On weekdays, I wake up around 5:45. I don't leave for work until after 7:30, so I have ample time around the house in the morning. Even if I were to oversleep by an hour, I'd still be able to get to work on time without a problem. I have an alarm clock but I rarely set the alarm. I don't like being awakened by the alarm clock and I don't sleep well when I know the alarm is set. I spend the night checking the time every few minutes, ready to silence the alarm if the wake time is near. I own the clock because I don't like waking and not knowing what time it is. Even when the alarm isn't set, I probably check the time three or four times a night.
For a time this last winter I thought I'd trained my body to wake up precisely at 5:45. It didn't matter when I went to bed, at 5:45 I would inevitably roll over and check the time. This only happened on weekdays, on the weekend I slept later. What a machine I have become, I thought, somehow perceiving when it was 5:45. What were the clues my body used? What was so different about this time than, say, five minutes earlier or later? Finally, one morning the cat woke me at 5:40. As I lay in bed, I listened to the stillness of the house. Then, at exactly 5:45, the furnace kicked in. From the second floor, it was barely perceptible but I heard it. I'd forgotten that I'd finally gotten around to using the programmed feature of our thermostat. I'd set it up to drop the temp every night and raise it again in the morning, 5:45 on weekdays, 6:30 on the weekend. Apparently, I'd unknowingly set an alarm for myself. We'll see how things work as the outdoor temperatures warm up.
My youngest son sets his alarm every night. He sets the alarm time for 6:50, which is well before the 9:30 start of school. He's usually wrapped in a blanket when he joins me at the counter. This makes him harder to hold but we manage. By 6:50, I've had a chance to read the paper and eat breakfast. I leave the paper open to the comics and he and I read them and pick our favorites. After that, he'll often move to the couch, where he falls back to sleep. I then return to the paper and work on the crossword puzzle. This has become our ritual. I don't know if it will continue during summer break - I suspect it will.
This morning he showed up at 6:10. He said he made a point of waking up before the alarm because he didn't like how it felt when the alarm woke him. I wonder where he got that from.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
In Pursuit Of More Than Excellence
A couple of nights ago, N was working on a writing assignment. N likes most things about school but writing is his least favorite thing to do. He can be a bit of a perfectionist at times, particularly when it come to penmanship. Writing assignments, consequently, are often long, drawn-out affairs as each letter must be carefully crafted. Asking him to write four sentences about a book he read is like asking da Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa. It is an exhausting process, for everyone.
This night was particularly difficult. Beyond the normal complaints about the sheer amount of work, he was also having trouble finding the right words to express his opinion. On this account, I could certainly empathize. I tried to help him work through it, as did my wife, but our efforts only seemed to fuel his frustration. We left him alone and eventually he finished the task.
Yesterday afternoon I was checking his backpack and I came across the writing assignment. Across the top, his teacher had drawn a star and written the word "Excellent!". I complimented him on his acheivement and tried to make some sort of correlation between his hard work and a job well done. He looked at me and shrugged. He didn't think he'd done well at all. Here's the gist of our conversation on the topic:
Me: "Nice work! Looks like your teacher liked your report."
N: "Not really. I was worse than half the class."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
N: "Because she just wrote one word at the top."
Me: "Still, the one word was 'Excellent'."
N: "Yes, but sometimes she writes notes to kids, telling them what she liked about what they wrote."
Me: "Well, maybe she was too busy. She had a lot of these to grade."
N: "Yeah. Maybe she didn't even read it."
There's another writing assignment due next week. I can hardly wait.
This night was particularly difficult. Beyond the normal complaints about the sheer amount of work, he was also having trouble finding the right words to express his opinion. On this account, I could certainly empathize. I tried to help him work through it, as did my wife, but our efforts only seemed to fuel his frustration. We left him alone and eventually he finished the task.
Yesterday afternoon I was checking his backpack and I came across the writing assignment. Across the top, his teacher had drawn a star and written the word "Excellent!". I complimented him on his acheivement and tried to make some sort of correlation between his hard work and a job well done. He looked at me and shrugged. He didn't think he'd done well at all. Here's the gist of our conversation on the topic:
Me: "Nice work! Looks like your teacher liked your report."
N: "Not really. I was worse than half the class."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
N: "Because she just wrote one word at the top."
Me: "Still, the one word was 'Excellent'."
N: "Yes, but sometimes she writes notes to kids, telling them what she liked about what they wrote."
Me: "Well, maybe she was too busy. She had a lot of these to grade."
N: "Yeah. Maybe she didn't even read it."
There's another writing assignment due next week. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Dates
I was filling out some insurance forms recently and I needed the date that I started my current job. It took some digging, but I finally found it. I have a colleague who can rattle off his start date from memory. He can also tell you the start and end dates of his prior employment. I am not like him. I have limited space in my brain for dates and I reserve it for the big ones, like birthdays and anniversaries.
I don't tend to dwell in the past, so I like that birthdays and wedding anniversaries are usually celebrations of the present (little pun intended). The significance is in the time that has elapsed since the event, not the event itself. Birthdays are a celebration of an age attained, not a rememberance of the actual birth (although, that might put an interesting twist on some of the kid parties we've hosted). I guess, in a way, it is an affirmation of the event that started it all, an extension of the joy that was present then. I like all of this.
I have trouble figuring out what to do with anniversaries of events that were not joyous. It is almost as if they work in reverse. Instead of each passing year increasing the joy, each year can soften the pain, sometimes. When it's the anniversary of something ending, it's hard to stay in the present. In some ways, there is no present, just a larger gap, more distance.
Today is the anniversary of the death of my son. If I think about it, I can't help but find myself in the hospital, sitting with my wife. She held him as the doctor turned off the machines that were keeping him alive. It's been thirteen years, and I really don't want to be back in that room. But then, I don't really want to forget the last time I touched my son either.
I don't tend to dwell in the past, so I like that birthdays and wedding anniversaries are usually celebrations of the present (little pun intended). The significance is in the time that has elapsed since the event, not the event itself. Birthdays are a celebration of an age attained, not a rememberance of the actual birth (although, that might put an interesting twist on some of the kid parties we've hosted). I guess, in a way, it is an affirmation of the event that started it all, an extension of the joy that was present then. I like all of this.
I have trouble figuring out what to do with anniversaries of events that were not joyous. It is almost as if they work in reverse. Instead of each passing year increasing the joy, each year can soften the pain, sometimes. When it's the anniversary of something ending, it's hard to stay in the present. In some ways, there is no present, just a larger gap, more distance.
Today is the anniversary of the death of my son. If I think about it, I can't help but find myself in the hospital, sitting with my wife. She held him as the doctor turned off the machines that were keeping him alive. It's been thirteen years, and I really don't want to be back in that room. But then, I don't really want to forget the last time I touched my son either.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wooden Robot
Last summer we tried growing some tomatoes in pots along the fence in our backyard. I built a little bench to set the pots on to give them a little better shot at catching the sun and to keep them a little farther from anything at ground level that may wish to do them hard. The bench was built like most of my projects - spur-of-the-moment with no defined plans or materials. It was a rickety contraption but solid enough for our purposes. It nobly held our plants for the duration of the summer. When I finally removed the pots last fall, the whole thing collapsed in a heap. At some point during the course of the summer, the weight of the pots became integral to the stability of the system. I didn't think to much about it at the time. The bench had served its purpose. I hadn't expected it to last forever. I left the heap, figuring it may get resurrected next season.
Now that the snow has melted, the boys have begun spending more time in our yard. N, in particular, spends much of his afternoon around the swing set or under the trees, seemingly anywhere the ground is muddy. His explorations include rediscovering all the items that were left in the yard and buried for the winter.
A couple of days ago, he came inside holding an assortment of boards screwed together. I instantly recognized it as one of the ends of the bench - two legs connected by a couple of cross pieces. N held the piece like it was a prized trophy. He smiled and asked me, "Do you know what this is?" Before I could answer, he continued, "It's a set of robot arms, look." With that, he pushed one bench leg and pulled the other. The boards flex scissors-like. He reversed his actions, all the while watching the boards and glancing at me. "It's kind of like it's punching or something" he said.
I agreed that it did look a little bit like robot arms. As far as I was concerned, this was as good a use as any I could have dreamed up. If he wanted to play with the boards, it was fine with me. Let him have his fun, stretch his imagination. Go, play. Enjoy the robot arms. Everybody's happy.
Alas, life is never quite that simple. Very soon after he had been given the okay to use the robot arms, he returned.
N: "If we could attach one more board, this robot would be perfect."
Me: "I don't know bud, it's getting kind of late to start a project."
N: "Just one board! It'll be quick! I know exactly where it needs to go. Then it'll have a body. I can make a head out of paper later."
Me: "I think we should wait until tomorrow when we have more time. You've got school tomorrow."
N: "I've been waiting to do this since you built that wooden robot with B. That's basically my entire life!"
I barely remember building a wooden robot with B. It had to have been about five years ago. That would have made N around three years old. Even though he had never mentioned it before, apparently he'd been waiting for his turn. I relented, and we went downstairs to add the board.
As it turns out, an eight-year-old's opinion of where a board should be added doesn't always jibe with the basic laws of physics. He showed me where he wanted the board. I showed him why he might not want it there. Together, we set about on an alternate approach for a robot body. After about thirty minutes of pounding and sawing, the robot base was nearly complete. As I finished attaching the last board, N approached me.
N: "Dad, I think I need to apologize to you."
Me: "Apologize? Why?"
N: "I didn't think you would be spending this much time on this."
Me: "Bud, you don't need to apologize. We should be doing more of this. Besides, it was kind of fun."
N: "Still, when I'm grown up, I'm going to owe you something pretty cool."
We brought the robot upstairs. It's rickety, like everything I build, but he doesn't seem to care. He took it to his room and set it next to his bed that night. The next morning, he brought it down and set it on the counter while he ate breakfast. It's in the backyard now, defending our home against imagined adversaries.
I hope that one day my boys are fortunate enough to build wooden robots with their kids. Then they'll realize that it is I who owe them for a pretty cool experience.
Now that the snow has melted, the boys have begun spending more time in our yard. N, in particular, spends much of his afternoon around the swing set or under the trees, seemingly anywhere the ground is muddy. His explorations include rediscovering all the items that were left in the yard and buried for the winter.
A couple of days ago, he came inside holding an assortment of boards screwed together. I instantly recognized it as one of the ends of the bench - two legs connected by a couple of cross pieces. N held the piece like it was a prized trophy. He smiled and asked me, "Do you know what this is?" Before I could answer, he continued, "It's a set of robot arms, look." With that, he pushed one bench leg and pulled the other. The boards flex scissors-like. He reversed his actions, all the while watching the boards and glancing at me. "It's kind of like it's punching or something" he said.
I agreed that it did look a little bit like robot arms. As far as I was concerned, this was as good a use as any I could have dreamed up. If he wanted to play with the boards, it was fine with me. Let him have his fun, stretch his imagination. Go, play. Enjoy the robot arms. Everybody's happy.
Alas, life is never quite that simple. Very soon after he had been given the okay to use the robot arms, he returned.
N: "If we could attach one more board, this robot would be perfect."
Me: "I don't know bud, it's getting kind of late to start a project."
N: "Just one board! It'll be quick! I know exactly where it needs to go. Then it'll have a body. I can make a head out of paper later."
Me: "I think we should wait until tomorrow when we have more time. You've got school tomorrow."
N: "I've been waiting to do this since you built that wooden robot with B. That's basically my entire life!"
I barely remember building a wooden robot with B. It had to have been about five years ago. That would have made N around three years old. Even though he had never mentioned it before, apparently he'd been waiting for his turn. I relented, and we went downstairs to add the board.
As it turns out, an eight-year-old's opinion of where a board should be added doesn't always jibe with the basic laws of physics. He showed me where he wanted the board. I showed him why he might not want it there. Together, we set about on an alternate approach for a robot body. After about thirty minutes of pounding and sawing, the robot base was nearly complete. As I finished attaching the last board, N approached me.
N: "Dad, I think I need to apologize to you."
Me: "Apologize? Why?"
N: "I didn't think you would be spending this much time on this."
Me: "Bud, you don't need to apologize. We should be doing more of this. Besides, it was kind of fun."
N: "Still, when I'm grown up, I'm going to owe you something pretty cool."
We brought the robot upstairs. It's rickety, like everything I build, but he doesn't seem to care. He took it to his room and set it next to his bed that night. The next morning, he brought it down and set it on the counter while he ate breakfast. It's in the backyard now, defending our home against imagined adversaries.
I hope that one day my boys are fortunate enough to build wooden robots with their kids. Then they'll realize that it is I who owe them for a pretty cool experience.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday Morning
My youngest son wasn't feeling well Sunday morning so I stayed home with him as my wife and other son went to church. He worked on some crafts and then settled onto the couch in front of the television. I retreated to a different room with my guitar.
I didn't practice, I played. I played songs from my summer as a bible camp counselor. I played songs from college religious services and gatherings. I played old songs, some touching, some kind of corny. As I played, I remembered the times and people with whom I shared this music. It was a long time ago and I've lost track of most of these people. Still, it doesn't make those moments or the memories any less important. As we go along, people drift into and out of our lives. For some, the meeting is brief and circumstances pull us apart. For others, we are caught up in the same current and float together a bit longer.
So, I played. And I remembered. And I thanked God for the circumstances that brought these people and experiences into my life.
I didn't practice, I played. I played songs from my summer as a bible camp counselor. I played songs from college religious services and gatherings. I played old songs, some touching, some kind of corny. As I played, I remembered the times and people with whom I shared this music. It was a long time ago and I've lost track of most of these people. Still, it doesn't make those moments or the memories any less important. As we go along, people drift into and out of our lives. For some, the meeting is brief and circumstances pull us apart. For others, we are caught up in the same current and float together a bit longer.
So, I played. And I remembered. And I thanked God for the circumstances that brought these people and experiences into my life.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Yesterday's Bathroom Experience
I smelled it when I entered,
I saw the feet beneath the stall,
This noxious, putrid flatus,
Who was this guy? What did he eat?
What caused such stinky flatulence,
As I stood there at the urinal,
I glimpsed a clean-cut college boy,
I hurried to the sink and washed,
Before another person showed,
And it took my breath away.
It really was unpleasant,
Worse than any other day.
The monster who expelled,
This ugliness I smelled.
The questions filled my mind.
To spurt from his behind?
I heard a telling flush.
Who slipped out in a rush.
Intent to do the same.
And I got all the blame.
A Fat Man With A Sore Finger
My left hand has been bothering me for a couple weeks now. If it doesn't improve soon, I'm going to have to lose some weight. A sore hand and a few extra pounds around the midsection may not seem related, but I assure you, they are. The pain in my hand seems to emanate from the middle of my ring finger. There is one place in particular that hurts when pressed. That part of my finger is also slightly swelled. Usually, just the finger hurts. Sometimes, my whole hand feels a little sore. A couple of times I felt some discomfort from my fingers to my elbow.
I can't really tell if things have gotten better over the last couple of weeks. I guess it probably hurts a little less - but it was never real severe. I'v noticed that I've begun compensating for the injury - when I grab a door handle with my left hand, I only use my thumb, index and middle finger. Gripping is what causes the most pain, so I try not involve my ring finger if possible. It hurts when I play the guitar, but not so much that I've stopped playing.
I don't recall any recent trauma to my hand. My left hand has ached periodically over the last few years but never in a concentrated location like now. If you read an older post called Pajama Man you may recall how I first injured my hand.
When I first noticed my hand hurting, I whined a lot. The unexpected twinge of pain when doing ordinary tasks would elicit a gasp. I don't gasp so much anymore, partly because the twinge isn't as strong and it's not unexpected. I mostly don't complain about my hand because when I do, my wife threatens to schedule an appointment with our doctor. I can't visit the doctor right now.
I like my doctor, I really do. She was my wife's doctor first. I had been going to a different clinic. I only saw a doctor when I was sick. I chose the clinic because it was across the street from an apartment where I was living when I got sick once. There was a doctor who was technically "my doctor", but I just saw whoever was handy. Usually, I saw this pudgy guy that smelled vaguely of cigarettes. He was the kind of doctor that I think many guys appreciate. If you went in with a problem, he focused on the problem and didn't stray into any other issues about your health in general. I liked that I always felt that I was in better shape than him.
I am not in better shape than my current doctor. And she is much more concerned about my overall health than the last guy. I was last to see her a couple of years ago (it seems much more recent). At the time, I thought I was in pretty good shape. I'd been eating well, exercising regularly, had dropped a few pounds. The visit went okay, but she encouraged me to lose some more weight. I trust her opinion and I do believe she is looking out for my best interests. Because of my family history of heart disease, she is particulary wary of belly fat. I'm not crazy about it either, so we're in agreement there. After the appointment, I did lose a little weight. And then I found it again, along with some more. If I went in to see her now, the finger would probably merit a referral but my extra pounds would be the primary discussion.
So, you see, before I can see my doctor about my finger, I need to lose weight.
I can't really tell if things have gotten better over the last couple of weeks. I guess it probably hurts a little less - but it was never real severe. I'v noticed that I've begun compensating for the injury - when I grab a door handle with my left hand, I only use my thumb, index and middle finger. Gripping is what causes the most pain, so I try not involve my ring finger if possible. It hurts when I play the guitar, but not so much that I've stopped playing.
I don't recall any recent trauma to my hand. My left hand has ached periodically over the last few years but never in a concentrated location like now. If you read an older post called Pajama Man you may recall how I first injured my hand.
When I first noticed my hand hurting, I whined a lot. The unexpected twinge of pain when doing ordinary tasks would elicit a gasp. I don't gasp so much anymore, partly because the twinge isn't as strong and it's not unexpected. I mostly don't complain about my hand because when I do, my wife threatens to schedule an appointment with our doctor. I can't visit the doctor right now.
I like my doctor, I really do. She was my wife's doctor first. I had been going to a different clinic. I only saw a doctor when I was sick. I chose the clinic because it was across the street from an apartment where I was living when I got sick once. There was a doctor who was technically "my doctor", but I just saw whoever was handy. Usually, I saw this pudgy guy that smelled vaguely of cigarettes. He was the kind of doctor that I think many guys appreciate. If you went in with a problem, he focused on the problem and didn't stray into any other issues about your health in general. I liked that I always felt that I was in better shape than him.
I am not in better shape than my current doctor. And she is much more concerned about my overall health than the last guy. I was last to see her a couple of years ago (it seems much more recent). At the time, I thought I was in pretty good shape. I'd been eating well, exercising regularly, had dropped a few pounds. The visit went okay, but she encouraged me to lose some more weight. I trust her opinion and I do believe she is looking out for my best interests. Because of my family history of heart disease, she is particulary wary of belly fat. I'm not crazy about it either, so we're in agreement there. After the appointment, I did lose a little weight. And then I found it again, along with some more. If I went in to see her now, the finger would probably merit a referral but my extra pounds would be the primary discussion.
So, you see, before I can see my doctor about my finger, I need to lose weight.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Adult Ed.
Last Sunday I found myself at a Bible study. Our church has two services on Sunday morning. Between the services, there is an hour for Sunday School and Adult Education. The Adult Education slot is a bit of a mixed bag, sometimes it's a Bible Study, sometimes there's a speaker brought in. Since the boys are in Sunday School, we need to hang around during this time period. Even so, I attend Adult Ed. sporadically, mostly dependent upon whether I can find anyone who wants to go to the coffee shop across the street or not. On Sunday, my wife was helping with Sunday School and my normal coffee cohorts had already shuffled into the meeting room so I went in as well.
The Bible Study was on Genesis, the serpent, the fruit, the banishment from Eden. I like our pastor and the way he presents topics. Everything is very cerebral. He discussed some of the ways the text had been interpreted over time and how some of these differences can be seen in the various strains of Protestantism today. I found the lecture interesting and I felt like I learned something. I was educated. I would have been happy if we could have left it at that.
Sadly, we did not leave it at that. The last portion of the meeting involved an activity where we broke into two groups. I really don't care for this sort of thing. I tend to say as little as possible, not out of shyness but because I'm not prepared to speak on the topic. Give me a few days to cogitate and I'll get back to you.
Some people don't need this extra time. We had one person in our group who spoke eloquently and had some interesting points to make. Alas, she was the exception. Most blurted out the sort of responses I remember from Sunday School ("When in doubt, answer 'Jesus' or 'because God loves us'"). I mostly kept my mouth shut, but inside I was feeling a tad ornery. We were supposed to be answering a set of questions based on a set of verses that the pastor read before each question. The pat Sunday School answers weren't supported by the specific verses being read but nobody seemed to care. In my head, I was arguing these points. It's easiest to win an argument when you keep it to yourself.
The deceptive nature of the serpent kept coming up, but I was having trouble finding any deception. From the verses that were read, everything the serpent said seemed to be true. Yes, the serpent was tempting them, trying to get them to do something against God's wishes. But did the serpent lie? I don't think so and I believe the story is much more powerful because of this. If the serpent had been lying, then it would be easy to shift the blame to him, "He told me I would get all these wonderful things. He made it impossible to resist." Instead, the serpent pretty accurately described the package that came with eating the fruit.
This is why I need a few days to ponder things before breaking into groups. On Sunday, I couldn't see the deception. Today I see that the deception isn't in the description of what the fruit would bring, it's in the assertion that these things were worth disobeying God. Okay people, let's put our chairs in a circle, I'm ready. What's that? You'd rather get coffee? That sounds good, too.
The Bible Study was on Genesis, the serpent, the fruit, the banishment from Eden. I like our pastor and the way he presents topics. Everything is very cerebral. He discussed some of the ways the text had been interpreted over time and how some of these differences can be seen in the various strains of Protestantism today. I found the lecture interesting and I felt like I learned something. I was educated. I would have been happy if we could have left it at that.
Sadly, we did not leave it at that. The last portion of the meeting involved an activity where we broke into two groups. I really don't care for this sort of thing. I tend to say as little as possible, not out of shyness but because I'm not prepared to speak on the topic. Give me a few days to cogitate and I'll get back to you.
Some people don't need this extra time. We had one person in our group who spoke eloquently and had some interesting points to make. Alas, she was the exception. Most blurted out the sort of responses I remember from Sunday School ("When in doubt, answer 'Jesus' or 'because God loves us'"). I mostly kept my mouth shut, but inside I was feeling a tad ornery. We were supposed to be answering a set of questions based on a set of verses that the pastor read before each question. The pat Sunday School answers weren't supported by the specific verses being read but nobody seemed to care. In my head, I was arguing these points. It's easiest to win an argument when you keep it to yourself.
The deceptive nature of the serpent kept coming up, but I was having trouble finding any deception. From the verses that were read, everything the serpent said seemed to be true. Yes, the serpent was tempting them, trying to get them to do something against God's wishes. But did the serpent lie? I don't think so and I believe the story is much more powerful because of this. If the serpent had been lying, then it would be easy to shift the blame to him, "He told me I would get all these wonderful things. He made it impossible to resist." Instead, the serpent pretty accurately described the package that came with eating the fruit.
This is why I need a few days to ponder things before breaking into groups. On Sunday, I couldn't see the deception. Today I see that the deception isn't in the description of what the fruit would bring, it's in the assertion that these things were worth disobeying God. Okay people, let's put our chairs in a circle, I'm ready. What's that? You'd rather get coffee? That sounds good, too.
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