. Load the girls back in the car and move on to Job 3 which is to deliver the dogs to school for storage in their refrigerator. Two minutes from school I glance in the mirror. What? No! It can’t be. I glance at the clock. 9:35. It’s too early for a nap. How can she be asleep? We have a full agenda. Plan B. I call the school and speak to the secretary. “Can you meet me outside and put the hot dogs away for me?” I ask. She agrees. Moments later I am in the parking lot. I slow the car to a stop and shift it into park. Is that crying I hear? Yes, it is. Oh, great! Now she’s awake. Oh well, I hand off the dogs and check off Job 3.
Still crying. Time to improvise. “Hey, girls!” I say. “Who wants to go to the park?” Super Dad gets a joyous response from his adoring fans. The crying stops and it’s off to the park we go. We play for about a half hour and then load the girls back up. “Time to go get your hair cut,” I announce. That would be Job 4.
Fortunately, Job 4 is completed without incident. I wipe my brow and look at my watch. “Uh-oh. Kindergarten gets out in 10 minutes. We have to go!” I pay the bill and load the girls back in the car once again. We zoom off to the school and arrive right at noon. Before I get out of the car, my phone rings. It’s a text message from my ailing wife. “I’m hungry. Bring food.” We can do that.
I rush inside and sign Zach out, then we head to Del Taco to get Mom a burrito. We do the burrito drop-off and then Super Dad takes the kids to McDonald’s. If you are still hanging in there with me at this point, this is when it gets good.
I glance in the mirror two minutes from out destination. What? She’s sleeping again! No, not now! The kids know where we are going so I can’t back out. This problem is easily solved. Simply remove the entire car seat (she’s well past the infant carrier stage by now) and carry it inside the restaurant. My children are watching me carefully, so I silently curse my wife for buying the heaviest car seat in the store. I persist through the pain and eventually arrive inside.
We order and settle down to eat. “Daddy, I have to pee.” It’s Zach. I can’t haul all three into the bathroom, especially given the hefty weight of the car seat.
I pause to think this through. “Okay,” I begin. “Run over to the bathroom and tell me if anyone is in there or not.” Being the careful dad that I am, I am not about to send a five-year-old into a bathroom alone. I position myself between our table and the restroom so that I can monitor both. Moments later, Zach returns.
“I can’t tell it anyone is in there or not,” he says. Off I go the the bathroom, walking backward so I don’t take my eyes off my daughters. I peek inside. All clear. “Go, Buddy!” I say waving him in. Walking sideways this time so that I can see if anyone else goes into the bathroom while also watching my daughters, I return to my perch in the middle. I feel like a bird searching for prey, my head moving from side to side. Check the bathroom, check the girls, check the bathroom, check the girls. The door opens. Zach emerges. Success.
Meanwhile back at the table I notice my three-year-old daughter doing the dance. “Maddie, do you have to pee?” I ask.
“Yeah.” I stop to think again.
“Zach, take your sister to the bathroom. Stay with her the whole time,” I command. “But first, let me know if anyone is in there.” And we go through the whole drill again. I return to the center perch and check the bathroom, check the sleeping baby, check the bathroom, check the sleeping baby. Oh no! Someone kinda creepy looking is heading for the men’s room. I size him up. Yup, he’s weird. I follow him, walking sideways to keep one eye on the baby. I catch the door behind him and plant myself halfway in and halfway out. I watch my new friend pee, with one eye, while keeping the other on the baby. You can’t be too careful. Fortunately, he’s got a small bladder. He even washes his hands. I return to my perch.
“Dad!” I look over at the bathroom door. “Maddie pooped and she needs you to wipe her.”
“Tell her she’s out of luck, “ I reply, not moving from my perch. A few minutes later, I hear the air dryer in the bathroom turn on. That can only mean one thing - she’s done! The door opens and out they come, but this time Zach is wiggling.
“I have to poop now!” he yells across the restaurant.
“Noooooooooo!” I moan. I send Maddie back to the table to be with her sister while I stay on my perch. Check the bathroom, check the girls, check the bathroom, check the girls.
Once again I hear the air dryer and Zach emerges. We return to the table to find the baby awake -- and hungry. Note to self: The McChicken Sandwich is too spicy for a baby. I hope Mom is better by tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Writer's Block
After my last post earlier tonight (see introduction below), I finally broke out of my funk. Either that or I dove deeper into it. You decide.
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It’s a beautiful spring evening. Although low on the horizon, the sun is still dangling in the sky. The season is young, only in its second week. Lineups are exchanged, the Anthem is sung and the umpire calls out, “Play Ball!” Staring intently at his catcher, the veteran pitcher winds up and delivers his first pitch.
“Strike one!” the umpire announces. A young rookie standing at the plate is taken aback. That was his pitch. He should have had it. Regaining his composure, the rookie scrapes his cleats against the red dirt and settles in, his mind’s eye envisioning a heroic swing. A second pitch is hurled his way. This one looks good. It is exactly what he is waiting for.
“Strike two!” the umpire yells. A set back. That’s all it is. He’s still got one more chance. The tension builds as he prepares for the next phase of this confrontation. He knows this is do-or-die time.
That’s how I feel right now. When I started my own confrontation, the sun was still lingering in the sky. It has now set and the evening is quickly passing me by. Mine is not a physical match up between me and another accomplished athlete. Rather, it is a battle between me and my computer. No, it is not a video game. It’s not even solitaire. My confrontation is between me and the blank screen. No words grace its white facade. No eloquence has streamed from my fingers to the page. No one chuckles as they read a quippy punch-line.
Tonight my mind is blank. Several hours ago I sat waiting for the first pitch to arrive. If I was patient long enough, it would come to me. It would be an idea that I could take a swing at. I settled in and waited. The pitcher was taking too long, so I stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment to eat dinner. I settled back in and waited some more. Then it came. An idea fluttered across my mind: Simple things we make complicated. I took a swing at it and missed by a mile. “Strike one!” the umpire shouted as I planted my right index finger on the delete button.
“That’s okay,” I said to myself. “I’m not out yet.” Shaking off the setback, I stepped back up to the plate. The next pitch would be my pitch. I waited. It came. One of the kids said something cute. I swung. I missed. “Strike two!”
Delete. One more chance. The umpire calls time out. The crowd is too noisy. Actually it’s my daughter crying in her crib. I step out of the box to try to calm the crowd. I fail. The coach (Mom) takes over.
Now here I am waiting once again. An idea has come my way. An idea to write about not writing. It’s not a ball. It’s not a strike. Maybe a foul ball at best. At least it’s contact. If I sit here long enough, several things could happen. I could take another swing and strike out or I could hit a home run. Or I could keep on hitting foul balls all night.
Let’s take one more swing. Maybe the problem is that I am actually the pitcher. I stare intently at my catcher (the computer). I grip the ball tightly in my hand, my fingers covering the seams. I let the pitch fly. At the last minute, the ball curves and the catcher misses it. Ah ha! There it is. It is actually the computer’s fault. I’m sending it perfect pitches and it is the one dropping the ball. Now I feel better. At least I’m not dull after all. Foul ball.
One more try. I’m the coach. I am sending signals to the batter. I tap my head, stroke my arm, and pinch my nose. The batter (you, the reader) stares back blankly and yawns. I repeat the signal, this time with more finesse. Blank stares. I try to dress up the boring message with twists and turns, but the batter (you, the reader) yawns again. “Strike three!”
Oh well. Even the best players strike out sometimes. Maybe something exciting will happen tomorrow.
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It’s a beautiful spring evening. Although low on the horizon, the sun is still dangling in the sky. The season is young, only in its second week. Lineups are exchanged, the Anthem is sung and the umpire calls out, “Play Ball!” Staring intently at his catcher, the veteran pitcher winds up and delivers his first pitch.
“Strike one!” the umpire announces. A young rookie standing at the plate is taken aback. That was his pitch. He should have had it. Regaining his composure, the rookie scrapes his cleats against the red dirt and settles in, his mind’s eye envisioning a heroic swing. A second pitch is hurled his way. This one looks good. It is exactly what he is waiting for.
“Strike two!” the umpire yells. A set back. That’s all it is. He’s still got one more chance. The tension builds as he prepares for the next phase of this confrontation. He knows this is do-or-die time.
That’s how I feel right now. When I started my own confrontation, the sun was still lingering in the sky. It has now set and the evening is quickly passing me by. Mine is not a physical match up between me and another accomplished athlete. Rather, it is a battle between me and my computer. No, it is not a video game. It’s not even solitaire. My confrontation is between me and the blank screen. No words grace its white facade. No eloquence has streamed from my fingers to the page. No one chuckles as they read a quippy punch-line.
Tonight my mind is blank. Several hours ago I sat waiting for the first pitch to arrive. If I was patient long enough, it would come to me. It would be an idea that I could take a swing at. I settled in and waited. The pitcher was taking too long, so I stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment to eat dinner. I settled back in and waited some more. Then it came. An idea fluttered across my mind: Simple things we make complicated. I took a swing at it and missed by a mile. “Strike one!” the umpire shouted as I planted my right index finger on the delete button.
“That’s okay,” I said to myself. “I’m not out yet.” Shaking off the setback, I stepped back up to the plate. The next pitch would be my pitch. I waited. It came. One of the kids said something cute. I swung. I missed. “Strike two!”
Delete. One more chance. The umpire calls time out. The crowd is too noisy. Actually it’s my daughter crying in her crib. I step out of the box to try to calm the crowd. I fail. The coach (Mom) takes over.
Now here I am waiting once again. An idea has come my way. An idea to write about not writing. It’s not a ball. It’s not a strike. Maybe a foul ball at best. At least it’s contact. If I sit here long enough, several things could happen. I could take another swing and strike out or I could hit a home run. Or I could keep on hitting foul balls all night.
Let’s take one more swing. Maybe the problem is that I am actually the pitcher. I stare intently at my catcher (the computer). I grip the ball tightly in my hand, my fingers covering the seams. I let the pitch fly. At the last minute, the ball curves and the catcher misses it. Ah ha! There it is. It is actually the computer’s fault. I’m sending it perfect pitches and it is the one dropping the ball. Now I feel better. At least I’m not dull after all. Foul ball.
One more try. I’m the coach. I am sending signals to the batter. I tap my head, stroke my arm, and pinch my nose. The batter (you, the reader) stares back blankly and yawns. I repeat the signal, this time with more finesse. Blank stares. I try to dress up the boring message with twists and turns, but the batter (you, the reader) yawns again. “Strike three!”
Oh well. Even the best players strike out sometimes. Maybe something exciting will happen tomorrow.
Slowpoke She
I really wanted to write something original tonight, but either my life is too boring right now, or my brain isn't working right. I think I'll blame it on the fact that I have been sick a lot lately. To compensate, for this dull state of my life, I have posted a story from my archives. Some of you have read it before, but for others, it is new. Read it carefully, you may get lost.
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I think God has a sick sense of humor sometimes. Like the time he created a guy named Me who has an overwhelming fear of being late. To compensate for his fear of late, Me would leave extra early for things like school, or work, or church. When he arrived, Me always had time to kill. He would just sit patiently and wait or talk to other like-minded “me’s” that were in his same situation. Me enjoyed his leisurely mornings. He especially liked to leave plenty of time for margin in case something unexpected came up.
Then one day Me, met a beautiful woman named, Her. Her was everything Me wanted and more. Me and Her got married and were very happy. As the years progressed, Me began to realize that Her did not share his sense of promptness. Her was content to sleep until the last possible minute and then make a mad dash to get showered and dressed before scurrying out the door at the last second hoping to catch every light green.
Me realized that big breakfasts were for Saturday mornings when there was even extra time and less pressure. Her wanted to be well fed every morning so that hunger pangs wouldn’t creep in before lunch. Me and Her began to disagree about the seemingly contradictory philosophy of sleeping late and eating a big breakfast. They eventually compromised when He was born and Her became a stay at home mommy. Now Her would have all the time in the world for those big breakfasts. Me and Her continued to live happily as they watched He grow into a healthy baby.
Then came She. She was cute. Very cute. She was an absolute delight for Me and Her and He. As She grew into a toddler and then into an adorable preschooler, Me began to realize that She was not Me. She was much more like Her than Me. To She, times were suggestions. What mattered was the process, not the product. This drove Me crazy. Soon, it even began to drive Her crazy too. Me and Her would try to allow extra time for She’s unique perspective on the world, but She would just take even more time.
“This has to be some kind of Divine joke,” Me muttered to himself. God must have been up there laughing his head off each time the Pronouns tried to leave their house because She was especially slow when it came time to get in the car. Not just slow, but also very independent. Whenever She would buckle her car seat, She would stop and comment on the lovely way the cracker crumbs created a ring around the pattern on the seat. Then She would decide that it was too hot to wear a buckle and a jacket, so the jacket would have to come off. As She struggled to make the all the pieces of the buckle come together at the right place, Me would just watch.
“Let Me help you,” Me would say.
“No! I can do it,” She would reply.
“We really need to get going,” Me would plead.
“I did it!” She would shout. Me would breathe a big sigh of relief, then climb into the front seat and start the car. Me would begin to carefully back the car out of the garage just in time for She to exclaim, “I need to pee!”
“Why Me, God?”
“Because, Me, She can teach you so much, just like Her taught you much,” God would reply.
“But, God, She is only three. I think I have learned already. I don’t know if I can take another 15 years of Slowpoke She.”
“Don’t worry,” God would reply. “There is another three year old boy out there that She will meet when the time is right. I already know who Him is. Trust me, Me, Him is a lot like you. She will teach Him too.”
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I think God has a sick sense of humor sometimes. Like the time he created a guy named Me who has an overwhelming fear of being late. To compensate for his fear of late, Me would leave extra early for things like school, or work, or church. When he arrived, Me always had time to kill. He would just sit patiently and wait or talk to other like-minded “me’s” that were in his same situation. Me enjoyed his leisurely mornings. He especially liked to leave plenty of time for margin in case something unexpected came up.
Then one day Me, met a beautiful woman named, Her. Her was everything Me wanted and more. Me and Her got married and were very happy. As the years progressed, Me began to realize that Her did not share his sense of promptness. Her was content to sleep until the last possible minute and then make a mad dash to get showered and dressed before scurrying out the door at the last second hoping to catch every light green.
Me realized that big breakfasts were for Saturday mornings when there was even extra time and less pressure. Her wanted to be well fed every morning so that hunger pangs wouldn’t creep in before lunch. Me and Her began to disagree about the seemingly contradictory philosophy of sleeping late and eating a big breakfast. They eventually compromised when He was born and Her became a stay at home mommy. Now Her would have all the time in the world for those big breakfasts. Me and Her continued to live happily as they watched He grow into a healthy baby.
Then came She. She was cute. Very cute. She was an absolute delight for Me and Her and He. As She grew into a toddler and then into an adorable preschooler, Me began to realize that She was not Me. She was much more like Her than Me. To She, times were suggestions. What mattered was the process, not the product. This drove Me crazy. Soon, it even began to drive Her crazy too. Me and Her would try to allow extra time for She’s unique perspective on the world, but She would just take even more time.
“This has to be some kind of Divine joke,” Me muttered to himself. God must have been up there laughing his head off each time the Pronouns tried to leave their house because She was especially slow when it came time to get in the car. Not just slow, but also very independent. Whenever She would buckle her car seat, She would stop and comment on the lovely way the cracker crumbs created a ring around the pattern on the seat. Then She would decide that it was too hot to wear a buckle and a jacket, so the jacket would have to come off. As She struggled to make the all the pieces of the buckle come together at the right place, Me would just watch.
“Let Me help you,” Me would say.
“No! I can do it,” She would reply.
“We really need to get going,” Me would plead.
“I did it!” She would shout. Me would breathe a big sigh of relief, then climb into the front seat and start the car. Me would begin to carefully back the car out of the garage just in time for She to exclaim, “I need to pee!”
“Why Me, God?”
“Because, Me, She can teach you so much, just like Her taught you much,” God would reply.
“But, God, She is only three. I think I have learned already. I don’t know if I can take another 15 years of Slowpoke She.”
“Don’t worry,” God would reply. “There is another three year old boy out there that She will meet when the time is right. I already know who Him is. Trust me, Me, Him is a lot like you. She will teach Him too.”
Friday, February 22, 2008
Matriculation
Matriculation. It’s not a word you hear everyday, unless you were my father’s son. My dad has a love for words that few will ever embrace and even fewer will understand. He tries to avoid the ubiquitous and instead uses words that convey a precise meaning, even though no one is really sure what that meaning is because of his atypical word choice.
Matriculation was one of his favorites as we were growing up. Technically the word is defined as the act of enrolling in a college or university, however, my dad often used the word to mean that we were enrolling in the next grade level. When we were younger he would celebrate the close of each academic year by getting me and my brothers a matriculation gift.
The first such gift we ever received was a small blue tent. Perhaps small is not the right word. Miniscule - now that’s a word that would make Dad proud. How the three of us ever fit inside that thing is a mystery to me to this day.
Over the years, matriculation gifts became a sort of summer kick off routine. The next year he got us an inflatable three-man raft. Another time he took us to one of those hole-in-the-wall mall shops that sold framed posters. I picked out the Porsche 911 posed in front of a purple sunset.
When I graduated from eighth grade (or matriculated to ninth) my parents made a deal with me. If I could pull off straight A’s they would buy me a new mountain bike. I almost had it. One lonely B blocked that plan. Even though I hadn’t met my goal, my dad agreed to pay for half the bike. I worked around the house for the first few months of that summer to earn my half of the money and finally bought the bike just before our annual camping trip.
Since it was 1990, and colors were meant to be bright, I adorned the bike’s black frame with fluorescent green accessories. By the time I was done, it was a real looker. That bike was with me all through high school and most of college. I say most of college, because shortly after I got married during my senior year, my bike was stolen.
Fortunately, I was just about ready to matriculate out of college (which is a misuse of the word, but it serves my purpose, so deal with it). That meant that I was ready for another gift. What could be better than a new bike? I must have had straight A’s that year, because this time Mom and Dad didn’t make me pay for half. With input (but no money) from my new wife, they presented me with a brand new bike on graduation day. It was an even nicer bike than the first and it served me well for the first ten years of marriage.
Last night, it ended. The ten years of fun with the bike, that is, not the marriage. One small mistake and my second bike was gone. I must have forgotten to push the button on the garage door opener when I got home because the door was wide open when I woke up this morning. It was a crime of opportunity, a temptation too great to resist. I wasn’t angry when I realized what had happened. I think I was more sad. Sad not only for the loss of a gift, but sad that people like that live in this world. Sad that I had to teach my kids about burglary at such a young age. Sad that my home wasn’t the safe haven it had once been.
As with every dark event in life, there is a bright side. For me that bright side lies deep within my family’s understanding of the word, “matriculation.” You see, I just finished graduate school. So, Mom and Dad, if you are reading this...
Matriculation was one of his favorites as we were growing up. Technically the word is defined as the act of enrolling in a college or university, however, my dad often used the word to mean that we were enrolling in the next grade level. When we were younger he would celebrate the close of each academic year by getting me and my brothers a matriculation gift.
The first such gift we ever received was a small blue tent. Perhaps small is not the right word. Miniscule - now that’s a word that would make Dad proud. How the three of us ever fit inside that thing is a mystery to me to this day.
Over the years, matriculation gifts became a sort of summer kick off routine. The next year he got us an inflatable three-man raft. Another time he took us to one of those hole-in-the-wall mall shops that sold framed posters. I picked out the Porsche 911 posed in front of a purple sunset.
When I graduated from eighth grade (or matriculated to ninth) my parents made a deal with me. If I could pull off straight A’s they would buy me a new mountain bike. I almost had it. One lonely B blocked that plan. Even though I hadn’t met my goal, my dad agreed to pay for half the bike. I worked around the house for the first few months of that summer to earn my half of the money and finally bought the bike just before our annual camping trip.
Since it was 1990, and colors were meant to be bright, I adorned the bike’s black frame with fluorescent green accessories. By the time I was done, it was a real looker. That bike was with me all through high school and most of college. I say most of college, because shortly after I got married during my senior year, my bike was stolen.
Fortunately, I was just about ready to matriculate out of college (which is a misuse of the word, but it serves my purpose, so deal with it). That meant that I was ready for another gift. What could be better than a new bike? I must have had straight A’s that year, because this time Mom and Dad didn’t make me pay for half. With input (but no money) from my new wife, they presented me with a brand new bike on graduation day. It was an even nicer bike than the first and it served me well for the first ten years of marriage.
Last night, it ended. The ten years of fun with the bike, that is, not the marriage. One small mistake and my second bike was gone. I must have forgotten to push the button on the garage door opener when I got home because the door was wide open when I woke up this morning. It was a crime of opportunity, a temptation too great to resist. I wasn’t angry when I realized what had happened. I think I was more sad. Sad not only for the loss of a gift, but sad that people like that live in this world. Sad that I had to teach my kids about burglary at such a young age. Sad that my home wasn’t the safe haven it had once been.
As with every dark event in life, there is a bright side. For me that bright side lies deep within my family’s understanding of the word, “matriculation.” You see, I just finished graduate school. So, Mom and Dad, if you are reading this...
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Jogging in Hemet
I am a runner. No, wait. Let me clarify that. I am a jogger. Runners might be offended if I claimed their title. I jog for my health and for a brief escape from the young children at home. (Although a good book in the bathroom can aid in both of those endeavors as well.) Runners run for masochistic reasons, usually involving insanely long races.
My brother is one of those runners. Sometimes I run/jog with him near his home in Orange County. For those of you not aware, there is a difference between Orange County and a place like, say, Hemet. When I jog there (or run if I am with my brother), I am never alone. Last weekend over the course of a four mile trot in the O.C., I encountered three other joggers, one “runner” (he had a water bottle, a fancy watch, and an iPod), three cyclists, and four dog walkers. When I run at home, I usually encounter a loose dog and a pack of teenagers waiting to catch their pre-dawn bus to school.
To be honest, when I jog at home, I get lonely. A few weeks ago I was visiting some friends in Kentucky. When I ran there, every single driver that passed by me waved. When I run here, no one waves. Occasionally I get a smile if I happen to be pushing my incredibly cute daughter in her jogging stroller, but for the most part, I am ignored by drivers. I was never alone in Kentucky, although at times I thought I would slip off the incredibly narrow shoulders of the roadways and tumble into the deep grassy ditch below. (The ditches are actually designed to catch the rain water and run it off to the appropriate locations, go figure.) But, even if I did fall, I was sure a friendly motorist would stop and help me back up onto my feet. I’m not so sure of that here.
So why is the culture for us joggers so difficult in the Valley? Is it because it is too hot or too cold? It is certainly not the high elevation or excessive snow. Maybe we don’t get the waves from motorists because no one expects to see us. We joggers need to unify and make our presence known. Maybe if drivers expected to see us, they would have their hands ready for a wave at a moment’s notice.
For those of you still looking to make a New Year’s resolution, let me encourage you to join me in my quest to make Hemet a haven for joggers. First of all, it is good for you. We all know that. Even if you don’t want to jog, you can at least walk. Secondly, I need jogging friends to cheer me on to me as I huff and puff my way down the street. I can’t keep this up alone. Third, wouldn’t it be great if someone from Kentucky came here and after returning home and said to his neighbor, “Those Californians are so nice to each other.”? (Hey! I heard you mumble, “Yeah,right.”) And of course, the last reason to jog: You could be just like those (you fill in the blank with your own adjective) people in Orange County.
My brother is one of those runners. Sometimes I run/jog with him near his home in Orange County. For those of you not aware, there is a difference between Orange County and a place like, say, Hemet. When I jog there (or run if I am with my brother), I am never alone. Last weekend over the course of a four mile trot in the O.C., I encountered three other joggers, one “runner” (he had a water bottle, a fancy watch, and an iPod), three cyclists, and four dog walkers. When I run at home, I usually encounter a loose dog and a pack of teenagers waiting to catch their pre-dawn bus to school.
To be honest, when I jog at home, I get lonely. A few weeks ago I was visiting some friends in Kentucky. When I ran there, every single driver that passed by me waved. When I run here, no one waves. Occasionally I get a smile if I happen to be pushing my incredibly cute daughter in her jogging stroller, but for the most part, I am ignored by drivers. I was never alone in Kentucky, although at times I thought I would slip off the incredibly narrow shoulders of the roadways and tumble into the deep grassy ditch below. (The ditches are actually designed to catch the rain water and run it off to the appropriate locations, go figure.) But, even if I did fall, I was sure a friendly motorist would stop and help me back up onto my feet. I’m not so sure of that here.
So why is the culture for us joggers so difficult in the Valley? Is it because it is too hot or too cold? It is certainly not the high elevation or excessive snow. Maybe we don’t get the waves from motorists because no one expects to see us. We joggers need to unify and make our presence known. Maybe if drivers expected to see us, they would have their hands ready for a wave at a moment’s notice.
For those of you still looking to make a New Year’s resolution, let me encourage you to join me in my quest to make Hemet a haven for joggers. First of all, it is good for you. We all know that. Even if you don’t want to jog, you can at least walk. Secondly, I need jogging friends to cheer me on to me as I huff and puff my way down the street. I can’t keep this up alone. Third, wouldn’t it be great if someone from Kentucky came here and after returning home and said to his neighbor, “Those Californians are so nice to each other.”? (Hey! I heard you mumble, “Yeah,right.”) And of course, the last reason to jog: You could be just like those (you fill in the blank with your own adjective) people in Orange County.
Second Place
I am a fortunate man. The other day I was sitting at a restaurant eating dinner with my family. Another father walked in with his family, a family much like mine. He was obviously proud of his wife and children, yet I couldn't help but pity the man, for I knew at that moment he was dealing with every man's worst nightmare. The man, the proud father in front of me, had to have been struggling with feelings of inadequacy. He had to have felt defeated as his eyes glanced past our table. I tried to avoid eye contact with him since I knew it would only worsen his pain.
I looked at my own two daughters and pride swelled up inside my heart. You see, I knew what only I know: the truth. My daughters alone are the cutest little girls in the world. This poor man probably had difficulty ordering his meal knowing that he was firmly planted in second place, the place of torment. For a moment, I thought I saw his hand tremble as he attempted to insert a bite of his dinner roll into his mouth, but being the strong father that he was, he quickly regained his composure.
I imagine that up to this point in his life, he had assumed that he alone held the title of first place. Perhaps he felt just as the New England Patriots must have felt as the waning seconds of Super Bowl XLII shattered their hopes of an undefeated season. As I reveled in my victory, my mind envisioned a cooler of Gatorade soaking my head. Suddenly I was startled back to the reality of the moment by a trickle of water pouring onto my lap. I looked at my perfectly beautiful one-year-old daughter and saw the spilled cup in front of her and thought, "That's my girl. Even you know we won!"
It is true that not every father can hold the title of first place, although I do understand why so many other men feel that they are deserving.They are trying to deal with their own feelings of inadequacy stemming from childhood trauma. Fortunately for me, my childhood was trauma-free, so I know that I am not simply projecting my feelings onto my daughters, but that I am indeed the actual winner of this important contest.
To further solidify my place as the victor, I glanced over at my five-year-old son. He raised his eyes from the book that had absorbed him for the last hour and smiled at me. "I'm on page 76," he said. I don't normally condone reading during dinner, however, since we had just visited the library on the way to the restaurant, I made an exception. I looked at Mr. Number 2 and then at his son. Oh, the shame he must have felt when he realized that my son alone is the smartest kid in the world. Suffering in second place for the second time in one evening was more than he could bear. He stood and walked toward the men's room. I was sure he was doing all he could to hold back the tears until he was alone in a stall. I thought about following him and offering him congratulations on a game well played, but I decided that men prefer to be alone in their agony.
A few minutes later, he returned, his face washed, revealing no hint of his turmoil. "Now that is a real man," I thought to myself. "Way to pull yourself together and do what you have to do," I felt like saying to him. With a steady hand he raised his glass to his lips and drank. What control. This man's family would never know that they had been defeated. He kept his dignity in tact and took his loss the way a real man should.
As we got up to leave, I patted him on the shoulder and said, "We're thinking about having another one. Maybe you should too."
He looked back up at me and replied, "May the best man win."
I looked at my own two daughters and pride swelled up inside my heart. You see, I knew what only I know: the truth. My daughters alone are the cutest little girls in the world. This poor man probably had difficulty ordering his meal knowing that he was firmly planted in second place, the place of torment. For a moment, I thought I saw his hand tremble as he attempted to insert a bite of his dinner roll into his mouth, but being the strong father that he was, he quickly regained his composure.
I imagine that up to this point in his life, he had assumed that he alone held the title of first place. Perhaps he felt just as the New England Patriots must have felt as the waning seconds of Super Bowl XLII shattered their hopes of an undefeated season. As I reveled in my victory, my mind envisioned a cooler of Gatorade soaking my head. Suddenly I was startled back to the reality of the moment by a trickle of water pouring onto my lap. I looked at my perfectly beautiful one-year-old daughter and saw the spilled cup in front of her and thought, "That's my girl. Even you know we won!"
It is true that not every father can hold the title of first place, although I do understand why so many other men feel that they are deserving.They are trying to deal with their own feelings of inadequacy stemming from childhood trauma. Fortunately for me, my childhood was trauma-free, so I know that I am not simply projecting my feelings onto my daughters, but that I am indeed the actual winner of this important contest.
To further solidify my place as the victor, I glanced over at my five-year-old son. He raised his eyes from the book that had absorbed him for the last hour and smiled at me. "I'm on page 76," he said. I don't normally condone reading during dinner, however, since we had just visited the library on the way to the restaurant, I made an exception. I looked at Mr. Number 2 and then at his son. Oh, the shame he must have felt when he realized that my son alone is the smartest kid in the world. Suffering in second place for the second time in one evening was more than he could bear. He stood and walked toward the men's room. I was sure he was doing all he could to hold back the tears until he was alone in a stall. I thought about following him and offering him congratulations on a game well played, but I decided that men prefer to be alone in their agony.
A few minutes later, he returned, his face washed, revealing no hint of his turmoil. "Now that is a real man," I thought to myself. "Way to pull yourself together and do what you have to do," I felt like saying to him. With a steady hand he raised his glass to his lips and drank. What control. This man's family would never know that they had been defeated. He kept his dignity in tact and took his loss the way a real man should.
As we got up to leave, I patted him on the shoulder and said, "We're thinking about having another one. Maybe you should too."
He looked back up at me and replied, "May the best man win."
Monday, February 11, 2008
400 Yard Dash
Believe it or not, this isn’t my real job. I was hoping that by writing a blog, I could earn enough money to buy fancy cars and a big house, but the truth is, I’m lucky if I can buy a burger for lunch. My real job is teaching fifth grade to a bunch of squirrely kids. And that, my friends, is where this week’s story begins.
As a teacher, I often try to motivate my students by joining them in their quest for knowledge. Last week, I applied this logic in the area of physical education. You have to understand, I am a thirty-something guy who runs on a regular basis to stay in shape, so when I decided to run with my class, I never considered that the thirty-something part could actually cause pain. A two hundred yard sprint didn’t used to seem that long to me. After all, I can run (“slowly” apparently is the key here) four miles and hardly break a sweat.
To make matters worse, I gave the class a 50 yard head start and tried to catch up. During that mad dash, I was successful in passing many of the huffing and puffing students. There is one student in particular, let’s call her Blondie, who likes to challenge me. So, as I was hiding the fact that I was gasping for breath, she says to me, “Bet you can’t do 20 push-ups.” Not one to refuse a challenge from a ten-year-old girl, I hit the ground. Twenty push-ups later, I popped up and yelled to the class, “Let’s do it again!” And off we went. I beat them all this time, although one particularly fast guy gave me a real run for my money.
In case you are keeping track, that is now four hundred yards at a full sprint and 20 push-ups in between. Even though I was on the verge of death at the moment, I was feeling pretty good. At least I could run that far and not need an oxygen tank like those wimpy NFL players who run 80 yards then retreat to the sidelines to suck pure oxygen for ten minutes. No, I took my punishment like a man. Fortunately for me, as my punishment was becoming more severe, the bell rang and I sent the kids home. Staggering back to my classroom, I felt as if my heart would pop out of my chest. I was sucking in air, but there just didn’t seem to be enough to sustain my rapidly fading life.
It gets worse. One of my students has an older sister who is considering a career in teaching. As a high school project, she had to interview someone in her anticipated profession. Bet you can’t guess who she picked and where she was waiting when I got back to my classroom. By now my head is spinning and lunch is fighting to stay inside where it belongs. I can’t recall another time in my life when I have felt this close to blacking out. She starts asking questions. I sit down. More questions. I head back outside, maybe there is some air there. More questions. I can’t go on. After telling her that I just might lose my lunch any second, I did my best to ask her to e-mail me the questions. Fortunately, she had my e-mail address because it is really long and I don’t think I could have remembered it at the moment.
Finally, I was alone and the floor was calling. I didn’t care how I got there, just as long as I was there in less than a second. By now I was swearing off running for the rest of my life. Cell phone. The thought crossed my mind that I had better let someone know where I was in case I couldn’t get back up. The door was open and I was half hoping that someone would find me sprawled out all alone on the floor of a classroom. The other half (the manly half) wanted to deal with my agony all alone. Then my arms went numb. The push-ups. I should have skipped the push-ups. Darn that Blondie.
Lesson learned: Never again will I try to get my thirty-something body to do things that only a ten-something body (or an Olympic athlete) has any business doing.
As a teacher, I often try to motivate my students by joining them in their quest for knowledge. Last week, I applied this logic in the area of physical education. You have to understand, I am a thirty-something guy who runs on a regular basis to stay in shape, so when I decided to run with my class, I never considered that the thirty-something part could actually cause pain. A two hundred yard sprint didn’t used to seem that long to me. After all, I can run (“slowly” apparently is the key here) four miles and hardly break a sweat.
To make matters worse, I gave the class a 50 yard head start and tried to catch up. During that mad dash, I was successful in passing many of the huffing and puffing students. There is one student in particular, let’s call her Blondie, who likes to challenge me. So, as I was hiding the fact that I was gasping for breath, she says to me, “Bet you can’t do 20 push-ups.” Not one to refuse a challenge from a ten-year-old girl, I hit the ground. Twenty push-ups later, I popped up and yelled to the class, “Let’s do it again!” And off we went. I beat them all this time, although one particularly fast guy gave me a real run for my money.
In case you are keeping track, that is now four hundred yards at a full sprint and 20 push-ups in between. Even though I was on the verge of death at the moment, I was feeling pretty good. At least I could run that far and not need an oxygen tank like those wimpy NFL players who run 80 yards then retreat to the sidelines to suck pure oxygen for ten minutes. No, I took my punishment like a man. Fortunately for me, as my punishment was becoming more severe, the bell rang and I sent the kids home. Staggering back to my classroom, I felt as if my heart would pop out of my chest. I was sucking in air, but there just didn’t seem to be enough to sustain my rapidly fading life.
It gets worse. One of my students has an older sister who is considering a career in teaching. As a high school project, she had to interview someone in her anticipated profession. Bet you can’t guess who she picked and where she was waiting when I got back to my classroom. By now my head is spinning and lunch is fighting to stay inside where it belongs. I can’t recall another time in my life when I have felt this close to blacking out. She starts asking questions. I sit down. More questions. I head back outside, maybe there is some air there. More questions. I can’t go on. After telling her that I just might lose my lunch any second, I did my best to ask her to e-mail me the questions. Fortunately, she had my e-mail address because it is really long and I don’t think I could have remembered it at the moment.
Finally, I was alone and the floor was calling. I didn’t care how I got there, just as long as I was there in less than a second. By now I was swearing off running for the rest of my life. Cell phone. The thought crossed my mind that I had better let someone know where I was in case I couldn’t get back up. The door was open and I was half hoping that someone would find me sprawled out all alone on the floor of a classroom. The other half (the manly half) wanted to deal with my agony all alone. Then my arms went numb. The push-ups. I should have skipped the push-ups. Darn that Blondie.
Lesson learned: Never again will I try to get my thirty-something body to do things that only a ten-something body (or an Olympic athlete) has any business doing.
Sloppy Joes
I remember it as if it were yesterday. Mom was gone for the weekend. Dad was in charge of cooking. Like most men, Dad was a wizard on the barbecue, but when it came to kitchens, he wasn’t quite at the top of his game. Fortunately Mom had left a menu for Dad to follow. Saturday night was burger night. Dad glanced at the menu and smirked. How hard could barbecuing a few burgers be?
At this point, most families would probably pull the pre-formed frozen patties out of the freezer and toss them on the grill. Not my family. We took our burgers seriously. You might say we were true burger connoisseurs. Our burgers started as a lump of ground beef from the butcher’s counter at Vons. Mom would then divide the big lump into several smaller lumps and smash them flat with a pot. Then she would season them to perfection and dad would grill ‘em up.
Things didn’t quite go so perfectly on this “mom-less” weekend. Dad, following his usual routine, went outside and lit the charcoal. Then he went back inside to get the meat. “Uh-Oh,” Dad said as he realized the lump of ground beef was still in the freezer. “No big deal,” he added. “Let’s just toss it into the microwave.” A few minutes later, the meat was thawed...and cooked.
If you have ever tried to shape a lump of cooked ground beef into a patty, you know, that shy of adding a little Elmer’s glue, it’s not going to happen. Fortunately Dad couldn’t find the glue and duct tape wasn’t working the way he had envisioned. “No problem,” Dad thought. He looked out at the white hot coals. “We’re gonna use those, doggone it!” he said.
Fortunately, Mom had a heavy duty cast iron pot in the cupboard, like the kind witches use in fairy-tales. (No offense, Mom.) Dad dumped the meat into the pot.
“What are you making, Dad?” I asked
“Just barbecuing some Sloppy Joes,” He replied as he added some ketchup to the pot.
“You ever made Sloppy Joes before?” I asked.
“I barbecue all the time, son”
“Yeah but mom makes them on the stove, not the barbecue,” I noted nervously.
Then dad picked up the pot and carried the whole thing outside. He placed it right on the grill and said, “Just watch.”
“Did you plan this?” I asked. He didn’t answer and I began to wonder what we were in for. A few minutes later the beefy concoction began to boil.
“Grab the buns so we can toast them,” Dad said. I did as he requested and soon dinner was ready. To my surprise it was actually quite tasty...and memorable.
There are lots of other stories from my childhood that revolve around food. Like the time my parents thought they would teach us some culture by taking the five kids out for an afternoon of high tea. I ordered Pepsi. Or the time my mom made a green tomato pie as a joke and my friend ate his whole slice because his mom had reminded him to eat everything on his plate.
We all have a Sloppy Joe story in our lives - when a meal brings back a fond memory. For some your Sloppy Joes might be a steak. For others, it might be scrambled eggs. Maybe your Sloppy Joes was a tofu garden burger on a first (and last) date. For me, my Sloppy Joes were actual Sloppy Joes. Whether your Sloppy Joes were a good meal or a bad one, they are still a memory to be cherished. So next time you are cooking, why don’t you throw some Sloppy Joes on the barbie?
At this point, most families would probably pull the pre-formed frozen patties out of the freezer and toss them on the grill. Not my family. We took our burgers seriously. You might say we were true burger connoisseurs. Our burgers started as a lump of ground beef from the butcher’s counter at Vons. Mom would then divide the big lump into several smaller lumps and smash them flat with a pot. Then she would season them to perfection and dad would grill ‘em up.
Things didn’t quite go so perfectly on this “mom-less” weekend. Dad, following his usual routine, went outside and lit the charcoal. Then he went back inside to get the meat. “Uh-Oh,” Dad said as he realized the lump of ground beef was still in the freezer. “No big deal,” he added. “Let’s just toss it into the microwave.” A few minutes later, the meat was thawed...and cooked.
If you have ever tried to shape a lump of cooked ground beef into a patty, you know, that shy of adding a little Elmer’s glue, it’s not going to happen. Fortunately Dad couldn’t find the glue and duct tape wasn’t working the way he had envisioned. “No problem,” Dad thought. He looked out at the white hot coals. “We’re gonna use those, doggone it!” he said.
Fortunately, Mom had a heavy duty cast iron pot in the cupboard, like the kind witches use in fairy-tales. (No offense, Mom.) Dad dumped the meat into the pot.
“What are you making, Dad?” I asked
“Just barbecuing some Sloppy Joes,” He replied as he added some ketchup to the pot.
“You ever made Sloppy Joes before?” I asked.
“I barbecue all the time, son”
“Yeah but mom makes them on the stove, not the barbecue,” I noted nervously.
Then dad picked up the pot and carried the whole thing outside. He placed it right on the grill and said, “Just watch.”
“Did you plan this?” I asked. He didn’t answer and I began to wonder what we were in for. A few minutes later the beefy concoction began to boil.
“Grab the buns so we can toast them,” Dad said. I did as he requested and soon dinner was ready. To my surprise it was actually quite tasty...and memorable.
There are lots of other stories from my childhood that revolve around food. Like the time my parents thought they would teach us some culture by taking the five kids out for an afternoon of high tea. I ordered Pepsi. Or the time my mom made a green tomato pie as a joke and my friend ate his whole slice because his mom had reminded him to eat everything on his plate.
We all have a Sloppy Joe story in our lives - when a meal brings back a fond memory. For some your Sloppy Joes might be a steak. For others, it might be scrambled eggs. Maybe your Sloppy Joes was a tofu garden burger on a first (and last) date. For me, my Sloppy Joes were actual Sloppy Joes. Whether your Sloppy Joes were a good meal or a bad one, they are still a memory to be cherished. So next time you are cooking, why don’t you throw some Sloppy Joes on the barbie?
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