I do the majority of the cooking for my family. Over the years, I've learned to enjoy cooking and the experimentation that comes with it. Stacy doesn't necessarily like to cook, so it just worked out that I do most of the cooking. Before children (and this habit has clung to life since Grayson was born), cooking started with shopping. I would make 4-5 trips to the grocery store every week, buying just enough for a meal or two, getting inspired by what I saw when I shopped.
Some creations work out beautifully. Others are edible. Occasionally, my creations fail miserably. Stacy is a great sport about it, often hiding her discontent with the final product. But I can tell. Before I serve something new, I joke that if it is bad, I've got $20 and Domino's on speed dial; an acceptable dinner is always just 30 minutes away. I've yet to actually call for a pizza; there is always something in the pantry I can whip up (or a frozen pizza in the freezer), but the joke remains.
Tonight, I made steak, spinach and herb butter pinwheels for dinner. I paired it with cheddar garlic mashed potatoes and roasted balsamic asparagus. The pinwheels were awful. The meat tasted overcooked even though is was rare, and the butter melted away, but never really melted into the meat. Stacy was a good sport; we both tried our best to like the steak. But midway through the meal, I spoke up and said I thought it was horrible. Stacy simply said that she wasn't sure she could finish it.
Thank goodness I made extra mashed potatoes.... otherwise I was going to have to call the pizza guy.
Hopefully my next experiment goes better.
6.30.2013
6.29.2013
Every Boy Should Have a Puppy
The first dog I remember meeting (and probably the first dog I ever met) was my grandfather's miniature poodle named Chico. I got to see Chico a few times a year, every Christmas and a weekend stay here or there. Chico was a good dog, obedient. He was good with children, and he lived until he was over 20 years old, blind, deaf and arthritic.
A few times a year, though, wasn't enough for me. I wanted a dog of my own. I wanted puppy kisses waking me up in the morning, and I wanted a playmate to throw a ball to whenever I wanted. The only problem was my mother; she didn't care for dogs, or at least didn't care for the idea of having to look after something else that may run through the neighborhood.
When I was about 10 years old, I found a German Sheppard named Charlie wandering down Iona Lane. Charlie was friendly; he allowed me to approach him and pet him. I had been taught how to approach dogs. I brought him into the backyard, and I gave him water. His collar had a phone number. We called it, and about 30 minutes later, after I had chased Charlie around the yard, a woman in her 20s or 30s pulled up in a brand new, white 1988 Pontiac Trans Am 20th anniversary addition.
I begged again for a dog, but I was denied. I was told that when I was an adult, with a house of my own, I could get a dog. Until then, the matter was closed.
So I grew up. I graduated college. I remember sitting in a TGIF on a Friday evening (ironic, I know), on a date with the woman who would become my first wife. We talked about dogs. We talked about Chico and Charlie. We talked about her phobia of dogs, and how she would never own one. I remember consciously choosing to love her and give up my dream for a dog that night, that a relationship was more important than a dog... that if I married her, I would probably never own a dog.
But life is funny, and every boy should own a dog.
I'm married to a dog lover now. 3 months after we bought our house, we bought an 8-week-old puppy. She is sleeping on the floor behind me as I type this, and she is dreaming of something, growling in her sleep, woofing at a bunny or a duck. Delilah is a dream come true. She is loyal, obedient, and loving. She hogs the bed a bit, and her breath is something awful, but she is always there for me. Delilah will be 3 years old in another month or so.
Every time I look at her and think for more than a second, I'm reminded of the odd twists of fate in life, and I'm reminded that a boy should never give up on his dreams.
A few times a year, though, wasn't enough for me. I wanted a dog of my own. I wanted puppy kisses waking me up in the morning, and I wanted a playmate to throw a ball to whenever I wanted. The only problem was my mother; she didn't care for dogs, or at least didn't care for the idea of having to look after something else that may run through the neighborhood.
When I was about 10 years old, I found a German Sheppard named Charlie wandering down Iona Lane. Charlie was friendly; he allowed me to approach him and pet him. I had been taught how to approach dogs. I brought him into the backyard, and I gave him water. His collar had a phone number. We called it, and about 30 minutes later, after I had chased Charlie around the yard, a woman in her 20s or 30s pulled up in a brand new, white 1988 Pontiac Trans Am 20th anniversary addition.
I begged again for a dog, but I was denied. I was told that when I was an adult, with a house of my own, I could get a dog. Until then, the matter was closed.
So I grew up. I graduated college. I remember sitting in a TGIF on a Friday evening (ironic, I know), on a date with the woman who would become my first wife. We talked about dogs. We talked about Chico and Charlie. We talked about her phobia of dogs, and how she would never own one. I remember consciously choosing to love her and give up my dream for a dog that night, that a relationship was more important than a dog... that if I married her, I would probably never own a dog.
But life is funny, and every boy should own a dog.
I'm married to a dog lover now. 3 months after we bought our house, we bought an 8-week-old puppy. She is sleeping on the floor behind me as I type this, and she is dreaming of something, growling in her sleep, woofing at a bunny or a duck. Delilah is a dream come true. She is loyal, obedient, and loving. She hogs the bed a bit, and her breath is something awful, but she is always there for me. Delilah will be 3 years old in another month or so.
Every time I look at her and think for more than a second, I'm reminded of the odd twists of fate in life, and I'm reminded that a boy should never give up on his dreams.
6.28.2013
iPhone Update
It's looking grim for the iPhone data.
After 3 weeks and a 20% deposit, DataRetrieval was unable to recover any data from the iPhone.
I have to admit, I'm extremely disappointed. I thought for sure if we just threw some money at the problem, we'd be able to recover the data from the phone. Apparently, DataRetrieval can't.
All hope is not lost. We will still send it to at least another retrieval place, and I think I still have the option of reformatting the phone and trying to recover ghost data.
But the prognosis isn't great.
Oh well... accidents happen. More importantly, lessons have been learned. Back up your memories!
After 3 weeks and a 20% deposit, DataRetrieval was unable to recover any data from the iPhone.
I have to admit, I'm extremely disappointed. I thought for sure if we just threw some money at the problem, we'd be able to recover the data from the phone. Apparently, DataRetrieval can't.
All hope is not lost. We will still send it to at least another retrieval place, and I think I still have the option of reformatting the phone and trying to recover ghost data.
But the prognosis isn't great.
Oh well... accidents happen. More importantly, lessons have been learned. Back up your memories!
6.27.2013
Call for Summer Music Suggestions
I spent most of my day reviewing and revising a PowerPoint deck for a meeting (important) I'm co-facilitating on Monday. When I need to zone out and get large chunks of work done, especially when it comes to editing, revising writing, I turn on the tunes. I have roughly 4000 songs loaded onto my iPhone; this is the equivalent of a few days of playback.
I had an epiphany today while working: the majority of the songs I own are depressing.
Dylan, Cash, Tina & the B-Sides, Ray Lamontagne, Tom Waits, the Indigo Girls, Gin Blossoms, Counting Crows... the vast majority of it is simply born from sadness.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Tons of the greatest art has been born from the greatest tragedies. Heck, most of anything I've created that's worth something at all has its roots in the most challenging moments of my life. I enjoy a good song (or poem or painting) that deals with difficult emotions. That is one of the ways I process feelings.
But this is summer. And I'm working. And I don't want to be pulled down those kinds of rabbit holes while the sun is shining (and I'm stuck inside).
I'm looking for suggestions. Please recommend something upbeat, positive, but not too pop/bubblegum.
Who are you listening to this summer? Who should I be listening to?
(Your suggestions don't need to be current, but that helps.)
My appreciated.
I had an epiphany today while working: the majority of the songs I own are depressing.
Dylan, Cash, Tina & the B-Sides, Ray Lamontagne, Tom Waits, the Indigo Girls, Gin Blossoms, Counting Crows... the vast majority of it is simply born from sadness.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Tons of the greatest art has been born from the greatest tragedies. Heck, most of anything I've created that's worth something at all has its roots in the most challenging moments of my life. I enjoy a good song (or poem or painting) that deals with difficult emotions. That is one of the ways I process feelings.
But this is summer. And I'm working. And I don't want to be pulled down those kinds of rabbit holes while the sun is shining (and I'm stuck inside).
I'm looking for suggestions. Please recommend something upbeat, positive, but not too pop/bubblegum.
Who are you listening to this summer? Who should I be listening to?
(Your suggestions don't need to be current, but that helps.)
My appreciated.
6.26.2013
Contradictions Make the World Go 'Round
I'm finding myself with little motivation to write today. It's not that there isn't plenty to write about; it is that there is almost too much to write about. I'm overwhelmed by it, and I'm exhausted from all the thinking I did today.
I could write about Aaron Hernandez being arrested for murder.
I could write about Zimmerman's lawyer telling a knock-knock joke during opening statements.
I could talk about the ridiculous humidity today, and how wearing a suit while waiting for the bus is not my idea of a good time.
I could write about a courageous woman in Texas and the Republican Majority's attempt to cheat the system in Austin.
I could write about the historical significance of today's Supreme Court rulings, what they will mean for same-sex marriage in this country, and how Michelle Bachmann continues to shock and amaze me with her fundamental misunderstanding of separation of church and state.
The thought, though, that keeps sticking with me, revolves around the decisions handed down today by SCOTUS. Not their significance; time will march on, and their value will be measured by people who aren't even born yet. I want to write about what I understand to be one of the legal cruxes the decisions were based upon, and how the majority seemed to contradict themselves... at least to a layman.
Both decisions seemed to start with an examination of Article III which governs the threshold for the Court to hear cases and rule on them. This, in and of itself, makes sense to me. I want my Supreme Court to ensure they are following the constitution, hearing cases they have the authority to hear, and ruling accordingly. In refusing to rule on California's Prop 8 (and in essence affirming the Federal District Court's ruling abolishing Prop 8), the majority opinion argued that parts of Article III were not met, namely, the plaintiff couldn't prove real injury. I took this to mean that they weren't legally obligated to do anything; therefore, regardless of the outcome, they would be unaffected.
This also made sense to me; if the highest court in the land is going to offer a ruling, it had better impact the people bringing it to the court. They also suggested that the group of people bringing forth the case didn't have the authority to bring the case, again relating to a lack of injury. The proponents of Prop 8 didn't have the right or obligation to enforce the law in question; therefore, they wouldn't be affected in a real way should it be upheld or struck down. In essence, if any part of Article III isn't met, then the case shouldn't be ruled upon.
On the case of DOMA's constitutionality, the Article III argument is buried in the dissension, and this is what I find so contradictory. According to Scalia (and who am I to argue with a Justice), Article III insists that their must be a conflict to be resolved. In the case before the court, both the plaintiff and the defendant agreed with the lower court's ruling. There was no more conflict. The Majority said that this, in essence, didn't matter, because it was prudent for the court to hear and rule on the case. Even though parts of Article III were not met, the Majority opinion said that most of it was there, and this is an important issue; they should rule on the merits and render an opinion.
I agree with the outcomes in both cases. I wish they ruled on Prop 8, made sweeping statements that outlined the inequality of denying same-sex couples the right to marry. It doesn't matter; their opinion basically did that for California... many suits will follow I'm sure.
What is baffling to me is how on the same day with basically the same 5-4 majority, one opinion said all of Article III must be met, and the other said as long as most portions are met, and as long as it seems to be an important issue, then the court has an obligation to hear the case.
I'm not a legal scholar or historian... but this just seems weird to me. How can you have it both ways? And did the court overstep its bounds?
I could write about Aaron Hernandez being arrested for murder.
I could write about Zimmerman's lawyer telling a knock-knock joke during opening statements.
I could talk about the ridiculous humidity today, and how wearing a suit while waiting for the bus is not my idea of a good time.
I could write about a courageous woman in Texas and the Republican Majority's attempt to cheat the system in Austin.
I could write about the historical significance of today's Supreme Court rulings, what they will mean for same-sex marriage in this country, and how Michelle Bachmann continues to shock and amaze me with her fundamental misunderstanding of separation of church and state.
The thought, though, that keeps sticking with me, revolves around the decisions handed down today by SCOTUS. Not their significance; time will march on, and their value will be measured by people who aren't even born yet. I want to write about what I understand to be one of the legal cruxes the decisions were based upon, and how the majority seemed to contradict themselves... at least to a layman.
Both decisions seemed to start with an examination of Article III which governs the threshold for the Court to hear cases and rule on them. This, in and of itself, makes sense to me. I want my Supreme Court to ensure they are following the constitution, hearing cases they have the authority to hear, and ruling accordingly. In refusing to rule on California's Prop 8 (and in essence affirming the Federal District Court's ruling abolishing Prop 8), the majority opinion argued that parts of Article III were not met, namely, the plaintiff couldn't prove real injury. I took this to mean that they weren't legally obligated to do anything; therefore, regardless of the outcome, they would be unaffected.
This also made sense to me; if the highest court in the land is going to offer a ruling, it had better impact the people bringing it to the court. They also suggested that the group of people bringing forth the case didn't have the authority to bring the case, again relating to a lack of injury. The proponents of Prop 8 didn't have the right or obligation to enforce the law in question; therefore, they wouldn't be affected in a real way should it be upheld or struck down. In essence, if any part of Article III isn't met, then the case shouldn't be ruled upon.
On the case of DOMA's constitutionality, the Article III argument is buried in the dissension, and this is what I find so contradictory. According to Scalia (and who am I to argue with a Justice), Article III insists that their must be a conflict to be resolved. In the case before the court, both the plaintiff and the defendant agreed with the lower court's ruling. There was no more conflict. The Majority said that this, in essence, didn't matter, because it was prudent for the court to hear and rule on the case. Even though parts of Article III were not met, the Majority opinion said that most of it was there, and this is an important issue; they should rule on the merits and render an opinion.
I agree with the outcomes in both cases. I wish they ruled on Prop 8, made sweeping statements that outlined the inequality of denying same-sex couples the right to marry. It doesn't matter; their opinion basically did that for California... many suits will follow I'm sure.
What is baffling to me is how on the same day with basically the same 5-4 majority, one opinion said all of Article III must be met, and the other said as long as most portions are met, and as long as it seems to be an important issue, then the court has an obligation to hear the case.
I'm not a legal scholar or historian... but this just seems weird to me. How can you have it both ways? And did the court overstep its bounds?
6.25.2013
"How do you make God laugh? You make a plan..."
It's a line from one of my favorite movies, Kicking and Screaming. It's Noah Baumbach's first film, starring Eric Stoltz, Parker Posey, others. I saw it first when I was in college, considering the ramifications of graduating, getting a job, growing up. It was the perfect film to harness the angst of a pending alumnus.
There are hundreds of brilliant lines in that film, and hundreds more when you watch it for the 10th time, but the quote above has stuck with me. It isn't funny in the context of the film, but it sums up the fear the characters are trying to overcome. It spoke to me about the futile nature of trying to control the outcomes in life.
But it also spoke to me about the importance of making God laugh.
Which brings me to mowing the lawn (of all things). I'm allergic to pollen, especially grass pollen, so I hate mowing the lawn. It is one of the evil necessities of owning a house. I've learned to deal with it. I take a Claritin before I begin; I wash my face after I'm done, and I make sure to change shirts when I get back in the house. Despite these precautions, I avoid mowing the lawn. I put it off for as long as possible, but when I mow, I expect everything to go according to plan.
Oops.
Two falls ago, I forgot to empty the gas tank, so last spring, my mower was gummed up. I thought about cleaning it, but even working in top form, it would take me hours to finish the job. My family chipped in and put money towards a riding mower for my birthday. All last summer it worked beautifully. I cut my mowing time by 66%. I did everything I should to winterize it, and this spring, it fired up just fine. I was able to cut the lawn easily, and I was able to do it with a tall boy in the cup holder.
Everything according to plan. Until I ran over a little chuck of garden fencing.
I punctured a hole in the front tire. I've tried to repair it to no avail. It will hold air for 30 minutes or so, long enough to mow the front or back yard. I've borrowed an air compressor from my father-in-law. Now I need to figure out how to jack up the tractor, remove the wheel, and get the tire repaired professionally.
I still wash my face when I come in, but I just have to stop midway through the job to re-inflate the tire. I made a plan. God laughed. I've adjusted my plan, and I think God is laughing harder.
It's a line from one of my favorite movies, Kicking and Screaming. It's Noah Baumbach's first film, starring Eric Stoltz, Parker Posey, others. I saw it first when I was in college, considering the ramifications of graduating, getting a job, growing up. It was the perfect film to harness the angst of a pending alumnus.
There are hundreds of brilliant lines in that film, and hundreds more when you watch it for the 10th time, but the quote above has stuck with me. It isn't funny in the context of the film, but it sums up the fear the characters are trying to overcome. It spoke to me about the futile nature of trying to control the outcomes in life.
But it also spoke to me about the importance of making God laugh.
Which brings me to mowing the lawn (of all things). I'm allergic to pollen, especially grass pollen, so I hate mowing the lawn. It is one of the evil necessities of owning a house. I've learned to deal with it. I take a Claritin before I begin; I wash my face after I'm done, and I make sure to change shirts when I get back in the house. Despite these precautions, I avoid mowing the lawn. I put it off for as long as possible, but when I mow, I expect everything to go according to plan.
Oops.
Two falls ago, I forgot to empty the gas tank, so last spring, my mower was gummed up. I thought about cleaning it, but even working in top form, it would take me hours to finish the job. My family chipped in and put money towards a riding mower for my birthday. All last summer it worked beautifully. I cut my mowing time by 66%. I did everything I should to winterize it, and this spring, it fired up just fine. I was able to cut the lawn easily, and I was able to do it with a tall boy in the cup holder.
Everything according to plan. Until I ran over a little chuck of garden fencing.
I punctured a hole in the front tire. I've tried to repair it to no avail. It will hold air for 30 minutes or so, long enough to mow the front or back yard. I've borrowed an air compressor from my father-in-law. Now I need to figure out how to jack up the tractor, remove the wheel, and get the tire repaired professionally.
I still wash my face when I come in, but I just have to stop midway through the job to re-inflate the tire. I made a plan. God laughed. I've adjusted my plan, and I think God is laughing harder.
6.24.2013
Two Puppies Are Better Than One
I hear that every divorce is different. Mine was cordial for a while; there were some phone calls, an email here or there. Then we sold the house. All our assets were completely divided. Emails got shorter. Eventually, my ex-wife changed her phone number, moved states and blocked me on social media (not that we were facebook friends anymore). Maybe I deserve to be disavowed; maybe she can't handle that I moved on. Regardless of the reason, we have no contact, and we probably never will. I'm fine with that... finally... at least at the moment.
My friend has been divorced for about a decade. He and his ex still see each other from time to time. They live in the same neighborhood, and when someone's car breaks down, the other is willing to offer a ride. They aren't best friends, but they recognize the past they shared, and they honor that.
Stacy is facebook friends with her ex. As is her parents, her sister, and many of her friends. She has a key to his house. He has one to ours. When we bought a desk (a 275 pound desk), he helped me move it. When we got married, he watched Delilah for four days. I've actually had a beer with him when Stacy wasn't around, and Stacy exchanges texts with him on a regular basis. Even though their divorce has been final for quite some time, they remain friends. They (we) share custody of their dog, Bella. The custody agreement is fluid (and by no means in writing). It started off with every other week, then became every third week. Now we get Bella whenever we ask, like when Grayson was born; we wanted Bella to get used to a baby being around. More often, though, we get Bella when Stacy's ex is out of town. We dog-sit for each other.
Every divorce is different.
I'm just lucky that I get to be around a second, awesome dog whenever my ex-husband goes out of town.
My friend has been divorced for about a decade. He and his ex still see each other from time to time. They live in the same neighborhood, and when someone's car breaks down, the other is willing to offer a ride. They aren't best friends, but they recognize the past they shared, and they honor that.
Stacy is facebook friends with her ex. As is her parents, her sister, and many of her friends. She has a key to his house. He has one to ours. When we bought a desk (a 275 pound desk), he helped me move it. When we got married, he watched Delilah for four days. I've actually had a beer with him when Stacy wasn't around, and Stacy exchanges texts with him on a regular basis. Even though their divorce has been final for quite some time, they remain friends. They (we) share custody of their dog, Bella. The custody agreement is fluid (and by no means in writing). It started off with every other week, then became every third week. Now we get Bella whenever we ask, like when Grayson was born; we wanted Bella to get used to a baby being around. More often, though, we get Bella when Stacy's ex is out of town. We dog-sit for each other.
Every divorce is different.
I'm just lucky that I get to be around a second, awesome dog whenever my ex-husband goes out of town.
6.23.2013
First Steps
Grayson took his first assisted steps today! He looked a lot like the character from There's Something About Mary who pretends to be a crippled architect; he was rather wobbly, but they were actual steps.
I am full of awe and wonder at how much G has learned in just under 9 months. He has learned to focus his eyes, learned how to react to his name, and learned how to transfer objects from one hand to another. He has learned to make sounds; he has learned to smile when he is happy. He has learned the comfort of being held.
Most recently, he has learned to move. Boy, does he move! It started with rolling. I once used the bathroom only to find him 15 feet from where I left him. He rolled there in 60 seconds. Now he's army crawling. He pulls himself with his arms across the floor; his left leg helps to push him along. His right leg trails behind, like he's been shot. That same 15 foot path takes him about 15 seconds now. If you get distracted for even a short period of time, he will find his way over to the dog dishes and start playing around in the kibble.
Soon he will be walking, and that 15 seconds will turn into 5. Or less.
I am full of awe and wonder at how much G has learned in just under 9 months. He has learned to focus his eyes, learned how to react to his name, and learned how to transfer objects from one hand to another. He has learned to make sounds; he has learned to smile when he is happy. He has learned the comfort of being held.
Most recently, he has learned to move. Boy, does he move! It started with rolling. I once used the bathroom only to find him 15 feet from where I left him. He rolled there in 60 seconds. Now he's army crawling. He pulls himself with his arms across the floor; his left leg helps to push him along. His right leg trails behind, like he's been shot. That same 15 foot path takes him about 15 seconds now. If you get distracted for even a short period of time, he will find his way over to the dog dishes and start playing around in the kibble.
Soon he will be walking, and that 15 seconds will turn into 5. Or less.
6.22.2013
Customer Service Makes a Difference
A week ago I started having trouble with my iPhone. It wasn't anything major, but I knew it was only going to get worse over time. My sleep/wake button started getting finicky. About every other depression resulted in no action, and sometimes it would double-press, so it would sleep then wake right back up. I was starting to find myself pocket-dialing too many people.
I got online, made an appointment for 5:10 at the Genius Bar, briefly describing my problem in the ticket. I received an email confirmation. When I showed up early, the Apple Store apologized that they wouldn't be able to move my appointment up, but assured me that I would be seen by someone at the appointed time. Sure enough, a young woman approached me shortly after 5:00, verbally confirmed my problem, and asked me if I had recently backed up my phone. After I explained that my last backup as two days ago, she said that this isn't something they repair. No... Apple just replaces the device under warranty.
The Genius asked me if I had dropped the phone: no (not really anyway). She asked me if it had gotten wet: no. She popped out my SIM card, shined a light to check for water exposure. Finding none, she said she'd be right back. In another 2 minutes, she had a new phone for me. She popped in my SIM. I had to sign something that said I owed them $0.00. I acknowledged that my warranty was still valid. The phone automatically downloaded all of my contacts. I was on my way.
Now that I'm home, I was able to restore my phone from backup. It took about 4 minutes to restore all of my settings. My apps and music will sync once I decide to take the time.
This is why I will continue to be an Apple fan. Their products work. When they don't, they simply replace them. This is better for the customer, as they don't have to wait for lengthy repairs. It is better for the company, as their cost to manufacture the phone overseas is cheaper than the cost to diagnose and repair onshore.
It took me a grand total of 30 minutes (driving to the store, waiting, replacing, and driving home), and I was back up and running. When is the last time your technology problem was solved in 30 minutes?
I got online, made an appointment for 5:10 at the Genius Bar, briefly describing my problem in the ticket. I received an email confirmation. When I showed up early, the Apple Store apologized that they wouldn't be able to move my appointment up, but assured me that I would be seen by someone at the appointed time. Sure enough, a young woman approached me shortly after 5:00, verbally confirmed my problem, and asked me if I had recently backed up my phone. After I explained that my last backup as two days ago, she said that this isn't something they repair. No... Apple just replaces the device under warranty.
The Genius asked me if I had dropped the phone: no (not really anyway). She asked me if it had gotten wet: no. She popped out my SIM card, shined a light to check for water exposure. Finding none, she said she'd be right back. In another 2 minutes, she had a new phone for me. She popped in my SIM. I had to sign something that said I owed them $0.00. I acknowledged that my warranty was still valid. The phone automatically downloaded all of my contacts. I was on my way.
Now that I'm home, I was able to restore my phone from backup. It took about 4 minutes to restore all of my settings. My apps and music will sync once I decide to take the time.
This is why I will continue to be an Apple fan. Their products work. When they don't, they simply replace them. This is better for the customer, as they don't have to wait for lengthy repairs. It is better for the company, as their cost to manufacture the phone overseas is cheaper than the cost to diagnose and repair onshore.
It took me a grand total of 30 minutes (driving to the store, waiting, replacing, and driving home), and I was back up and running. When is the last time your technology problem was solved in 30 minutes?
Changing Diapers by Candlelight
I've previously written about how much I enjoy thunderstorms. This remains true, but I feel like a higher power has been testing me for the last two days, or maybe I can just blame my roommate from freshman year. He is in town and also commented on how great storms are...
Two nights ago, in the middle of the night, a crash of thunder shook the house (and my bed in it); it woke me up. The sound of the wind rattling the siding kept me up. I almost grabbed Grayson and headed down to the basement. Almost. But it was 3:30 a.m. and I had stayed up later than I had planned the night before. I figured if the storm didn't wake Grayson, it couldn't be too bad. The fact, though, that the thought crossed my mind told me just how crazy that storm was.
Last night was worse. At least it happened in the evening, but last night's storm was violent! The
winds were gusting; Stacy said our patio door bowed a bit. We lost a shrub; it is just disintegrated. Of course we lost power and the Internet. (I'm using this as an excuse for why my entry is a bit late.) The scariest part of it for me, though, was being out and about in the storm without my phone. This blog post was supposed to be about my phone; I guess that will be tonight.
I had just dropped off a tool I borrowed at my mom's house, and I was heading to the grocery store for some necessities when the skies opened up. I ran into the store, the right half of my body drenched from the driven rain. I made my purchases, and I stood by the door hoping the storm would let up in a minute or two. It didn't. And I had a wife and child at home (a dog too) whom I knew were worried about me. I decided I couldn't wait any longer, so I made a mad dash for my car. It was as if God was aiming a fire hose at me while I ran through a pond. The water in the parking lot already covered my feet.
The grocery store is about 1.5 miles from my house. It took me 10 minutes to get home. There were construction cones blowing around, almost floating at you. Stoplights were out. Puddles were deep. Tree limbs were down. At one point, I drove a slalom course of tree debris up a hill. All of this in a driving rain that my windshield wipers couldn't keep up with. It was a fun drive.
I got home to candles glowing, soaked to the bone from just two brief moments outside. I was super glad to see Stacy, to reassure her that I was okay. No power. Cellular data was able to keep us connected, so we knew that power was out almost everywhere in the Twin Cities. After securing the house, making sure that we weren't taking in water, we entertained Grayson in the twilight and candlelight. He was all smiles and giggles, having no idea how violent the storm was that just rolled through.
Today the city will wake up and assess the damage. I hope the families with cars at the Back to the Fifties show are all safe, that their cars are okay. I hope we are done with storms for a little while now...
Two nights ago, in the middle of the night, a crash of thunder shook the house (and my bed in it); it woke me up. The sound of the wind rattling the siding kept me up. I almost grabbed Grayson and headed down to the basement. Almost. But it was 3:30 a.m. and I had stayed up later than I had planned the night before. I figured if the storm didn't wake Grayson, it couldn't be too bad. The fact, though, that the thought crossed my mind told me just how crazy that storm was.
Last night was worse. At least it happened in the evening, but last night's storm was violent! The
winds were gusting; Stacy said our patio door bowed a bit. We lost a shrub; it is just disintegrated. Of course we lost power and the Internet. (I'm using this as an excuse for why my entry is a bit late.) The scariest part of it for me, though, was being out and about in the storm without my phone. This blog post was supposed to be about my phone; I guess that will be tonight.
I had just dropped off a tool I borrowed at my mom's house, and I was heading to the grocery store for some necessities when the skies opened up. I ran into the store, the right half of my body drenched from the driven rain. I made my purchases, and I stood by the door hoping the storm would let up in a minute or two. It didn't. And I had a wife and child at home (a dog too) whom I knew were worried about me. I decided I couldn't wait any longer, so I made a mad dash for my car. It was as if God was aiming a fire hose at me while I ran through a pond. The water in the parking lot already covered my feet.
The grocery store is about 1.5 miles from my house. It took me 10 minutes to get home. There were construction cones blowing around, almost floating at you. Stoplights were out. Puddles were deep. Tree limbs were down. At one point, I drove a slalom course of tree debris up a hill. All of this in a driving rain that my windshield wipers couldn't keep up with. It was a fun drive.
I got home to candles glowing, soaked to the bone from just two brief moments outside. I was super glad to see Stacy, to reassure her that I was okay. No power. Cellular data was able to keep us connected, so we knew that power was out almost everywhere in the Twin Cities. After securing the house, making sure that we weren't taking in water, we entertained Grayson in the twilight and candlelight. He was all smiles and giggles, having no idea how violent the storm was that just rolled through.
Today the city will wake up and assess the damage. I hope the families with cars at the Back to the Fifties show are all safe, that their cars are okay. I hope we are done with storms for a little while now...
6.20.2013
A Beer with a Friend
Minnesota has quickly (and quietly) become a hotbed of micro brewing in the country. The scene here probably started with Summit Brewing back in the late '80s. Since then, a gaggle of breweries have opened creating exciting, edgy beers that are as varied as our lakes. One of the most vocal and prominent of these new breed of breweries, celebrating their 7th year, is Surly Brewing, Co.
My former supervisor has been a fan of Surly for as long as I've known him. He even volunteers his time on behalf of Surly fixing bicycles and working with the community. Because of his involvement, he gets invited to special events. Tonight, he was invited to the soft opening of Surly's new tap room. He was allowed a plus-one. I got to be that guest tonight.
Until recently, breweries in Minnesota were not allowed to sell glasses of their product directly to customers. They were allowed to offer small, free samples after tours, but they couldn't sell their beer out of the tap without involving a separate bar/restaurant via a distributor unless they decided to not sell their product in liquor stores. (This allowed for brewpubs whose beer you couldn't buy anywhere but in their restaurant.) Surly, and other breweries, thought this was unfair. They worked to change the law. The fruit of their labor is known as the Surly Law.
Surly opens their doors to the public tomorrow. From 3:00 p.m - 9:00 p.m., anyone can walk through the doors in the most remote corner of Brooklyn Center and order one of their favorite pints straight from the keg to the glass. The lines can't travel further than 200 feet from where the beer is born. Tonight, as I mentioned, was their soft opening. It was a chance for a select few friends of the company to enjoy a pint while helping Surly iron out the kinks before they were in front of a demanding public.
What a great way/place to reconnect with an old boss, colleague and friend. I hadn't seen him in about six months, an eternity when you each have young children. The beer was delicious; the conversation was better. I was able to reassure him that the grass isn't necessarily greener on the other side, and he was able to reassure me that things haven't changed or gotten better than miserable at my old job. We talked about family, about not having time to work on anything, and about the latest ghosts in our cars.
I encourage each of you to find some time in your schedule to visit Surly or any other local brewery as they open tap rooms in the coming months. It is a great way to taste fresh beer, and it is a great way to support the beers/brewers you love without paying a middleman.
My former supervisor has been a fan of Surly for as long as I've known him. He even volunteers his time on behalf of Surly fixing bicycles and working with the community. Because of his involvement, he gets invited to special events. Tonight, he was invited to the soft opening of Surly's new tap room. He was allowed a plus-one. I got to be that guest tonight.
Until recently, breweries in Minnesota were not allowed to sell glasses of their product directly to customers. They were allowed to offer small, free samples after tours, but they couldn't sell their beer out of the tap without involving a separate bar/restaurant via a distributor unless they decided to not sell their product in liquor stores. (This allowed for brewpubs whose beer you couldn't buy anywhere but in their restaurant.) Surly, and other breweries, thought this was unfair. They worked to change the law. The fruit of their labor is known as the Surly Law.
Surly opens their doors to the public tomorrow. From 3:00 p.m - 9:00 p.m., anyone can walk through the doors in the most remote corner of Brooklyn Center and order one of their favorite pints straight from the keg to the glass. The lines can't travel further than 200 feet from where the beer is born. Tonight, as I mentioned, was their soft opening. It was a chance for a select few friends of the company to enjoy a pint while helping Surly iron out the kinks before they were in front of a demanding public.
What a great way/place to reconnect with an old boss, colleague and friend. I hadn't seen him in about six months, an eternity when you each have young children. The beer was delicious; the conversation was better. I was able to reassure him that the grass isn't necessarily greener on the other side, and he was able to reassure me that things haven't changed or gotten better than miserable at my old job. We talked about family, about not having time to work on anything, and about the latest ghosts in our cars.
I encourage each of you to find some time in your schedule to visit Surly or any other local brewery as they open tap rooms in the coming months. It is a great way to taste fresh beer, and it is a great way to support the beers/brewers you love without paying a middleman.
6.19.2013
Father Son Bonding Time
Stacy had a happy hour tonight with co-workers. I've learned over the years that "hour" has a different definition than sixty minutes when it involves my wife, colleagues and happy. When I acknowledged that I was fine with her going out, I was acknowledging that I was fine with spending the majority of the evening with Grayson.
Don't tell Stacy, but I love evenings with Grayson.
I picked him up from daycare around 4:45, a little earlier than his normal pick-up time. He was smiling from the moment he saw my face. I don't normally pick him up from daycare. I do the majority of the drop-offs; Stacy does the pick-ups, so the joy on his face is still novel to me. On the drive home, I talked to Grayson about the route we were taking, about things we were seeing, and about how I was looking forward to spending the night with him.
I don't remember spending one-on-one time with my dad when I was a boy, at least not often. I'm sure that we did it, but I know how hard my dad worked, so I assume the time was few and far between... especially when I was a boy. I do, however, remember watching the 1991 World Series with my dad. I remember watching an inning or two, then pretending to go to bed at the same time as my sisters, only to sneak back downstairs for every game. Regardless of my excitement, I had to be quiet, as to not wake the girls. Game 6 was by far the hardest. I was 13. That World Series is still my favorite sports memory, not because it is still considered one of the greatest series of all time, but because I watched my home team win a title while sitting next to my dad on the couch.
I know that Grayson will never remember tonight, but we sat on the couch together watching Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I explained to him what a goal is in hockey. I explained icing. He was enthralled. I understand that he was enthralled with the colors and the motion, but I like to think that he is quickly becoming a hockey fan. The most important thing I explained to Grayson tonight was the responsibility to cheer for your home team. I explained that we were cheering for the Bruins tonight because our good friend, Mike, was from Boston. Mike was back home this week in Boston; I heard through the grapevine that he was in some one's basement watching the game, no doubt in a Bruins jersey.
Stacy eventually came home. She fed Grayson, and he is now fast asleep. Boston and Chicago are tied at 4 with half the 3rd period to go. I'm blogging in front of the TV, trying to silence my excitement.
Regardless of how the game turns out, I had wonderful bonding time with my son.
Don't tell Stacy, but I love evenings with Grayson.
I picked him up from daycare around 4:45, a little earlier than his normal pick-up time. He was smiling from the moment he saw my face. I don't normally pick him up from daycare. I do the majority of the drop-offs; Stacy does the pick-ups, so the joy on his face is still novel to me. On the drive home, I talked to Grayson about the route we were taking, about things we were seeing, and about how I was looking forward to spending the night with him.
I don't remember spending one-on-one time with my dad when I was a boy, at least not often. I'm sure that we did it, but I know how hard my dad worked, so I assume the time was few and far between... especially when I was a boy. I do, however, remember watching the 1991 World Series with my dad. I remember watching an inning or two, then pretending to go to bed at the same time as my sisters, only to sneak back downstairs for every game. Regardless of my excitement, I had to be quiet, as to not wake the girls. Game 6 was by far the hardest. I was 13. That World Series is still my favorite sports memory, not because it is still considered one of the greatest series of all time, but because I watched my home team win a title while sitting next to my dad on the couch.
I know that Grayson will never remember tonight, but we sat on the couch together watching Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I explained to him what a goal is in hockey. I explained icing. He was enthralled. I understand that he was enthralled with the colors and the motion, but I like to think that he is quickly becoming a hockey fan. The most important thing I explained to Grayson tonight was the responsibility to cheer for your home team. I explained that we were cheering for the Bruins tonight because our good friend, Mike, was from Boston. Mike was back home this week in Boston; I heard through the grapevine that he was in some one's basement watching the game, no doubt in a Bruins jersey.
Stacy eventually came home. She fed Grayson, and he is now fast asleep. Boston and Chicago are tied at 4 with half the 3rd period to go. I'm blogging in front of the TV, trying to silence my excitement.
Regardless of how the game turns out, I had wonderful bonding time with my son.
6.18.2013
Toothache
I went to the dentist today. I'm good friends with my dentist; he and his wife hosted a baby shower for us, but I hate going to see him in a professional capacity. He is a fine dentist, in fact he is better than most I've seen. I still don't like going to see him. I also don't like going to see the doctor or the mechanic; it's like I'm admitting there is something wrong that I can't resolve on my own.
I know how ridiculous that sounds. Of course I don't believe for a second that I should be able to fix everything that ails me. I recognize that it is a point of maturity and of strength to seek out professionals with the education, training and experience to not only fix what ails me, but fix it quickly. Still, there is a part of me that doesn't want to admit I need fixing in the first place.
About a week ago, I felt a twinge in my jaw. It didn't last long, but it was enough to signal that something might be off. The next day it went away, so I wrote it off to poor brushing that day. It came back though, stronger. By yesterday, the pain was bad enough that I called my dentist at home at 8:00 p.m. or so. I classified it not as an emergency, but a dental crisis. (In my mind, crisis is less than emergency.) He was able to squeeze me in this afternoon.
We did x-rays, tapped every tooth, did a cold test in which he froze something with a chemical to see how my teeth would react to extreme cold. My dentist even asked me if I was stressed enough to be grinding my teeth in my sleep. He ruled out everything tooth-related.
We settled on a sinus infection. I guess I had suspected this all along, but I wanted to rule out any problems with my teeth. I'm now on antibiotics... which if I were smart enough, I would have started a week ago.
I know how ridiculous that sounds. Of course I don't believe for a second that I should be able to fix everything that ails me. I recognize that it is a point of maturity and of strength to seek out professionals with the education, training and experience to not only fix what ails me, but fix it quickly. Still, there is a part of me that doesn't want to admit I need fixing in the first place.
About a week ago, I felt a twinge in my jaw. It didn't last long, but it was enough to signal that something might be off. The next day it went away, so I wrote it off to poor brushing that day. It came back though, stronger. By yesterday, the pain was bad enough that I called my dentist at home at 8:00 p.m. or so. I classified it not as an emergency, but a dental crisis. (In my mind, crisis is less than emergency.) He was able to squeeze me in this afternoon.
We did x-rays, tapped every tooth, did a cold test in which he froze something with a chemical to see how my teeth would react to extreme cold. My dentist even asked me if I was stressed enough to be grinding my teeth in my sleep. He ruled out everything tooth-related.
We settled on a sinus infection. I guess I had suspected this all along, but I wanted to rule out any problems with my teeth. I'm now on antibiotics... which if I were smart enough, I would have started a week ago.
6.17.2013
It's Harder to be Friends than Lovers
Most every day for lunch, I plop in my earbuds, and I set my iPod to random. Today was no exception. The first song to pop up was Liz Phair’s “Divorce Song,” a remnant of my first marriage. My ex-wife was quite the Liz Phair fan, right time, right place, right age (or rage).
One of the side effects of getting married was merging our music libraries. At the time we met, iTunes was just coming out; needless to say, our music collections were on CD. Merging the libraries consisted of nothing more than shelving the CDs on the same rack in alphabetical order for easy retrieval. After almost 5 years of marriage, though, the library wasn’t as easy to untangle; we gave away or sold any duplicate albums, and, as is the case with a lot of things in marriage, it became difficult to remember distinct tastes after time. My solution was to digitize the lot of albums by loading them, one disc at a time, into the iTunes that had become commonplace by 2008.
If marriage, in theory, is the joining of two lives into one, then divorce, in theory, is the separation of one life into two. Two lives rarely merge into exactly one, especially when divorce is an option, but one shared life never cleanly separates into two. There are always fragments that remain. One of the fragments that remain for me is the struggle to avoid absolutes like “always” and “never.” There is a vindictive part of me that revels in using them today, but I use them here because I now see that absolutes have a place, albeit rare, in this world. I know through experience that it is impossible to completely separate myself from my past; this goes for any relationship of substance in life.
These relationships leave their mark. Like water, they are silently transformative, a power in nature; I often don’t notice the change until after the fact in periods of reflection on who I am and who I was. My first marriage has proven to be the past relationship that changed me the most. (My current marriage is still changing me... in very positive ways!) I've burned plenty of bridges in my day, but I hope that I've learned from them. I don't talk to my ex-wife anymore; she made it passive-aggressively clear that she didn't want to hear from me again, but I reflect on that relationship from time to time. I'm still learning lessons about marriage, and I think I'm a better spouse because of it.
A handful of remnants from my first marriage are painful: I consistently seek validation that my cooking is up to snuff, and too often I correct the grammar of others. The majority of them are neutral: I occasionally refer to right and left turns as “Rodney”s and “Louis”s; I answer aloud in the form of a question when I watch Jeopardy; I "own" every R.E.M. album. My favorite remnant though, and the one that tied my iPod to today, is the one that I mentioned in yesterday’s blog post: my first son, Calvin Robert Holm. Calvin was stillborn on Nov. 17, 2006. He is, by far, the best thing to come out of joining my life with my ex-wife. Cal taught me many things about the human capacity for love and for grief. The experience of losing Cal brought me lasting friendships and an ability to cherish the gift of each day with loved ones. He is, by far, the greatest accomplishment and lesson from my time with Erin. He reassured me that I was capable of being a father, that I wanted to be a father. He gave me courage to be a father to Grayson.
The line that sticks out most to me in the Phair song is "that it's harder to be friends than lovers." I've wondered for years now why Erin and I can't be friends, why we can't put aside the hurt and our differences to celebrate Calvin... I assumed that her pain was too great, that I was too large a monster, and that our relationship was just too broken. What I've come to realize over the last few months, though, is that forgiveness needs to start with me. I don't need to forgive her, though... I've had to forgive myself. So I did. And I stopped being vindictive (for the most part). I've unblocked her from Facebook, and I've started to remember the love we shared... the love that created Cal. It has made me a better spouse to Stacy and a better father to Grayson. All I had to do was forgive myself for not knowing what I know now.
That was a pretty good remnant, and I've got Cal to thank for it.
One of the side effects of getting married was merging our music libraries. At the time we met, iTunes was just coming out; needless to say, our music collections were on CD. Merging the libraries consisted of nothing more than shelving the CDs on the same rack in alphabetical order for easy retrieval. After almost 5 years of marriage, though, the library wasn’t as easy to untangle; we gave away or sold any duplicate albums, and, as is the case with a lot of things in marriage, it became difficult to remember distinct tastes after time. My solution was to digitize the lot of albums by loading them, one disc at a time, into the iTunes that had become commonplace by 2008.
If marriage, in theory, is the joining of two lives into one, then divorce, in theory, is the separation of one life into two. Two lives rarely merge into exactly one, especially when divorce is an option, but one shared life never cleanly separates into two. There are always fragments that remain. One of the fragments that remain for me is the struggle to avoid absolutes like “always” and “never.” There is a vindictive part of me that revels in using them today, but I use them here because I now see that absolutes have a place, albeit rare, in this world. I know through experience that it is impossible to completely separate myself from my past; this goes for any relationship of substance in life.
These relationships leave their mark. Like water, they are silently transformative, a power in nature; I often don’t notice the change until after the fact in periods of reflection on who I am and who I was. My first marriage has proven to be the past relationship that changed me the most. (My current marriage is still changing me... in very positive ways!) I've burned plenty of bridges in my day, but I hope that I've learned from them. I don't talk to my ex-wife anymore; she made it passive-aggressively clear that she didn't want to hear from me again, but I reflect on that relationship from time to time. I'm still learning lessons about marriage, and I think I'm a better spouse because of it.
A handful of remnants from my first marriage are painful: I consistently seek validation that my cooking is up to snuff, and too often I correct the grammar of others. The majority of them are neutral: I occasionally refer to right and left turns as “Rodney”s and “Louis”s; I answer aloud in the form of a question when I watch Jeopardy; I "own" every R.E.M. album. My favorite remnant though, and the one that tied my iPod to today, is the one that I mentioned in yesterday’s blog post: my first son, Calvin Robert Holm. Calvin was stillborn on Nov. 17, 2006. He is, by far, the best thing to come out of joining my life with my ex-wife. Cal taught me many things about the human capacity for love and for grief. The experience of losing Cal brought me lasting friendships and an ability to cherish the gift of each day with loved ones. He is, by far, the greatest accomplishment and lesson from my time with Erin. He reassured me that I was capable of being a father, that I wanted to be a father. He gave me courage to be a father to Grayson.
The line that sticks out most to me in the Phair song is "that it's harder to be friends than lovers." I've wondered for years now why Erin and I can't be friends, why we can't put aside the hurt and our differences to celebrate Calvin... I assumed that her pain was too great, that I was too large a monster, and that our relationship was just too broken. What I've come to realize over the last few months, though, is that forgiveness needs to start with me. I don't need to forgive her, though... I've had to forgive myself. So I did. And I stopped being vindictive (for the most part). I've unblocked her from Facebook, and I've started to remember the love we shared... the love that created Cal. It has made me a better spouse to Stacy and a better father to Grayson. All I had to do was forgive myself for not knowing what I know now.
That was a pretty good remnant, and I've got Cal to thank for it.
6.16.2013
This Father's Day
Today was a wonderful day to be a father! At least here in the Twin Cities, the sun was shining, the breeze was gently blowing, and I was surrounded with love. I've celebrated Father's Day in the past, as many of you know, but today was a special Father's Day for me because it was the first Father's Day that I could hold and hug and kiss my son. I felt overwhelmed with pride today, as I watched my son crawl, as I watched him eat sweet potatoes, and as I watched him look back at me with amazement.
As a family, we went to lunch at Snuffy's. If you've never been, there are at least two of them in the Twin Cities, and they are the best malts/shakes around. The burgers aren't bad, but the shakes are worth every calorie. After lunch, we went to the Como Park community pool. This was Grayson's first foray into water that wasn't a bath. He was so serious about his adventure. He studied the water and how his legs moved in it. He even proved that he could hold his breath. Very brave, and it filled me with awe to see him explore something so new and foreign. He even made a little friend: Evelyn. After the pool, I grilled steaks for dinner. Dessert was Dairy Queen. I'm sipping on a scotch as I type this.
I couldn't think of a more perfect Father's Day.
But today wasn't just about me and Grayson. Today was also about my father, Harry, and my other son, Calvin. I stopped to see them both on my DQ run after dinner. Very quick "hello"s, but worth the trip.
Two summers after my father died, I was driving a van full of senior citizens around a six block radius in Madison, WI. On my lunch break, I was eating in my van listening to Triple M, the local adult contemporary station. It was really a cross between Cities 97 and the Current. For Father's Day weekend, they played a song that simultaneously broke my heart and healed my soul. It is called "This Father's Day" by Peter Himmelman. I listen to it every year on Father's Day now. I listened to it tonight while grilling.
I can't find it on iTunes, but I know the lyrics by heart (and by Google). I want to share them with you today.
When no-one is forgotten
When nothing goes to waste
When sadness turns to laughter
When anger is defaced
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
When weakness turns to power
When evil turns to good
When the helpless are remembered
By those who never would
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
And if I could, I’d run out into the street
And scream to everyone I meet
That I loved you more than words could ever say
And that I loved you more than life this Father’s Day
When caring is exalted
When kindness knows no bounds
When integrity comes easy
When love is all around
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
And if I could, I’d run out into the world
And tell every boy and girl
To love before love takes itself away
Just like I’m loving you this Father’s Day
As a family, we went to lunch at Snuffy's. If you've never been, there are at least two of them in the Twin Cities, and they are the best malts/shakes around. The burgers aren't bad, but the shakes are worth every calorie. After lunch, we went to the Como Park community pool. This was Grayson's first foray into water that wasn't a bath. He was so serious about his adventure. He studied the water and how his legs moved in it. He even proved that he could hold his breath. Very brave, and it filled me with awe to see him explore something so new and foreign. He even made a little friend: Evelyn. After the pool, I grilled steaks for dinner. Dessert was Dairy Queen. I'm sipping on a scotch as I type this.
I couldn't think of a more perfect Father's Day.
But today wasn't just about me and Grayson. Today was also about my father, Harry, and my other son, Calvin. I stopped to see them both on my DQ run after dinner. Very quick "hello"s, but worth the trip.
Two summers after my father died, I was driving a van full of senior citizens around a six block radius in Madison, WI. On my lunch break, I was eating in my van listening to Triple M, the local adult contemporary station. It was really a cross between Cities 97 and the Current. For Father's Day weekend, they played a song that simultaneously broke my heart and healed my soul. It is called "This Father's Day" by Peter Himmelman. I listen to it every year on Father's Day now. I listened to it tonight while grilling.
I can't find it on iTunes, but I know the lyrics by heart (and by Google). I want to share them with you today.
When no-one is forgotten
When nothing goes to waste
When sadness turns to laughter
When anger is defaced
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
When weakness turns to power
When evil turns to good
When the helpless are remembered
By those who never would
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
And if I could, I’d run out into the street
And scream to everyone I meet
That I loved you more than words could ever say
And that I loved you more than life this Father’s Day
When caring is exalted
When kindness knows no bounds
When integrity comes easy
When love is all around
You’ll start to know the way I feel about you
And if I could, I’d run out into the world
And tell every boy and girl
To love before love takes itself away
Just like I’m loving you this Father’s Day
6.15.2013
Playoff Hockey
I'm not a brilliant hockey mind. I've never played it; in fact I'm a horrible skater. I can't imagine trying to also pass/defend/shoot. I learned that I would never play hockey as a ten-year-old. The family was at the local park's outdoor rink. I was trying to skate, and I was managing to stay upright. But then a tiny five-year-old came on the ice and skated circles around me. Despite not knowing the intricacies of a back-check, I appreciate the sport. I understand icing, and I remember when the NHL legalized the two line pass and the impact that had on Marion Gaborik's game.
The Stanley Cup finals are underway. Game 1 went three overtimes before the Blackhawks won on a freak shot. Game 2 is currently in the first OT, but the goaltending has been amazing. I wouldn't be surprised if we go into the second OT. Check that. The Bruins just won in the first OT. Beautiful goal over the glove hand and just underneath the crossbar.
I'm much more of a football fan, but I think that playoff hockey is the most intense playoff experience in American professional sports. There is pageantry, drama, violence, speed, skill, intensity. There are even playoff beards. Another reason I can't play hockey. At the end of it all, no matter how dirty the play on the ice has been, before any celebration, the players shake hands. This is the most profound expressions of sportsmanship and class. The ability to look a toothless man in the eye and thank him for a great series, even if he just cross-checked you before the final whistle.
Since the Wild is out, I'm cheering for Boston.
Go Bruins!
The Stanley Cup finals are underway. Game 1 went three overtimes before the Blackhawks won on a freak shot. Game 2 is currently in the first OT, but the goaltending has been amazing. I wouldn't be surprised if we go into the second OT. Check that. The Bruins just won in the first OT. Beautiful goal over the glove hand and just underneath the crossbar.
I'm much more of a football fan, but I think that playoff hockey is the most intense playoff experience in American professional sports. There is pageantry, drama, violence, speed, skill, intensity. There are even playoff beards. Another reason I can't play hockey. At the end of it all, no matter how dirty the play on the ice has been, before any celebration, the players shake hands. This is the most profound expressions of sportsmanship and class. The ability to look a toothless man in the eye and thank him for a great series, even if he just cross-checked you before the final whistle.
Since the Wild is out, I'm cheering for Boston.
Go Bruins!
Tell My Sons
I've had many motivations for undertaking this endeavor; I outlined most of them in my first post, and I've alluded to others. One of the biggest inspirations, though, came from Lt. Col. Mark Weber.
For those of you that don't know the Lt. Col.'s story, he was on the fast track to greatness in the military, advising the head of the Iraqi Army, second in command under General Petraeus; he was considered one of the brightest officers with the greatest potential in the service. A career officer, he was asked once again to serve his country oversees, again under Gen. Petraeus, this time in Afghanistan. Before he deployed, he underwent a routine physical. They found stage 4 cancer. He was given a few months to live.
That was 3 years ago.
Lt. Col. Weber was an avid journaler. He chronicled his life since he joined the military at age 18. He took these journals, along with other musings, and he created a book: Tell My Sons. This book was a series of advice to his three boys, all under the age of 18. It was based on his journals, and it was framed around a famous speech from Gen. MacArthur. (As a history major, I'm probably spelling that incorrectly, but it is late, and I'm too tired and stubborn to look it up.)
This man's story resonated with me on many levels. 14 years ago, I lost my father to an eerily similar cancer. I have often wished I spent more time with him, learned more from him, and had the ability to solicit his advice as a young man. I also used to keep an avid journal, writing about the world around me, capturing the perspective of a teen. His tenacity made sense to me, too; he never gave up. He realized that he wouldn't be around forever, and he did his damnedest to live his life as best he could, to pass along as many memories and advice as he could to his children.
His book was recently picked up by Random House. It was released with national publicity on June 4, just in time for the perfect Father's Day gift. I bought an advanced copy, which is sitting on my coffee table. I've finished the forward by Robin Williams, and I've read the preface to my son. This weekend, I hope to read the majority of it, to sense the honesty, the candor, and the bravery.
Lt. Col. Mark Weber died yesterday. He was 41 years old. He leaves behind a wife, three boys, and one hell of a legacy.
I encourage you to read more about his story (google his name), and I encourage you to buy his book. He has a straight-forward and disarming way with words. On one hand it is all uniform, but on the other, it is gut-wrenchingly real.
For those of you that don't know the Lt. Col.'s story, he was on the fast track to greatness in the military, advising the head of the Iraqi Army, second in command under General Petraeus; he was considered one of the brightest officers with the greatest potential in the service. A career officer, he was asked once again to serve his country oversees, again under Gen. Petraeus, this time in Afghanistan. Before he deployed, he underwent a routine physical. They found stage 4 cancer. He was given a few months to live.
That was 3 years ago.
Lt. Col. Weber was an avid journaler. He chronicled his life since he joined the military at age 18. He took these journals, along with other musings, and he created a book: Tell My Sons. This book was a series of advice to his three boys, all under the age of 18. It was based on his journals, and it was framed around a famous speech from Gen. MacArthur. (As a history major, I'm probably spelling that incorrectly, but it is late, and I'm too tired and stubborn to look it up.)
This man's story resonated with me on many levels. 14 years ago, I lost my father to an eerily similar cancer. I have often wished I spent more time with him, learned more from him, and had the ability to solicit his advice as a young man. I also used to keep an avid journal, writing about the world around me, capturing the perspective of a teen. His tenacity made sense to me, too; he never gave up. He realized that he wouldn't be around forever, and he did his damnedest to live his life as best he could, to pass along as many memories and advice as he could to his children.
His book was recently picked up by Random House. It was released with national publicity on June 4, just in time for the perfect Father's Day gift. I bought an advanced copy, which is sitting on my coffee table. I've finished the forward by Robin Williams, and I've read the preface to my son. This weekend, I hope to read the majority of it, to sense the honesty, the candor, and the bravery.
Lt. Col. Mark Weber died yesterday. He was 41 years old. He leaves behind a wife, three boys, and one hell of a legacy.
I encourage you to read more about his story (google his name), and I encourage you to buy his book. He has a straight-forward and disarming way with words. On one hand it is all uniform, but on the other, it is gut-wrenchingly real.
6.13.2013
Keeping up with the Jones'
I mowed the lawn tonight. To some this is a sense of pride; a nicely manicured lawn to show off to the neighborhood. To others it is a chance to relax, to commune with their piece of nature. To yet others, it is merely another chore, something that is mundane, akin to taking out the trash or clipping your toenails.
To me, though, mowing the lawn is close to torture.
I have horrible allergies. I've had them since I was a kid. One of my worst allergies is to grass pollen. (My most worst allergy ever of all time is to cats.) Ever since I was old enough to operate a Toro, I've been sneezing and itching and cursing. To this day, each time I mow the lawn, I pop an allergy pill prior to going out, and when I'm done, I need to wash my face and change my clothes. If I fail to do this, I puff up, get snotty, and occasionally need to go to the hospital.
When I was 13, I went on a mission trip to West Virginia. We were working with a daycare facility, cleaning and painting. I remember burning an outhouse that we tore down, but that is another story for another day. One of the workers mowed a large field, and I ran through it. Long story short, I ended up with my eyes swollen shut and my youth director driving what felt like 70 miles an hour up and down mountain roads.
Tonight, though, I mowed the lawn. This isn't a job that I pawn off on others. I feel it is my responsibility as a homeowner to do it. I also feel it is my duty as a spouse. Ultimately, I feel it is my duty as (I would say "man," but that would be misogynistic) an adult to do something that is beneficiary yet unpleasant: sometimes you just have to do things that you don't like to do. Mowing the lawn is that thing for me.
To me, though, mowing the lawn is close to torture.
I have horrible allergies. I've had them since I was a kid. One of my worst allergies is to grass pollen. (My most worst allergy ever of all time is to cats.) Ever since I was old enough to operate a Toro, I've been sneezing and itching and cursing. To this day, each time I mow the lawn, I pop an allergy pill prior to going out, and when I'm done, I need to wash my face and change my clothes. If I fail to do this, I puff up, get snotty, and occasionally need to go to the hospital.
When I was 13, I went on a mission trip to West Virginia. We were working with a daycare facility, cleaning and painting. I remember burning an outhouse that we tore down, but that is another story for another day. One of the workers mowed a large field, and I ran through it. Long story short, I ended up with my eyes swollen shut and my youth director driving what felt like 70 miles an hour up and down mountain roads.
Tonight, though, I mowed the lawn. This isn't a job that I pawn off on others. I feel it is my responsibility as a homeowner to do it. I also feel it is my duty as a spouse. Ultimately, I feel it is my duty as (I would say "man," but that would be misogynistic) an adult to do something that is beneficiary yet unpleasant: sometimes you just have to do things that you don't like to do. Mowing the lawn is that thing for me.
6.12.2013
Writer's Block
I don't have anything to say today. More accurately, I have many things to say today, but most of them are half-baked and seem insignificant to me. Other topics floating around my head seem too significant, too revealing.
They say when you have writer's block, you should just write nonsense if you have to; the goal is to keep writing.
I have a better idea: I need a list of topics, and I'd like suggestions from you.
What should I write about?
Post in the comments section, and I'll keep it as an emergency list, something to take inspiration from. Have at it, and I promise to give you credit should I post on your suggestion.
Happy Wednesday.
They say when you have writer's block, you should just write nonsense if you have to; the goal is to keep writing.
I have a better idea: I need a list of topics, and I'd like suggestions from you.
What should I write about?
Post in the comments section, and I'll keep it as an emergency list, something to take inspiration from. Have at it, and I promise to give you credit should I post on your suggestion.
Happy Wednesday.
6.11.2013
Homecoming
One of my favorite things to do is pick up a loved one from the airport. Whether they are coming to visit or coming home, the moment outside baggage claim is full of joy and reunion. I find this is true even if you don't really like the person. Pickups have a magic about them that makes any tension disappear, if only for a few minutes.
The world, and the way the public has access to airports has changed since Sept. 11, 2001. You can't bring your own beverage passed ticketing, and unless you have a ticket, you aren't getting down to a gate. Before 9/11 though, my whole family would drive to the airport, park the car, empty our pockets, walk through the metal detector and walk to the gate to greet whomever we were waiting on to arrive. I remember when Gigi and Grampy would come to town from San Diego. All three of us kids would get as close to the gate as possible so we could look down the tunnel being the first to catch a glimpse of the spoiling that was about to happen, pregnant with anticipation. I guess this is where my love of picking people up comes from... I miss going to the gate.
Today, I had the opportunity to pick up my wife, returning home from her short stint in Chicago. Picking up someone coming home isn't the same as picking up a visitor, but there is still some magic there. I obviously couldn't go to the gate today, but I caught the look in her eye when she saw our car pulling up to the curb, and I could imagine how my grin looked when I spotted her leaning on her suitcase. Even though she was gone for only three days, the hug and kiss I got felt fabulous, like I hadn't seen her in months. The car ride home was filled with chitchat, random facts about her trip, nothing out of the ordinary, but that felt good too. It felt familiar, comforting.
I missed her. A lot. I'm glad she is home.
I might even be able to sleep tonight.
The world, and the way the public has access to airports has changed since Sept. 11, 2001. You can't bring your own beverage passed ticketing, and unless you have a ticket, you aren't getting down to a gate. Before 9/11 though, my whole family would drive to the airport, park the car, empty our pockets, walk through the metal detector and walk to the gate to greet whomever we were waiting on to arrive. I remember when Gigi and Grampy would come to town from San Diego. All three of us kids would get as close to the gate as possible so we could look down the tunnel being the first to catch a glimpse of the spoiling that was about to happen, pregnant with anticipation. I guess this is where my love of picking people up comes from... I miss going to the gate.
Today, I had the opportunity to pick up my wife, returning home from her short stint in Chicago. Picking up someone coming home isn't the same as picking up a visitor, but there is still some magic there. I obviously couldn't go to the gate today, but I caught the look in her eye when she saw our car pulling up to the curb, and I could imagine how my grin looked when I spotted her leaning on her suitcase. Even though she was gone for only three days, the hug and kiss I got felt fabulous, like I hadn't seen her in months. The car ride home was filled with chitchat, random facts about her trip, nothing out of the ordinary, but that felt good too. It felt familiar, comforting.
I missed her. A lot. I'm glad she is home.
I might even be able to sleep tonight.
6.10.2013
Restlessness
I can't sleep. It's not that I'm full of energy or have found a second wind. It's not that I'm trying to stay up. There isn't an amazing playoff game (scheduled way too late for kids to enjoy). It's not like I'm reading a book that I just can't put down because I'm invested in figuring out what happens to the tertiary plot line.
I can't sleep because my wife is out of town.
I don't exactly understand why this is. Maybe it is the imbalance in the bed, my side sinking just a skosh lower without the counterweight next to me. Maybe it is the lack of background noise, her breathing gently drowning out the thoughts in my head. Maybe it is just the uncertainty of what she is doing right now.
Regardless, I'm looking forward to her flight landing tomorrow evening. This way I'll be able to get a decent night's sleep.
I can't sleep because my wife is out of town.
I don't exactly understand why this is. Maybe it is the imbalance in the bed, my side sinking just a skosh lower without the counterweight next to me. Maybe it is the lack of background noise, her breathing gently drowning out the thoughts in my head. Maybe it is just the uncertainty of what she is doing right now.
Regardless, I'm looking forward to her flight landing tomorrow evening. This way I'll be able to get a decent night's sleep.
6.09.2013
This is tough!
Stacy is out of town on business until Tuesday evening. Her flight left at 6:30 this morning, which meant we were up at 4:00 a.m. in order to make the flight. I say this because it may be a factor in my low level of energy today.
The greater factor, though, is the fact that I'm a single parent for today.
This blog entry is going to be brief. I'm exhausted. I don't know how single parents do this day in and day out. Every minute of today has been spent feeding, changing, playing with or worrying about my son. AND, I'm thankful for it! It has been a wonderful day of bonding, but I'm beat.
Much respect for the single parents in this world.
One day down. Two more to go.
Pray for me.
The greater factor, though, is the fact that I'm a single parent for today.
This blog entry is going to be brief. I'm exhausted. I don't know how single parents do this day in and day out. Every minute of today has been spent feeding, changing, playing with or worrying about my son. AND, I'm thankful for it! It has been a wonderful day of bonding, but I'm beat.
Much respect for the single parents in this world.
One day down. Two more to go.
Pray for me.
6.08.2013
Family Portraits
As a child I remember going to our church on a Tuesday evening (or some weeknight) to get our family portrait taken for the directory. Mom and Dad got us three kids dressed up; we waited our turn along with all the other families, then we sat in a room in front of a blue backdrop. Two or three photos were snapped. We left and waited for the directory to arrive in the mail to see how our picture turned out. I don't remember this as fact, but if I were a betting man, I'd bet that family photo was available for purchase as an enlargement too.
My perceptions of family portrait sessions have changed now that I have my own family... and now that I have what I would classify as my own photographer.
About 6 weeks ago, we packed up the kid, and we met our photographer at my wife's office. We spent an hour playing with furniture, texture and lighting. After a while, my wife's parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew joined in the fun. All of the images were captured digitally, so we were able to preview them on the spot. Later that day, our photographer processed a handful of the images and posted them to her blog for us to see. Today, all 226 images arrived on a single CD. Of the 200+, at least 150 of them are unique images (as opposed to repeats of the same pose or moment). I like that we've advanced from film to digital if for no other reason than volume. It is so much cheaper today to take a bad shot or to take five of them and choose the best.
Here are a handful of my favorite:
My perceptions of family portrait sessions have changed now that I have my own family... and now that I have what I would classify as my own photographer.
About 6 weeks ago, we packed up the kid, and we met our photographer at my wife's office. We spent an hour playing with furniture, texture and lighting. After a while, my wife's parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew joined in the fun. All of the images were captured digitally, so we were able to preview them on the spot. Later that day, our photographer processed a handful of the images and posted them to her blog for us to see. Today, all 226 images arrived on a single CD. Of the 200+, at least 150 of them are unique images (as opposed to repeats of the same pose or moment). I like that we've advanced from film to digital if for no other reason than volume. It is so much cheaper today to take a bad shot or to take five of them and choose the best.
Here are a handful of my favorite:
6.07.2013
Graduation Parties
Like millions of high school seniors, my cousins-in-law graduated, selected colleges for the fall, and hosted a party for their friends and family to help them celebrate this milestone. Their party was tonight.
I don't know them well; we don't hang out besides family functions, and we don't text or call. Frankly I'm just too old to be cool anymore... at least in the eyes of high school seniors. I don't mean to make them sound bratty at all. They are wonderful young men, always polite and genuinely curious about what's going on in my life. They are bright, and I know they will flourish in college. You could see this in how they worked the party this evening. They made the rounds multiple times, and they even played with all the kids running around. Their parents should be (and I'm sure they are) very proud.
I remembered back to my graduation party. I tried my best to observe how things have changed in 17 years. Looking around, not much has. Both parties had crockpots full of meat, served on buns. There were potato chips, veggie dips, soda, water and beer. Both had tables set up outside, dozens of friends and family filtering in and out. Both parties had photo montages (although 17 years ago, they were analog).
The one thing that stood out? Today's had a chocolate fountain. Too cool.
So in honor of graduation and of going off to college, I'd love to offer the soon-to-be college students some collegiate advice. If you were sending a kid off to college, what would be one piece of advice you'd give s/he?
I don't know them well; we don't hang out besides family functions, and we don't text or call. Frankly I'm just too old to be cool anymore... at least in the eyes of high school seniors. I don't mean to make them sound bratty at all. They are wonderful young men, always polite and genuinely curious about what's going on in my life. They are bright, and I know they will flourish in college. You could see this in how they worked the party this evening. They made the rounds multiple times, and they even played with all the kids running around. Their parents should be (and I'm sure they are) very proud.
I remembered back to my graduation party. I tried my best to observe how things have changed in 17 years. Looking around, not much has. Both parties had crockpots full of meat, served on buns. There were potato chips, veggie dips, soda, water and beer. Both had tables set up outside, dozens of friends and family filtering in and out. Both parties had photo montages (although 17 years ago, they were analog).
The one thing that stood out? Today's had a chocolate fountain. Too cool.
So in honor of graduation and of going off to college, I'd love to offer the soon-to-be college students some collegiate advice. If you were sending a kid off to college, what would be one piece of advice you'd give s/he?
6.06.2013
Daddy Daycare
I had the pleasure of spending my entire day with Grayson!
The child has been under the weather for almost two weeks now, and after a few doctors appointments, some discussions with daycare, and a few days with relatives, we decided that Grayson needed to stay home. Since Stacy's job keeps her tied to her desk (and she had already taken time off earlier in the week), I worked from home today, and I'll do so tomorrow.
I certainly gained a lot of respect for child care professionals today; it took extra effort and planning to get any significant work done. Grayson ate up as much of my time as I'd allow. There were feedings during conference calls, and there were enough poopy diapers to make our trash noticeable.
What I recognized today, while bonding with the child, was that he changes every day. People... parents, have told me over the years that children change quickly, and that if you blink you could miss it. I believed them, but Now I know the.
G changes so much, and I don't get to see that often. But today, I got to witness it first hand. He crawled. He babbled. He whined. He reached for things. He was perfect in his own ways. I'm lucky to be blessed with some time with him. I'm glad that he is in my life, teaching me something new every day, especially when life gets in the way from you.
The child has been under the weather for almost two weeks now, and after a few doctors appointments, some discussions with daycare, and a few days with relatives, we decided that Grayson needed to stay home. Since Stacy's job keeps her tied to her desk (and she had already taken time off earlier in the week), I worked from home today, and I'll do so tomorrow.
I certainly gained a lot of respect for child care professionals today; it took extra effort and planning to get any significant work done. Grayson ate up as much of my time as I'd allow. There were feedings during conference calls, and there were enough poopy diapers to make our trash noticeable.
What I recognized today, while bonding with the child, was that he changes every day. People... parents, have told me over the years that children change quickly, and that if you blink you could miss it. I believed them, but Now I know the.
G changes so much, and I don't get to see that often. But today, I got to witness it first hand. He crawled. He babbled. He whined. He reached for things. He was perfect in his own ways. I'm lucky to be blessed with some time with him. I'm glad that he is in my life, teaching me something new every day, especially when life gets in the way from you.
6.05.2013
Torske
Once a year, the men of my church choir gather at a house of one of our members, and we participate in a Norwegian tradition known as torske. I'm not Norwegian (half of us aren't), so my understanding of torske is probably a caricature of the real thing... it is basically the blandest, whitest meal I've ever seen (cod and boiled potatoes) drowned in drawn butter with just a shot of aquavit to wash it down. Prior to the meal, we sing the Norwegian national anthem, "Ja Vie Elsker." Pardon the spelling if that is incorrect. After the meal, we each answer the question posed to the table.
A few years back, we were asked to talk about our fathers. Two years ago, it was our mothers. Last year it was our teachers. This year, we were asked to talk about our siblings. What a joy it was to share with a group of middle-aged to elderly men my thoughts about my two younger sisters. I have been blessed in my life with independent, intelligent, and individualistic sisters. Both sisters, unique in their own rights, have surprised me with their capacity to succeed.
The middle one is 120 pounds soaking wet, but studies jujitsu (she will kick your ass), and she demonstrates a willingness to care for and help people every day. She is an amazing step-mom, and one heck of a driver.
The youngest has always reached aspirations that seem impossible to a normal person. This world has always been too small for her. She is a jet-setter. She is a financial whiz, and she can hold an intelligent conversation with just about anybody on any given subject.
Both are courageous. Both are beautiful. Both are strong. Both aren't afraid to be honest or vulnerable. Both are stubborn. Both have a quick whit. Both are fabulous siblings.
I don't tell them this enough, but I'm proud to be their brother. I love them.
Bring on the torske!
A few years back, we were asked to talk about our fathers. Two years ago, it was our mothers. Last year it was our teachers. This year, we were asked to talk about our siblings. What a joy it was to share with a group of middle-aged to elderly men my thoughts about my two younger sisters. I have been blessed in my life with independent, intelligent, and individualistic sisters. Both sisters, unique in their own rights, have surprised me with their capacity to succeed.
The middle one is 120 pounds soaking wet, but studies jujitsu (she will kick your ass), and she demonstrates a willingness to care for and help people every day. She is an amazing step-mom, and one heck of a driver.
The youngest has always reached aspirations that seem impossible to a normal person. This world has always been too small for her. She is a jet-setter. She is a financial whiz, and she can hold an intelligent conversation with just about anybody on any given subject.
Both are courageous. Both are beautiful. Both are strong. Both aren't afraid to be honest or vulnerable. Both are stubborn. Both have a quick whit. Both are fabulous siblings.
I don't tell them this enough, but I'm proud to be their brother. I love them.
Bring on the torske!
6.04.2013
Anniversary Reflections
Two years ago today, I married the woman of my dreams and the mother of my Grayson.
Anniversaries are a time to reflect on what has passed, to remember the moments that defined the day. When I look back, I remember the beautiful weather. The sun was shining, and the air was warm. I remember driving to the ceremony in casual clothes, stopping at Jimmy John's for a quick bite of lunch. I remember seeing my father-in-law's '65 LeMans parked in front of the chapel, waxed and gleaming in light. I remember seeing my wife walk down the aisle trying her best not to cry. I remember the smiles on my friends and family. I don't remember a thing the pastor said to me that day, but I have it written down somewhere, so that's okay. I remember the drive over the 3rd Ave. bridge into downtown. I remember dancing with my wife, my sisters, my nephew. Most of all, I remember the love surrounding me; it was almost tangible that day, especially in the way I looked at my bride, and the way she looked at me.
When I reflect on what has passed in two years, I think about how both Stacy and I have changed jobs. I think about how our love had grown. I think about all the furniture we've bought and sold. (I think about moving a 275 lb. desk!) I think about friendships that have waxed and waned. I think about major family transitions: a sister getting married; one niece joining the family and another being born; retirements and graduations. Most of all, I think about the birth of our son, the miraculous expression of our love and the representation of our ever-growing future together. He is perfect, and he is joy. He is the best of me and the best of her. Every time I look at him, I see our wedding day and the promises made: promises of unconditional love; promise of courage and support in the face of adversity; the promise of forever.
On a day like today, on my anniversary, I love the fact that I get to say "I do" all over again. I'm a lucky man.
Anniversaries are a time to reflect on what has passed, to remember the moments that defined the day. When I look back, I remember the beautiful weather. The sun was shining, and the air was warm. I remember driving to the ceremony in casual clothes, stopping at Jimmy John's for a quick bite of lunch. I remember seeing my father-in-law's '65 LeMans parked in front of the chapel, waxed and gleaming in light. I remember seeing my wife walk down the aisle trying her best not to cry. I remember the smiles on my friends and family. I don't remember a thing the pastor said to me that day, but I have it written down somewhere, so that's okay. I remember the drive over the 3rd Ave. bridge into downtown. I remember dancing with my wife, my sisters, my nephew. Most of all, I remember the love surrounding me; it was almost tangible that day, especially in the way I looked at my bride, and the way she looked at me.
When I reflect on what has passed in two years, I think about how both Stacy and I have changed jobs. I think about how our love had grown. I think about all the furniture we've bought and sold. (I think about moving a 275 lb. desk!) I think about friendships that have waxed and waned. I think about major family transitions: a sister getting married; one niece joining the family and another being born; retirements and graduations. Most of all, I think about the birth of our son, the miraculous expression of our love and the representation of our ever-growing future together. He is perfect, and he is joy. He is the best of me and the best of her. Every time I look at him, I see our wedding day and the promises made: promises of unconditional love; promise of courage and support in the face of adversity; the promise of forever.
On a day like today, on my anniversary, I love the fact that I get to say "I do" all over again. I'm a lucky man.
6.03.2013
The Blowout
Turns out parenthood is messy! When I chose to become a father, I did so thinking I was fully informed. I assumed there would be some spit up; I was cognisant of the fact that Grayson would get into things like the doggy dishes, and I was certainly aware there would be poopy diapers.
I don't think anyone, though, could have amply prepared me for the blowout diaper. Mind you, I had heard rumors of such a thing, but I guess I never assumed they would be bad, or frequent, or that they would happen to my child.
Grayson has had diarrhea for the last 10 days (give or take). Before you freak out, we've taken him to the doctor, who diagnosed him with a virus and told us that he will be just fine. He isn't dehydrated; he doesn't have a bad fever. He just has the "trots," as Grandpa Oman would call them.
Boy does it trot. All the way up his back. He had one on Saturday that was almost up to his neck. Changing such a monstrosity is a two person gig. This is mainly because he squirms so much when you change his diaper these days that if you don't have one person holding him still, he will roll around in it like he's a hunting dog.
The first blowout is a semi-cute moment... something to cherish. The third is a bit annoying.
The 15th is cruel and unusual.
But all of it was my choice, and I'd choose it again every day. Twice on Mondays.
I don't think anyone, though, could have amply prepared me for the blowout diaper. Mind you, I had heard rumors of such a thing, but I guess I never assumed they would be bad, or frequent, or that they would happen to my child.
Grayson has had diarrhea for the last 10 days (give or take). Before you freak out, we've taken him to the doctor, who diagnosed him with a virus and told us that he will be just fine. He isn't dehydrated; he doesn't have a bad fever. He just has the "trots," as Grandpa Oman would call them.
Boy does it trot. All the way up his back. He had one on Saturday that was almost up to his neck. Changing such a monstrosity is a two person gig. This is mainly because he squirms so much when you change his diaper these days that if you don't have one person holding him still, he will roll around in it like he's a hunting dog.
The first blowout is a semi-cute moment... something to cherish. The third is a bit annoying.
The 15th is cruel and unusual.
But all of it was my choice, and I'd choose it again every day. Twice on Mondays.
6.02.2013
Perfect Weather
When I meet people from out of state, I'm often asked why I choose to live in Minnesota. I'm an adult, I could live anywhere in the world I want. Both of my sisters escaped to bigger cities.
My response to that question is today. We have 6 beautiful days a year (give or take), and today was one of them. Low to mid 70's, a light breeze, wispy clouds. It's warm in the sun and cool in the shade. I couldn't even feel the sunburn I was getting. We grilled twice.
Lunch-time grilling was a neighborhood affair. There is a couple who lives a few doors down; they have two young boys, and we've always been pretty friendly. Today was the first day that we've hung out for an extended period of time though. We each pulled our grills down the driveways near the street, cooked chicken, shrimp and hot dogs, and we ate in our front yards. We spent about 3 hours outside, eating, drinking, chatting. It was such a wonderful way to enjoy lunch, to enjoy the weather.
Dinner-time grilling was a family affair. Grandma and Auntie Grandma hadn't had enough Grayson time for the weekend, so they invited us over for grilled salmon. Even though we ate indoors, the windows were open, and nature was close to us. The evening breeze and great food made me drowsy. After dinner, we took turns holding Grayson and watching him play.
In between, I even managed to get some yard work done. I think I've staved off any city fines for at least another week.
There is rain in the forecast for the next few days. If we are lucky, we will get another beautiful day like this at least 5 more times this year... here's hoping they all fall on the weekends.
My response to that question is today. We have 6 beautiful days a year (give or take), and today was one of them. Low to mid 70's, a light breeze, wispy clouds. It's warm in the sun and cool in the shade. I couldn't even feel the sunburn I was getting. We grilled twice.
Lunch-time grilling was a neighborhood affair. There is a couple who lives a few doors down; they have two young boys, and we've always been pretty friendly. Today was the first day that we've hung out for an extended period of time though. We each pulled our grills down the driveways near the street, cooked chicken, shrimp and hot dogs, and we ate in our front yards. We spent about 3 hours outside, eating, drinking, chatting. It was such a wonderful way to enjoy lunch, to enjoy the weather.
Dinner-time grilling was a family affair. Grandma and Auntie Grandma hadn't had enough Grayson time for the weekend, so they invited us over for grilled salmon. Even though we ate indoors, the windows were open, and nature was close to us. The evening breeze and great food made me drowsy. After dinner, we took turns holding Grayson and watching him play.
In between, I even managed to get some yard work done. I think I've staved off any city fines for at least another week.
There is rain in the forecast for the next few days. If we are lucky, we will get another beautiful day like this at least 5 more times this year... here's hoping they all fall on the weekends.
6.01.2013
Goose Eggs
So today has been a great day. I am still not feeling 100%, but I'm managing with medicine. I got the lawn mowed today, and the family room vacuumed. Went out to dinner with the whole family.
Everything was going splendidly, although I was starting to fade a bit. Grayson was hamming it up. He was actually playing peek-a-boo with his blanket.
But then he started crawling toward a side table. His arm slipped, and his head came crashing into one of the table legs. It didn't seem like anything too horrible... until we looked closer at his eyebrow.
Grayson got his first goose egg. There is a raised, red, swollen bump over his left eye. This isn't his last bump or bruise. I hope they get easier to deal with as he gets older.
Everything was going splendidly, although I was starting to fade a bit. Grayson was hamming it up. He was actually playing peek-a-boo with his blanket.
But then he started crawling toward a side table. His arm slipped, and his head came crashing into one of the table legs. It didn't seem like anything too horrible... until we looked closer at his eyebrow.
Grayson got his first goose egg. There is a raised, red, swollen bump over his left eye. This isn't his last bump or bruise. I hope they get easier to deal with as he gets older.
Oops
So I manage to make it three while weeks without missing a day, but that streak is dead. Sorry folks.
I could blame it on being sick; that was part of it probably. I can't blame it on being busy. Even though my night was full, my day was wide open. I could blame it on having family in town, distracting me. But that would be sad. Any excuse would be sad.
I'm to blame. I had multiple opportunities to write yesterday, multiple moments when I chose to not write.
Sorry about that.
You'll get another entry tonight
I could blame it on being sick; that was part of it probably. I can't blame it on being busy. Even though my night was full, my day was wide open. I could blame it on having family in town, distracting me. But that would be sad. Any excuse would be sad.
I'm to blame. I had multiple opportunities to write yesterday, multiple moments when I chose to not write.
Sorry about that.
You'll get another entry tonight
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