This is the Hard Part

There is nothing like being a parent to make you feel like you might amount to something in this life. And nothing like the same condition to make you wonder if you will ever live up to the promise shining in the eyes of your child. 

This is the hard part. Overcoming the limitations of yourself. Overpowering the weaknesses in your character. Learning that love is more important than ego. 

Trying not to be swallowed up by the black hole of worthlessness that lurks in the bottom of an insecure soul. 

This is the hard part. Staring in shock at that human bent on the mirror and realizing how great the task that lies before it, that of being a better person. 

Better, for the sake of love: the imperative of life. 

Cloud Life

"Sometimes the clouds don't even look real."

She said it with a mix of wonder and disbelief, one that seems peculiar to children. The statement hung in the air while I considered my answer. The remark had come out of nowhere. I looked up from the road, through the windshield, peering up at the luminous billows perched seemingly overhead. The cloud-mountains marched off in all directions in a radiant matrix. The sky expanded before my eyes.

She was right, I knew.The proof was there, in all its divinely white glory limned out against a blue so beautiful it was to make one weep. Even with the near horizon of trees and man-made distractions the sky seemed like it was about to overwhelm our immediate surroundings. The edges of the clouds were so white, so sharp in places one could not shake the impression they had been painted on.The light in those edges could make one lose ones' bearings.

"They look like paint!" Another declaration from the back seat.

I felt weightless. The car could have been floating, hovering, swirling up and into those unreal clouds. I felt dizzy at her words. Everything seemed unreal, lost on the contemplation of those clouds. My heart contracted around the realization that we, my daughter and I, were gifted only so many moments together. Moments that are precious even when they seem contrived or unlikely. They were hard to comprehend, sometimes, in the mad chatter and hum of life. But occasionally the moments spring forth, luminous and true, like cloud-mountains in an impossible sky. I swallowed my adult doubts so I could answer.

"You're right, sweet pea. They do look like paint." In the rear view mirror, I could see her watching me. I smiled. "They may not look real, but they are. And they are beautiful."

She smiled, and looked out the window. I heard her singing a few bars of a kid's song I did not recognize. I smiled, too, and felt the gentle bump as the car came back down to earth. The sun dappled the ground as it shone between the clouds, lighting up our real life.

Sunday Meditation #13: A Mind Divided in the Land of the Free

A day such as this gorgeous Saturday in January begs for communion with the breeze and sunlight.  The temperatures nudging 60 degrees and sunny, feeling more like spring.  My daughter and I, feeling much like the cardinals frolicking beyond my kitchen window, decide on a trip to the lake.  I grab my film camera with trusty black and white, and we head to the lake.

Parked the car by the boat ramp.  Dogs, people abound, and we delight in the canines gamboling about on the pathways.  My daughter keeps up a cheery banter, expansive as young children tend to be when they brim with energy and have their innocence about them.  This is as it should be.

Me, the adult, I am not so lucky.  The walk started off well.  We ambled slowly to take in the fresh air with no agenda.  Geese and gulls on the lake, along with a small flotilla of waterfowl which I could not identify.  I speculated they might be scoters or buffleheads, the sounding out of which provoked a fit of giggles in her.

The walk resumed.  Conversation, and then a small cloud of distraction dimmed the light. I abruptly fixated on a troubling observation, set free from my subconscious; the statement framed itself in my mind thusly:

In America as I know it, I have never seen so many espouse the idea of independent thinking while at the same time so eager to join groups, and be so chauvinistic about their affiliations.

This rumination was sparked by the sheer number of people I saw wearing clothing or accessories on which one cannot fail to notice all sorts of logos, brands, symbols, and statements which presumably signify the allegiances of the wearer.  From the brand of water one drinks to the American flag, from which sports team one follows to what corporate clothing chain at which one prefers to shop, I was depressed by the widespread group think I saw emblazoned on almost everyone.

Never having been a "joiner", and never having felt it important to be a walking advertisement for a brand, I have encountered everything from polite puzzlement to outright hostility from others when discussing this subject.  As if by choosing not to engage in the cognitive dissonance of declaring my individuality by wearing/buying/driving/eating the same clothes/goods/car/fast food that thousands of others do, I am an alien, an auslander, a non-consumer.  In this culture, consumerism equates with normal.

And I am not normal, I suppose.  For pete's sake, real football, i.e. soccer, is my favorite sport.  In many area of this country, that is almost un-American in the minds of some.

So there I was, out for a walk with my beautiful daughter on a lovely sunny day, and all wrapped up in uneasiness about my 'square peg, round hole' self-image.  I felt discombobulated.  On a day such as this, being divided about myself should have never occurred. In my mind's eye, I saw the transformation from human to sheep in progress.  I sighed.

As is very often the case, it was the unintentional ministrations of my daughter that pulled me out of my funk.  Her laughter and cheerfulness, to be exact.  She was asking me questions, and making observations about the geese and the dogs and the rocks on the water's edge.  She giggled and held my hand.  She spoke to me of many things that matter to the mind and heart of a child.  She made jokes, and laughed.

We rounded the east end of the lake.  The sun began dipping behind the clouds, slow strobes of white gold light painting the dry grass in the meadow and her cherubic countenance.  It was then I took a few deep breaths to fill my lungs with the cool air wafting across the water.  I held them. My mind reset itself as I watched her make her way down the berm of rocks alongside the path.  I shook off the funk.

I knew clearly that to be the best father I can be for my daughter, I must honor my true self.  I may always be a square peg, but that peg is a worthy soul that is deserving of respect...especially from myself.  I meditated on that as we returned to the car, watching my daughter and stitching my mind back together.

Little Mirrors, Big Reflections

September 13, 2011, 8:20 p.m.  Home.  Drinking tea and thinking.

Living alone, as I do now, has not been easy.  It is easier than it was when I first was thrown into it, yes, but some days it grates.  No, not grates.  That isn't quite the word I sought.  Let me rephrase it:  Some days, it exhausts.  It wears down.  Today was like that.  The weariness started, as it often does, at work.  One too many repetitive questions over things I had considered settled, another iteration of not being allowed to do my job without undue interference.  Sparing the details, it is difficult to manage when the second guessing and redirection starts.

Anyway.  That is not exactly the topic at hand.

I left work feeling quite drained, a physical state that induces in me a tendency to ponder.  True to form, the wheels in my head were turning almost as fast as the wheels on the car taking me home.  I considered what I do, and my reactions to things, and how I ended up where I am in life.  And I wondered how much was fated and how much would be different had I just paid more attention and stood up for myself more often.

I thought about this, because I wondered about the incredible creature who is my daughter, and what she will be like when she gets older and has to make increasingly difficult choices in her life.  Choices that will have material effects on the person she will become and the life she will lead.  This led me to saying out loud to myself "I hope she doesn't turn out like me".

The hardness of the truth in that whopper was matched only by its utter absurdity.  I then laughed at myself, because why on earth would I say such a thing?  More importantly, why would I believe such a thing?

The truth of it is, I do hope that my daughter doesn't turn out like me.  I don't want her held in thrall to a sometimes crippling lack of self-confidence, or gripped by the sudden bouts of social awkwardness that occasionally sink their claws in to me.  I hope she doesn't fail at standing up for herself, as much as I have on some occasions in the past.

I don't want her to be steamrolled by doubt.

I know by objective measures my life and the way I live it isn't so bad.  My sense of self is in much better shape than it has been in a long time.  I hope I am being successful at showing my daughter how to be strong, how to be balanced in life.  I can't say I'm perfect, but I do hope I'm good.

That way, maybe my daughter will grow up to be better than me.  I have all confidence in her...but it's me that still has things to learn, too.

Living In The Synapse

An odd phenomenon here on the People's Republic of Gumbolia.  I had approached the computer with vigor and purpose, certain I had a gem of story to tell, and when I sat down to write it, it disappeared.  This pleases me not.  I felt no need to reach for a notebook, because I was convinced the story would make it to the page.

I was wrong.  I should have known better.

This happens to me on a regular basis, that I have a great idea, only to have it vanish.  Well, who knows if it was great, if I can't write it down for all to see.  Not to worry, I suppose.  It's Saturday, the weekend is in full swing.  Perhaps I'll live a little...then come back to tell the tale.

The Tearing Of The Bagels

Friday morning is bagel time with my daughter.  The ritual began soon after she was big enough to toddle.  She was once enthusiastic, even demanding, when it was still fresh and new to her.  Lately, she likes to go, but she often seems noncommittal.

Me, I don't want to give it up yet.  The capstone to my week, and my girl she is growing swiftly.

One aspect that took root early on was that the plain bagel she always requested had to be rendered into smaller bits, to fit her wee mouth.  It was done out of necessity when she was much smaller.  At first I had to cut the bagel into pieces, she insisted, and they had to be wedge shaped.  She would use them as tiny shovels to scoop cream cheese out of the container and into her mouth.  Later, I convinced her that tearing the bagel into bite-sized pieces was better (have you ever tried to saw apart a chewy bagel with a bendy plastic knife? Tedious and tiresome), and much to my delight she agreed.  So for the longest time I would tear the bagel into bites, and she would eat.

As with many of these things we do for our children because they can't do for themselves, there comes a time when we grow tired of performing these tasks.  That time usually occurs about the time the kids can manage these things for themselves.  Seat belt fastening and bagel tearing, yeah, I've hit limit.

So it was last Friday at the bagel shop.  Bagels arrived at the table and as usual before I could sink teeth into my hot, crispy, fresh bagel, Her Royal Cuteness asked me to tear up the bagel.  I was annoyed, more so than the situation warranted.  But I complied as I always do.  I did wonder when she was going to start doing this for herself.

I watched her as she ate.  She seemed content, scooping cream cheese like a boss, and pushing the fragments of the now sundered bagel around the napkin on the table.  She didn't eat that much.  I polished off my bagel and wondered at this progeny of mine, and why it has to be my hands that tear the bagel.

It became clear to me, when she looked up at me with those stained glass eyes of hers and a small grin on her face.  This thing we have, the trip we take every Friday morning for the ritual "Tearing Of The Bagel"...maybe it matters to her.  Maybe it isn't so much that she doesn't want to do it herself.  Maybe she thinks this time we share together is incomplete if Daddy doesn't make the big things small.  Because that's what daddies do.  They help make the big things small for their precious ones, and that is as it should be.  I look on that angel face and believe it to be true.

I wish I could tell her, explain so that she may understand, that I may make the big things small for her...but by her presence sharing this ritual, I am a bigger man.

Fearless Leader

Last Saturday, the Wee Lass and I were enjoying a stroll through a favorite park, down by the Patapsco River.  We had reversed course, as Her Royal Cuteness had declared, loudly, that she needed to void the royal bladder.  Well, what she said was "I gotta go potty, Daddy!", but you get the idea.

As we hoofed down the path on the way to the loo,  she announced that she was the leader, and that she should be in front.  So she increased her pace.  She looked over her shoulder to see how close I was getting.  When she saw me gaining on her, she knitted her brow, looked at me and quipped:

"I should be the leader, 'cause I'm a girl!"

She then turned her head forward and took off down the path, leaving me with jaw agape.

I had no ready reply or refutation.  Her logic was inescapable, and my only response was to grin and try to keep up with Fearless Leader.

There May Be No Crying In Baseball, but There Sure Is A Lot of Cursing

TIME: Approximately 4:30, on a Sunday afternoon in May.

PLACE: Casa Del Gumbo, the living room.  Beneath our feet, a bare hardwood floor (Remember that; it matters later in the story).


CAST:  Wee Lass and yours truly.  I'm shod in a pair of slightly worn Dearfoams slippers. (Also remember that; it too becomes important).

We had been home from our road trip about an hour, and the darlin' daughter was of a mind to throw down on some Wii sports, an activity I was (at first) of my own mind to avoid.  She wanted to play some baseball, which held little appeal for me as I was 1) Tired and 2) Still irked I hadn't mastered the art of the swing with the controller.  At first, I said no.

She booted up the sports, and decided to play baseball against the machine.  Watching her, I was surprised and delighted to note that she was actually getting good (digital) contact on the (digital) ball.  She asked me again to play.  A few flashes of those baby blues, and I relented.

So there I was, crouched in front of the TV, feeling a little foolish trying to get the bat to hang right by fidgeting with the controller, waving it back and forth to get the haft of the thing out of my avatar's head.  Wee Lass is off to the side waiting to throw the first pitch, which she does with more enthusiasm than form.

As is my habit, I swung at the pitch.  I always do, it's a reflex.  But remember I said I was standing on a hardwood floor?  Wearing slightly worn Dearfoam slippers?

Well, apparently Dearfoams has discovered a new material for slipper bottoms.  One that has almost zero coefficient of friction.  I had swung at that pitch pretty hard, and the momentum of the swing combined with the lack of grip on the floor caused my feet to slide completely out from underneath me.  I crashed down to the floor hard, like the proverbial ton of bricks.  I landed on my right side, bruising my hip, skinning my knee and bruising my upper right arm in the process.

That s**t hurt.

So I'm laying there on the floor in a haze of pain, trying not to curse.  It was then I heard two things.  First, the chirpy little Wii stadium announcer saying in a cheerful voice "You're OUT!"

Second, laughter.  That's right.  LAUGHTER.  I look up at my precious daughter, the apple o' my eye, light o' my life...and she's laughing at me and hopping up and down in uncontained glee. She looks right at me and says:

"DADDY! DADDY! I got you! I got you!  ON A 71 MILE-PER-HOUR FASTBALL!!!"

Gee, thanks, kiddo.  Now, could you please call the paramedics?

Baseball Been Berry Berry Good To Me

Tonight, I went to a baseball game for the first time in years.  It was in the company of my darling Wee Lass and her mother.  The featured match up was the Bowie Baysox (a double-A farm team for the Baltimore Orioles) versus the Akron Aeros. Her Royal Cuteness had received a free ticket for participation in a reading excellence program at her school.

I lost interest in baseball back during the '96 ALCS Playoffs, when the hated Yankees beat the O's (damn that kid and his interference!) and that sort of broke my (admittedly) lukewarm sports fan heart.  The Wee Lass really wanted to go to this game, and who was I to say no?  We snagged two more tickets and made an evening of it.  Good times were had by all.

It was minor league, and I was prepared to be underwhelmed, but something wonderful happened.  I found myself explaining to Wee Lass how the game worked, the meaning of 'bunt', and how to steal a base.  No one will ever confuse me with an expert on baseball, but it felt good to explain things to someone curious to learn.  I felt as if I actually knew something.  I relaxed into the Now.

We chatted, we goofed off, we laughed.  Things felt right...I can only describe the time with my daughter as contentment.   This is a rare state even in the best of times.  There were no corn fields from which the ghosts or spirits would amble, to teach me a life lesson.  In its own humble way, however, it was a field of dreams.

Ad Hoc Industries, LLC

Caleb Stine has a fine song called "I Wasn't Built For A Life Like This", off of the album of the same name.  It's sad, but beautiful, and it just about hit my frame of mind tonight.  It knocked me off my pins, what with the great weather and the gainful employment I have been experiencing.  So it was disorienting to find myself watering the flowers on the porch, shoulders slumping, and asking myself "What's wrong with this picture?".

A puzzle, really. There was no obvious reason for melancholy.  I was home from work, safe and dry, with a full belly to boot.  The cool quiet evening was just the thing for a tired mind.  But...

There is a hanging basket on my porch, the plant it contains is surely dead.  The shriveled blossoms hang limp over the sides and looking uncomfortably like hair.  It used to be a pansy.  It is dead because I haven't watered it in about two weeks.  I'm slightly uneasy about that, but it didn't get watered because a robin built a nest in the pot and promptly laid four eggs in it.  I know that because I peeked in it once when the mother bird was absent.

Fatigue surely played a role here.  Maybe it was the faint music on the air, too.  I stood and watered the flowers, peering at the bird perched on her nest when something coalesced out of the air and wrapped my heart in a faint, cool hug.

Like that bird nest suddenly appearing, things in my life have this tendency to take me by surprise.  And this past year, especially this past winter and now spring, feels like it has been full of surprises (some good, some bad).  The net result is frequent change of course, reconsideration of options, sudden outbursts of epithets.  The daily fabric of existence gets woven out of living "on the fly", and I've never been too good at living an ad hoc life.

Or maybe its all been ad hoc to this point, and I've been laboring under the misconception that there was a plan, an order to the unfolding of my life.

I'm rambling now, aren't I?  Is this now ad hoc, in and of itself?  Should I cease and desist on this idea of an order to everything, all the time and embrace my inner Rube Goldberg?

It makes me wonder if I was built for a life like this. If not, I need to rebuild or reconfigure.  But how?

Irish Gumbo's Handy Breakfast Tips: Edition the First

I know we all need a little eye opener in the mornings many days, but here's a little tip for you:

When sprinkling a favorite spice on one's breakfast cereal and bananas, make sure that spice is cinnamon and not cayenne pepper.  Otherwise, that may be more 'zing' than one is looking for to jump start the day.

Just sayin'.

The Man, Part II

Today in the midst of activities without agenda, I realized that I may be doomed to a life of unprofitability, and therefore, uselessness.

This flash of insight burst upon me as my daughter and I sat on a small pile of old railroad ties, contentedly munching on crackers while taking a break from an impromptu photo safari.  We had been outdoors for about an hour, and we both needed to rest a bit.  I was loading film into my new favorite camera and feeling relaxed for the first time this past week, lost in the pleasure of simply existing with in my skin, and in the company of the Wee Lass.

The thought came to me that what fills me with contentedness, centers me and grounds me are primarily creative endeavors, some without program or timetable.  If these can be engaged in the presence of those whom I love, the return is even greater.  The feeling of wholeness is amplified, bringing life to my life.

Within the context of a culture that values logic and speed and efficiency and by extension usefulness (i.e. that which can increase profit), however, I am at a distinct disadvantage.  Logic and speed and efficiency have their place, but as prime attributes they define a way of life that is swiftly diverging from the path I want to follow.  They are no substitute for beauty and thoughtful consideration and unfettered joy.

I let none of this show when looking at my daughter.  I kept it out of my voice as we talked about the pictures we were taking, the train tracks, the old buildings with their graffiti, the quiet flow of the river below us.  She was excited that I was letting her take pictures with my cameras (and the sight of her walking cheerfully along with my digital camera slung around her neck was priceless); I was excited that we could share a slow Saturday afternoon, doing something we like with nary a clock or calculator in sight.  Instead, I felt a fierce hope well up inside me that I would be able to open her eyes to possibility, to beauty, and to follow her heart in a world that too often seems bent on breaking it.

She took a picture of me today, a pretty good one.  I'm standing on the bridge over the river (how symbolic!) and I'm smiling, really smiling, which I don't often do these days.  I like to think she caught a glimpse of the true me: a beautifully useless man who loved her more than anything.

The Man

Twice this week I experienced defining moments, for what it means to be a man.  Quiet moments, but powerful.

The first moment I'll not dissect in detail, but it was related to the Me that plays the part of a career man.  In the one-act play that transpired,  I was disappointed to realize that I may not be the Man that so many others seem to want me to be.  This realization also made me sad and nervous.

The second moment was related to the Me that is blessed to be the father of his amazing Wee Lass.  The erstwhile sarariman that I am is blessed to have the honor of her company this weekend, and with just a few hours in her presence did wonders for my sagging self image.

She beat me badly at Wii bowling tonight, scoring five strikes (including three in a row), and when I expressed mock frustration at my terrible form, Her Royal Cuteness said offhandedly, "Don't worry, just go with the flow."  She was looking at me with those rose window eyes when she said it, and we both started laughing.

These words cannot adequately convey how good the sound of her laughing made me feel.  Right then, right there, I needed no more than to exist in that moment...and for the Now, I felt like I knew the Man I was supposed to be.

What the Princess Said to the Captain

Sunday afternoon.  It's cold, lots of snow still on the ground, but the sun is out, finally.  Perfect time for Wee Lass and the Captain to log some outdoor time after being cooped up.  The Captain advises Her Royal Cuteness to enrobe herself appropriately for a winter excursion:

Captain: "We should go to the park."
Wee Lass: "I wanna stay inside."
C: "We've been inside almost all weekend.  Let's go to the park with the swinging bridge."
WL:  "I want to go to the big playground!  Can we go to the big playground?"

She wheedles well.  Plus, she looks at the Captain with those baby blues...

C:  (sighs)  "Okay, we can go to the big playground.  Get your shoes on."

Wee Lass skips to her room, returns carrying her favorite "sparkly" shoes.  They are indeed sparkly, festive, even, but not even good shoes for tromping in snow.  Her boots were absent, with only sneakers as backup.  Better than the sparkly shoes, though.

C:  "Uh, please put your sneakers on.  There might be snow, and sneakers would be better."
WL:  "I don't want to wear sneakers."
C:  "Sweet pea, those shoes will get wet and cold a lot faster, so the sneakers..."
WL (staring at the Captain with a withering look):  "But, Daddy...they don't go well with my tights!"

So that is how it came to pass that the Captain lumbered along in his winter boots, while Her Royal Cuteness frolicked on the slides and in the snow with sparkly shoes a-glitter in the winter sun.  She was right, they did look good with her tights.

And she didn't complain at all about the wet, cold feet...

On Saying Something Nice

We've all heard the old saying "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all".

It bummed me out to think I am dangerously close to not being able to say anything at all.  This state of affairs calls for a vacation...
(...which I can't afford...)
...or disconnection...
(...which I don't know how to do...)
...or dropping out...
(...which I am too stubborn for..)

So.  That leaves me...where?  Here, of course.  Which is where I always am.

Tonight, I read three favorite books with Wee Lass, at bedtime, handpicked by her because she knows I like these particular stories.  It's the Zen series, by Jon J. Muth.  Wonderful, wonderful books.  Thoughtful, intelligent and illustrated with some gorgeous watercolors.

The central figure in the stories, as some of you may know, is a big panda bear named Stillwater.  He is friend, teacher, sage and roshi all in one.  He makes tea, paints pictures and tells stories.  I want to Stillwater to be a friend to me, as he is to the kids who live nearby.  Mostly, I want to be Stillwater.

I have a lot to learn.

My Skill Set Has A Few Holes

Revelations, brothers and sisters!  This week, I was brought up short at the end of the chain.  Yes, indeed, the light of Mildly Bothersome Truth has glared into the Shed of Secrets that resides in the back yard of my mind.  Consequently, there is a vexation upon my heart.  Ladies and gentlemen, there are two things I cannot do.

I cannot sew on a button, and I cannot make a balloon animal.  Specifically, a dog.  I live in small shame at these revelations.

Why does this matter?  Recently, I have encountered situations where possession of those particular skills would have served me well.  In the case of buttons, it would save me some trouble.  In the case of balloon animals, it would have made my Wee Lass all the happier.  (sigh).

The buttons I can live without a little longer, but being able to make my daughter smile by fixing a balloon animal?  Well, that would be the bees' knees.

Time to man up, I guess, and get that "Balloon Animals for Dummies" manual.

Belly Full of Clementines, Head Full of Rocks

Just a little update on the miracles:  For the first time EVER, I managed to eat an entire box of clementines before they started to rot.  There were about 24 to 26 clementines in that box, and I finished it off just shy of
1-1/2 weeks.  Whew!

Now I'm feelin' all orangey and stuff.

My next challenge: eat an entire cantaloupe all by myself before it goes bad.  I tell, this 'eating healthier' kick is turning out to be more strenuous than I imagined...

On Not Reading Books, Occasionally

She's good at it, you know.  Persuasion, that is.  With me the willing victim, always falling before the power of those blue eyes and that sweet voice.  Especially when she says "Please?"

It came down to a choice.  A regular occurrence when she is with me: "Do you want to do this or that?  We won't have time to do both", I intone in a voice not serious enough by half, "So pick one."  She does, as always, but not without a half-dozen or so flip-flops in the space of a minute.  This time she picked the television show over the books.  I was only a little disappointed.  The show she wanted to watch was "Chopped", on the Food Network.

This was nirvana, after a barrage of Spongebob and iCarly.  To her credit, she asked me to change the channel when "Big Time Rush" came on.  Perhaps the ad hoc music indoctrination, er...lessons...I have been impressing upon her are beginning to pay off.

She pulled the comforter off her bed and brought it to the couch, saying she was chilly.  She unfurled it as best she could and asked me if I wanted to stay warm, and I did, so the end of the comforter was mine to share.  She wrapped herself up and settled in for the show.

I was struck by how interested she was in the subject.  She asked me what the ingredients were, did people really eat deer, what do yams have to do with dessert.  I was alternately amused and distracted by her questions and comments.  She even did some critique of one or two dishes, saying that "Keith should win, because they said he was more creative.  Daddy, why did he put marshmallows in the chicken?* That doesn't sound very good".

She watched with interest as the episode unfolded, as did I.  It was fascinating to see her level of interest, even willing to forgo reading books before bedtime, for the sake of seeing who would win.  She fought off drowsiness, and she did make it to the end.  She seemed pleased to have seen the winner.  Yawns were yawned, eyes were drooping shut.  I had feared a bit of a scene ("Please, just one book!") but she was true to her word, and went to bed without a fuss.  I turned out the light, and said "I love you, sweet pea".

From under the covers, her muffled voice drifted back.  "I love you, too, daddy."

For the first time in years, having spent an hour or so watching television didn't seem like a waste of time at all.

*Yes, there were marshmallows, and it was turkey, not chicken.  But she asked a good question.  I couldn't find a good explanation on the FN site, but maybe this link might help.

Living the Dino Lif

A damp, gray day and warm for the season to boot.  It put a twist in my drawers and a pall on my demeanor, which spilled into the workday.  Today was a headphones-on-more-than-off kind of day.  The only thing that could have put the cap on it would have been to walk around with a lemon wedge in my mouth.

Her Majesty's evening swim class was cut short because one of the toddlers had a "bathroom incident" in the pool, so everyone had to exit and the pool was shut down for cleaning.  Poop in pool = total buzzkill + hilarity for the Lass.  To her credit, she did acknowledge that it was "gross".

"Soulshine" by Government Mule was playing on the radio when I arrived back at the Casa del Gumbo, and it put me further into the funk than I already was.  Pensive and soul-searching wasn't what I was in the mood to hear.  I was gearing up to write it all out, get the cynical and jaded pollution from my head to clear it.  I was thinking how I fall into that trap too often, seduced by the dark side, and how I was tired of being a grown-up.

Good thing I saw the picture.  Heh.

It has been sitting on my kitchen counter for about a week or so.  Wee Lass drew it for me as a gift, of her own accord.  It is of a happy little dinosaur, cheerily munching on what looks like carrot-shaped tree with a single large leaf at the top.  Overhead, a pale yellow sun shines down as a butterfly the size of a condor flies above the dinosaur.  At the top left hand corner is a title, scrawled in that unmistakable penmanship of one who is just learning to write.  It says "The Dino lif", and Wee Lass assures me that it does mean "The Dino Life", missing 'e' notwithstanding.

It makes me smile.  I forget, even for only a little while, about the crappy day and malaise and the cynical, corrosive air we often breathe as adults.

I sat down on the couch, with a glass of tea, and resolved to more often "live the Dino lif".  And I won't even worry about that missing 'e'.

Seven Views of Mount Gumbo

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ONE
Today my favorite local radio station, WTMD, did a continuous broadcast of the "Top 100 Beatles Songs as selected by Rolling Stone Magazine".  They literally took the Rolling Stone list and played them all.  The number 2 song was "I Want To Hold Your Hand".  Wee Lass and I heard it on the way to dinner.  Rather, she heard a version of it.  The part where they sing 'I can't hide'?  She said to me "Daddy, is he saying hyena?".  I am amused.

TWO
At the bookstore tonight after dinner, we were sitting on the floor in the art section, looking through books on artists. Why? Because my lively daughter has already learned about Wassily Kandinsky in her kindergarten art class, and she wanted to see some more of his paintings.  I am amazed.

THREE
Later in the photography section, we are again sitting on the floor, paging through a book on Ansel Adams because daddy secretly wishes he had been Ansel Adams.  Wee Lass is fascinated and begins commenting on the photographs.  We both were engrossed and entranced.  She begins to understand why I take my camera so many places.  I am humbled and realize I'll never be Ansel Adams.

FOUR
It is bedtime, and Her Royal Lightness asks to read some books.  We have two old favorites (well, two for her; "The Little Mermaid" has become a Sprockets guest, and I am Dieter) and a new book: "Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones".  I blaze through the Little Mermaid, settle in with "Wabi Sabi" and really hit the big time with Skippyjon Jones.  I really dig the Skippyjon, and I really, really dig her laughter as we read with the silly accents and clap our way through some of the singing bits.  I am calmed.

FIVE
Earlier this afternoon, I had occasion to hang upon my bare walls, three framed photographs of mine.  Suddenly, this house of mine changed character, and some of the echoes faded away.  Standing there in the afternoon light, adjusting the prints to level, I held my breath with the realization that maybe, just maybe...this place is becoming a home.  I was soothed.

SIX
Bouncing around on the digital ocean tonight, I had occasion to laugh, cry, smile and testify.  Truly a grounding, humbling and pleasing experience.  I was slightly overwhelmed at the number of stories that have come to intersect with mine, and I really felt the need to jump in the car and go visit some of the people who have come to enhance my life.  I was again humbled.

SEVEN
Sitting down to write, a strange sensation washed over me.  Part anxiety, part exhilaration, at the realization of just how important to me words and music and pictures have become to my, to my life.  Today I discovered that Wee Lass finds it hilarious when I sing Beatles songs in a voice like that of Eric Cartman.  Today I discovered that I like it when she laughs at me.  Today, side by side with my daughter and reading books...that was a good day.  Read, sing, write: this is a good life.