Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Pictures
Here are just a few of my favorite pics from recently. You gotta love a garbage truck stealing the show at a toddler Easter egg hunt.
Not now, baby - daddy's a little sweaty
August 1999 - I was sure that I would die right there on the practice field. If you've ran sprints in triple-digit heat under shoulder pads and (what is infitely worse) a helmet then I've said enough. If you haven't then think Sweatin' to the Oldies on a skillet with your head stuck in a pot.
November 2000 - my lungs teetered on the verge of explosion and I could've sworn I was about to puke my heart up on the hardwood. I now truly understand why they call them "suicides" - I'll tell my grandchildren that I used to run them in under 30 seconds but seriously doubt my body will ever travel that fast again.
Nearly a decade later, twenty pounds heavier (and exceedingly lazier), my head hits the carpet, eyes close, and my suburban living room is gone. Gone is the carpet you've spilled countless sippy cups on, gone are the four walls bearing your crayola handiwork, gone is daddy to a place he hasn't been in quite a while.
Words can't adequately describe the place. We protect ourselves. We set limits on our physical activities to let us know when to stop. A little run shortens the breath and makes the side hurt a little. A big run does the same on a larger scale. Reach a certain point, and we're programmed to say "No! More activity is bad - I must stop!". And so we do. A good, ruthless coach pushes you to violate these limits about halfway through practice. The body protests, pulls back, screams - and at the pinnacle of its performance it finally reaches its true limit. There - right there - in the seconds following such a performance is a place. The body is gone. Weightless. The gym is gone. The coach is gone. And for a few seconds only, the mind goes to a place best described as spiritual while the body finds the strength to stand again.
The 2000 AISA State Runner-Up JCA Eagles would never let me live it down if I told them that Ring Around the Rosies sent me to that place. Granted, it was the tenth round of RATR (as I like to call it - I think it adds street cred). And, RATR did receive a little help from intense tummy flurberts and especially spinning around in circles. Still, the power forward in me is a little perturbed.
Now is not the time for shame, though. I've got to catch my breath quick because the two-year old girl is running circles around me. Literally.
November 2000 - my lungs teetered on the verge of explosion and I could've sworn I was about to puke my heart up on the hardwood. I now truly understand why they call them "suicides" - I'll tell my grandchildren that I used to run them in under 30 seconds but seriously doubt my body will ever travel that fast again.
Nearly a decade later, twenty pounds heavier (and exceedingly lazier), my head hits the carpet, eyes close, and my suburban living room is gone. Gone is the carpet you've spilled countless sippy cups on, gone are the four walls bearing your crayola handiwork, gone is daddy to a place he hasn't been in quite a while.
Words can't adequately describe the place. We protect ourselves. We set limits on our physical activities to let us know when to stop. A little run shortens the breath and makes the side hurt a little. A big run does the same on a larger scale. Reach a certain point, and we're programmed to say "No! More activity is bad - I must stop!". And so we do. A good, ruthless coach pushes you to violate these limits about halfway through practice. The body protests, pulls back, screams - and at the pinnacle of its performance it finally reaches its true limit. There - right there - in the seconds following such a performance is a place. The body is gone. Weightless. The gym is gone. The coach is gone. And for a few seconds only, the mind goes to a place best described as spiritual while the body finds the strength to stand again.
The 2000 AISA State Runner-Up JCA Eagles would never let me live it down if I told them that Ring Around the Rosies sent me to that place. Granted, it was the tenth round of RATR (as I like to call it - I think it adds street cred). And, RATR did receive a little help from intense tummy flurberts and especially spinning around in circles. Still, the power forward in me is a little perturbed.
Now is not the time for shame, though. I've got to catch my breath quick because the two-year old girl is running circles around me. Literally.
Story Time
Disclaimer: One note could not possibly capture all the nuances of an event such as story time. What you are about to read is like trying to experience Disneyworld by peeking through the fence.
Fast-forward to, oh lets say, the eighth book. I've stood up in a futile attempt to bring storytime to a close - you pat the ground beside you and say, "Sit down, Daddy." Pause. What in the... you're not even two! Ten minutes ago, you pooped in the tub. I can make you think there's a woodpecker in the kitchen by tapping on the table. The overwhelming majority of your vocabulary is a series of pointing, grunting, and whining, but you can pat the carpet and say "Sit down, Daddy" in perfect southern English?! Just making sure - we continue.
Animals - your favorite book. I turn the page, I ask you "What's that", and you butcher the names of 52 of God's creatures. Here we go! (with translations)
- What's that?
- Wa-urss. (walrus)
- What's that?
- Ohk Puss. (octopus)
- What's that?
- Pinginburd. (penguin bird)
- What's that?
- Cur baba do stark fur a lada COL STABA!!! (???)
Now would probably be the best time to explain (or rather, tell you what I've observed - there is no explanation) the animal names of one Mr. Taylor Whitman Gray. First of all, Brooke dominates the exercise. Combine that with Whit's shy nature, and you normally have to work to get him involved - otherwise he is perfectly fine with listening to his sister have all the fun. But once you do get him started, you are in for A TREAT. There are animals that he names with the most perfect anunciation that I have never in my life heard him speak of. I can only imagine the countless times he's listened intently and how he must've said the words over and over again in his mind. Other times, well, let's say he just tells us a little story of his own. Take "Cur baba do stark fur a lada col staba", for instance. Daddy had pointed to a pig. He wasn't babbling - I pointed and asked again with an identical response. Apparently, he had something to say about that pig, and I hope he tells me again someday. Ok, back to story time.
We've made it nearly three-quarters of the way through, and there's no sign of slowing.
- What's that?
- Effunt (elephant)
- What's that?
- A SAKE! (a snake)
- That's right! What's a snake say?
- SSSHSHSSHSS!!!
- What's that?
- ssurll (squirrel)
- What's that?
- russer! errerrerrrrrrr.... (rooster, and no hesitation with the sound)
Ok, skip a few pages... but I get caught. Now the questioning turns to me.
- Wassat Daddy?
- Uh... dinosaur!
- Disarr!
- And, what's that? (No, mommy - ssshhhh!)
- Wassat Daddy? (too late)
- Uh... lizard (flip page and pray)
- What's that?
- Wah lizzr go?
- Lizard's gone - what's that?
- Ont (want) lizzr Daddy. (flip page back)
- There's the lizard - say night-night lizard (flip page)
- What's that?
- Wah lizzr Daddy? Ont lizzr.
In retrospect, I can't even remember what I did to make her forget that lizard - I'd probably be pretty smart if I could remember half the things that have worked along the way, but I guess most the fun is in the trial and error. I do remember how she pitched a fit that would not be resolved until mommy agreed to swaddle her baby doll. I don't remember even seeing him after his pig definition - and he was sitting right in front of me. Just another blur of the past two years passed by.
Fast-forward to, oh lets say, the eighth book. I've stood up in a futile attempt to bring storytime to a close - you pat the ground beside you and say, "Sit down, Daddy." Pause. What in the... you're not even two! Ten minutes ago, you pooped in the tub. I can make you think there's a woodpecker in the kitchen by tapping on the table. The overwhelming majority of your vocabulary is a series of pointing, grunting, and whining, but you can pat the carpet and say "Sit down, Daddy" in perfect southern English?! Just making sure - we continue.
Animals - your favorite book. I turn the page, I ask you "What's that", and you butcher the names of 52 of God's creatures. Here we go! (with translations)
- What's that?
- Wa-urss. (walrus)
- What's that?
- Ohk Puss. (octopus)
- What's that?
- Pinginburd. (penguin bird)
- What's that?
- Cur baba do stark fur a lada COL STABA!!! (???)
Now would probably be the best time to explain (or rather, tell you what I've observed - there is no explanation) the animal names of one Mr. Taylor Whitman Gray. First of all, Brooke dominates the exercise. Combine that with Whit's shy nature, and you normally have to work to get him involved - otherwise he is perfectly fine with listening to his sister have all the fun. But once you do get him started, you are in for A TREAT. There are animals that he names with the most perfect anunciation that I have never in my life heard him speak of. I can only imagine the countless times he's listened intently and how he must've said the words over and over again in his mind. Other times, well, let's say he just tells us a little story of his own. Take "Cur baba do stark fur a lada col staba", for instance. Daddy had pointed to a pig. He wasn't babbling - I pointed and asked again with an identical response. Apparently, he had something to say about that pig, and I hope he tells me again someday. Ok, back to story time.
We've made it nearly three-quarters of the way through, and there's no sign of slowing.
- What's that?
- Effunt (elephant)
- What's that?
- A SAKE! (a snake)
- That's right! What's a snake say?
- SSSHSHSSHSS!!!
- What's that?
- ssurll (squirrel)
- What's that?
- russer! errerrerrrrrrr.... (rooster, and no hesitation with the sound)
Ok, skip a few pages... but I get caught. Now the questioning turns to me.
- Wassat Daddy?
- Uh... dinosaur!
- Disarr!
- And, what's that? (No, mommy - ssshhhh!)
- Wassat Daddy? (too late)
- Uh... lizard (flip page and pray)
- What's that?
- Wah lizzr go?
- Lizard's gone - what's that?
- Ont (want) lizzr Daddy. (flip page back)
- There's the lizard - say night-night lizard (flip page)
- What's that?
- Wah lizzr Daddy? Ont lizzr.
In retrospect, I can't even remember what I did to make her forget that lizard - I'd probably be pretty smart if I could remember half the things that have worked along the way, but I guess most the fun is in the trial and error. I do remember how she pitched a fit that would not be resolved until mommy agreed to swaddle her baby doll. I don't remember even seeing him after his pig definition - and he was sitting right in front of me. Just another blur of the past two years passed by.
Is that glue?
My word, son! Is that glue? No, no, I know its pizza sauce - I watched you slather it on with the back of your grimy paw. It just seems as though its undergone chemical bonding with the perpetual pool of snot you keep under your nose. By the way, you are the only guy I know who wipes his nose from ear to ear - do you think we could work on that? I do not recall putting any gel in your hair, and I'm fairly certain I just found a booger in your sideburns.
Anyway, I'm running out of ideas and paper towels quickly. We've gone through at least six, and your chubby cheeks are still nowhere in sight. I'm pretty sure Comet would do the trick, but I think I drew blood with the S.O.S. pad, so mommy's giving me the red light. I don't know why because she's the only reason we're still doing this after half an hour of torture. Daddy thinks you can just deal with it.
We're just gonna go through the same thing again tomorrow.
Anyway, I'm running out of ideas and paper towels quickly. We've gone through at least six, and your chubby cheeks are still nowhere in sight. I'm pretty sure Comet would do the trick, but I think I drew blood with the S.O.S. pad, so mommy's giving me the red light. I don't know why because she's the only reason we're still doing this after half an hour of torture. Daddy thinks you can just deal with it.
We're just gonna go through the same thing again tomorrow.
Request Denied - An Ode to My Daughter
Your request for cheese has been denied.
From the tufts of shredded colby jack in the folds of your shirt to the hills of the same scattered across your tray, I marvel that you seek to accumulate more, and yet I can plainly see you extend your chubby arm toward the bag and utter a command I now know to be "cheese". Your request for additional cheese has been denied.
Likewise, I regret to inform you that your request for "choklit nilk" was unsuccessful. It isn't because I don't want to forego eating my hot supper to arise once more, empty the contents of your sippy cup, and mix for you a serving of chocolatey goodness. No, my child, I have a burning drive to fulfill your heart's desire. The problem is that if I give you a cup of chocolate milk, then I will have do the same for your brother, and I don't think that will leave me enough time to clean your unmentionable out of the carpet, pick up the plethora of items that your brother threw down the stairs, eat a cold supper, convince the dog to eat all the cheese you've dropped, read you a story, and put you to bed before your mother's twitch becomes permanent. I've really had to watch her lately.
Even as I draft this official response, I perceive that you've begun to formulate your request for reconsideration. Your small features and vibrant eyes wholly captivate as you stare intently into my heart and plead so sweetly. You've carefully thought this through, I can tell, and no courtroom attorney ever poured as much raw emotion before the judge as you are now to me. Unfortunately, I can't understand a word you just said.
Request denied.
From the tufts of shredded colby jack in the folds of your shirt to the hills of the same scattered across your tray, I marvel that you seek to accumulate more, and yet I can plainly see you extend your chubby arm toward the bag and utter a command I now know to be "cheese". Your request for additional cheese has been denied.
Likewise, I regret to inform you that your request for "choklit nilk" was unsuccessful. It isn't because I don't want to forego eating my hot supper to arise once more, empty the contents of your sippy cup, and mix for you a serving of chocolatey goodness. No, my child, I have a burning drive to fulfill your heart's desire. The problem is that if I give you a cup of chocolate milk, then I will have do the same for your brother, and I don't think that will leave me enough time to clean your unmentionable out of the carpet, pick up the plethora of items that your brother threw down the stairs, eat a cold supper, convince the dog to eat all the cheese you've dropped, read you a story, and put you to bed before your mother's twitch becomes permanent. I've really had to watch her lately.
Even as I draft this official response, I perceive that you've begun to formulate your request for reconsideration. Your small features and vibrant eyes wholly captivate as you stare intently into my heart and plead so sweetly. You've carefully thought this through, I can tell, and no courtroom attorney ever poured as much raw emotion before the judge as you are now to me. Unfortunately, I can't understand a word you just said.
Request denied.
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