Scattering Bright

Early Birds

2011-11-20T17:36:00.000-08:00

I think my son is developing into an early bird. He's sleeping through the night now (which is a blessing) and he's shaping up to be an early to bed early to rise kind of guy. At three years old I guess it's hard to be sure of anything, but as his patterns have stabilized a bit, so I'm thinking this may just be his natural tendencies rising to the surface.

That's been one of the additional challenges of his having cerebral palsy, distinguishing between the traits that have come with the disability (and may retreat over time) and the traits that are his personality (and are likely to stay for life). It's a bit of a nonsense exercise on my part, but I suppose it's part of every parents interests to try and peer into those little eyes and try to divine the person that you're just beginning to understand.

One thing I think I can say with some certainty, is that my boy seems to know what he wants and when he wants it.

"I'm sleepy - story time," is something I've heard now a few times as my son has begun to understand himself when he's getting tired. After a little time reading, and of listening to him tell his little jokes to himself while he giggles, he's usually sound asleep. It's wonderful.

On the other end of the night, he's equally clear, but it's not so wonderful.

"It's still dark - go back to bed," I say most mornings with my head still buried under a pillow while my son tugs at my arm in the pre-dawn dark. The little guy knows what side of the bed I sleep on, and for whatever reason, has decided that I'm the easier target in the early AM.

"No - it's the day time," he says, lack of evidence non-withstanding, "I'm hungry."

"It's bed time until the daylight comes," I've been trying to convince him with very little luck.

Some days I win this argument, and the boy will go back to his bed for another 30 or 45 minutes until the first weak light of morning is apparent. But more often than not, he'll escalate his position with tears or angry shouts and I'll get out of bed with a grumble.

"Yogurt please," he says after getting me down the stairs and into the cold kitchen, "Blueberry then Vanilla."

I'll set him up with a spoon and a cup of yogurt and watch him go at it for a bit. He's still not very good at getting his left arm into the act, so he's doing most of the work with his right, but he's gotten fairly effective at spooning out at least the top half of the yogurt before asking for assistance.

Then I try to work in some of the things our orthopedic surgeon has asked us to do to keep his left arm from growing stiff or losing resiliency. I'll massage his left arm and stretch it and try to help him grasp the cup with that hand while he digs away with the right.

"Loosen it up man," I say as I wiggle his affected arm and rub it up and down. He usually obliges me with a giggle or two while I help him angle the cup for better digging.

It's by now that I'm thinking that it's not so bad getting up with the little guy. It gives us time together to get to know each other; time for me to understand who my son is and time for me to understand how to help him in the day to day with his disability.

Sometimes, especially when it's still dim light leaking into the kitchen and the world just beginning to wake up, I feel like the proverbial father bird out with his little bird pecking for breakfast.

"You're an early bird," I'll tease him sometimes.

"Daddy!" he laughs, "I'm not a bird. I'm a boy."

"Yes," I think while I laugh with him, "You're my boy."

Good night.

Good Will

2011-11-04T17:47:00.000-07:00

Tonight was a rough commute. I live in a city, and work in the suburbs (go figure), so the approach to my town at the end of the day feels a little like the approach the X Wing Fighters Pilots have to take to destroy the Death Star (did I just give away the fact that I'm a nerd?).

There's nothing though that makes me so upset as having someone in a flashy car making trouble for everyone on the road.

"Who do you think you are," I said to myself tonight after being cut off by an older man in a new sports car - a sports car I might add, that I dream of owning when I win the lottery.

Between the outrage that I felt at being cut off and the insult of seeing such a piece of work drive around in a car that I admire, I had to restrain the urge to respond with a gesture and a few choice words.

It took a while to shake off those negative feelings. They weren't at all assuaged when I saw the very same driver do the same thing to several other folks - they must have taught him that at Imperial Storm Trooper Academy.

"Five car lengths," I said to myself looking up at the very short distance that all those maneuvers had netted for the jerk, "All that nastiness for five car lengths."

I wonder sometimes about those folks. I wonder how awful it would be to know that however they feel about themselves (good or bad), they channel such negative force into the world; make a lot of folks around them feel bad. I know it's a small thing, really; I mean, nobody got hurt, but who knows how far a negative force can go in the world. It's a little like the dark side of the force.

I was wondering about that for a while tonight, and just a few minutes ago, a friend of mine posted something so kind and thoughtful on my Facebook wall that I just radiated like a warm cup of tea for about five minutes.

"Where did that come from," I thought, and realized how, without really knowing it, my friend had overcome the ill will of that jerk on the road with their good will.

"You never know how far a good act will go," my Dad used to say to me, and I guess it's true.

I hope I can take what I was given and send it on a little further.

Good night.

October Snow

2011-10-30T01:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone's talking about the early snow that's falling tonight. I think the most common things I'm hearing or reading are "... can't believe," or "... can't remember," when folks look up or out at the thick flakes.

For me, although it's been a long time, I do remember a snow once in October. I remember most vividly that I was only half way through the list of yards that I'd agreed to rake when those two icy inches of snow fell. It made the remaining work hard and muddy and cold. But when the sun came out afterwards and I plied up those clumps of matted leaves with my little steel rake and the earth released that musty smell that it has when it's scratched up after having lain beneath snow and leaves, I remember thinking it felt more like Spring than late Autumn.

That odd, out of place feeling, stayed with me that whole season and it wasn't until the holidays that year, I think, that I got some sense of normalcy back.

Now the feeling is stronger, if a little different. Not that I'm out raking leaves for hire these days. But this untimely weather has scratched up memories that have lain under the passing of many years and I feel a bit like I'm walking in an earlier time. It's like I'm being led by the hand by some ghost out of a Dickens story through a time in my life that seems unreal to me now.

I'm always dumbfounded by how much feeling goes with those memories, and how fresh it can feel, even though it's been years since the things that made those feelings happened. People and times that I'd thought I'd forgotten or at least forgotten to think or feel about when they stopped coming in and out of my life. And though I'm hardly a Scrooge, I feel for a moment like him re-examining the turns that led me out of that time and towards the place that I am now.

It's late, or early maybe, and I'll be off to get the last hour or two of sleep I can before the kids wake up and bring me back to the present. I can see from the window that the cars outside are frosted with about an inch of wet snow - not too bad; shouldn't keep us from going out Trick or Treating on Monday.

Though there are not leaves to rake for me this year (benefits of city life) there's enough else these days to get me back to the present in a hurry. And it's just as well. I'll let that cold silvery hand go at the first gleam of sun in the morning. Just a couple of hours more.

Good night.

Normal Days

2011-09-19T17:27:00.000-07:00

My little guy's story time is over and I'm sitting here while he settles down in his toddler bed.

"Is that your 'puter Daddy," he says as I browse and type on my laptop.

"Go to sleep," I say and he laughs, and laughs and settles down.

It's part of a routine we have now. Toothbrush, story, talk and rest while I type. I look up at his sleepy face periodically for the hour or so that I sit with him (he still takes a bit to put down) and think of myself at his age.

Sometimes, if it's a long night, I'll let my imagination run a bit and draw up conversations that might occur between the versions of myself at different ages; like a split screen between different Daves. I wonder how much we'd feel we had in common, or even if we'd like one another.

Normally, these imagined pairings cross decades of lived experience. The open eyed toddler looking up at the grown man; the slim shy teenager speaking hesitantly to only slightly less shy adult that I've become; the seedling and the tree.

But for some reason I can't explain - maybe it's those first few cool nights of fall - I find myself faced with two men very close to my own age. The new father that I was after my first child and the newly minted father of a disabled child trying to come to grips with a radically altered life.

"Geez man, look at all that grey hair - what the hell happened," the new Dad Dave says, looking a bit stunned.

"Lost some weight big guy - and looking rested; nice going," says the second, sleepy, cranky Dave, "What's it like to get 5 hours of unbroken sleep pal?"

"You guys want a beer or something," I ask in the empty kitchen, wondering if I have three beers (and then realizing imaginary beer or wine will do fine).

"Sure, what you got," says new Dad Dave.

"The last thing I need is a hangover," says the cranky Dave, "Got a ginger ale?"

And we sit, the three of us and talk out the last few years. We review all the tough days and the good days and the days I've nearly forgotten. I look at their eyes. The aged but eager eyes of my new Dad Dave and the "what just hit me eyes," of Cranky Dave.

"What do these guys see now," I wonder.

It's all nonsense, I know. Those two guys that were are long gone and this guy with grew hair that fits into the jeans of the younger guy and can look the cranky guy in the eyes is what's left.

It makes me wonder the way I used to wonder what happened to the perfect days when the sky was blue, or those terrible ice storms that brought down power for a week when I was a boy. It makes me wonder what happens when the thing you thought would never change has begun to change or is gone altogether.

There's no answer to these things I know. It's like trying to catch the smoke from a candle.

But every once in a while, a song will come on the radio, or the moon will show up over the rooftops and silver a thin cloud or the house will go quiet (really, really quiet) and I'll feel for a moment like I used to; like I've slipped on a pair of shoes that have sat at the back of the closet for a couple of years - I'll remember. Soon enough though, those moments will go too.

My little guy is nearly asleep and with any luck I'll get to watch something on TV in a bit while my wife puts my daughter to sleep. I'll check work email and - luck willing - I'll be asleep before midnight.

"The new normal," they say; "You can get used to anything." I know it's happening - It may already be done. What felt strange and awful and amazing is now just another day.

Another normal day. Good night.

Dizzy Days

2011-07-08T08:23:00.000-07:00

I've been off line for a bit due to something with the odd name of Labrynthitus. Though it sounded more like the punchline to a medical knock knock joke when my doctor told me, it was actually a temporary problem with my inner ear that disrupted my sense of balance.

"You're going to be dizzy for about a month Dave," he said, "And you might have some ringing in your ears."

"You mean four more weeks of this," I asked in dismay at the time. The onset of what I came to call "the rockin' dizzies," was so sudden and strong that I had hoped it would retreat just as quickly.

"Uh-huh," he confirmed, "and no driving for a few days - at least until the dizzy feeling has grown less."

And here I thought that my kids were the only ones to make my head spin for so long.

If you've never had this, the closest I can compare it to is the feeling of just having stepped off a roller coaster - kind of woozy and wishing I had not had a hot dog for lunch. I wouldn't have thought how important balance is until I had it working improperly for so long.

So I had to slow down for a bit and as the computer gave me a headache during this time I had to disconnect too. It was a quiet month thankfully. I was able to travel by subway to work and the kids were out of school. I did my best not to do anything 'bouncy,' which the doctor had warned me against, and rest and recover.

Having all that inactive time really reminded me how good it is to be busy and how lucky I am to have some flexibility. I was also reminded how lucky I am to have such a good family to help me.

I'm also fairly sure now that good balance depends on more than just one person's efforts. I wouldn't want to go through this alone. I feel like one of those high wire acts where every person in the act gives a little more when necessary to keep the others from falling.

Caught on Tape

2011-06-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

My little boy is becoming something of a verbal tape recorder these days, playing back each interesting word or phrase that catches his fancy. He's gotten pretty good and can let off these little adult phrases with all the intonations in the right places.

Sometimes, as you can imagine, this behavior can be very cute and appropriate, like the other day when I thanked the barista at our local coffee shop and my little guy said, "Thanks! Have a good one!" Or even cuter when he'll bring a phrase back from memory at some randomly appropriate moment, like when the other night I expressed some frustration about the lack of ice cream in the freezer he said, "Not today, Sorry!"

At other times though, the use of his internal tape recorder can be a little too revealing.

About a month back, we were preparing for a party. We were expecting family and friends and my son and I were out in the car running errands. This being a small city, the driving can be somewhat challenging. When we came to one of the tougher four way stop sign intersections on our traveling circuit, some hurried gentleman in a ragtop Audi made a pretty good attempt at a rolling stop that wasn't going to stop.

I stopped flat and steered away to avoid an impact. I caught the driver's eye, waggling my finger at him and let out a choice phrase (as I thought) under my breath.

I was very angry at the time, but forgot about the whole thing after a few more turns and a couple of stops on our errand route. It wasn't until we were back home later that morning that I realized I'd made a mistake.

We'd come in the door and found my wife's Mom and her brother had arrived. They were helping to set up.

I set my son down and he began to play with his toys. I went into the kitchen but hadn't been there long before my wife called me back.

"What's he saying?" she asked me.

My son had set up his stuffed animals on the couch. He was standing stock upright with an extended arm and was waggling his finger straight at a purple bear: "Stay right there jack-*ss!"

"Um," I said shuffling a bit and feeling sheepish, "Not sure where he picked that up."

Guess I need to be more careful.

Roll the Wrists

2011-06-10T18:47:00.000-07:00

I've started teaching my five year old some of the basics of collegiate wrestling - no throws or turns or locks mind you - just some basic things about balance and escaping. As I've known them, school yards are generally places where more pushing and grabbing happens than actual hitting, so I'm hoping to enable her to fend off some of the natural aggressors.

I was much older myself when I learned to do this, but I found that just being able to fend someone off makes enough of an impression; bullies turn elsewhere when they see you are going to be work.

"Let me try it again Dad," she says each night now - I never expected how much she'd like the training.

I started with something I was taught when I took wresting in high school. There was graduate of our school who'd come back from his college program on occasions to practice and assist teaching us.

"Simplest trick there is," he told me one day, "When someone grabs one or both of your hands, just roll your wrists over and take their initiate away."

"If you're fast enough," he added, "Sometimes you can surprise them enough to pull them off balance."

So we've been taking turns at a quickest draw in the west contest each night to see who can free their hands more rapidly from a sudden attack.

"Got you again," she laughs when she slips out of another parry, "I'm faster than you."

I regret when we're doing this, the necessity of teaching any self defense. But it's sitting right at the end of her nightly exercises.

Writing
Reading
Math
Self Defense

I wish I didn't feel the need to enable her. I wish even more that I didn't feel the need to train her so that we can work together some day to help train her little brother. But I know too well what a play ground can feel like when you don't know anything about self defense. It can be a lonely place.

I'm hoping if I can keep the training fun and defense minded (no hitting - just escaping for now), it will boost her confidence and make her world more manageable. I hope that by teaching her to keep her hands free, it will make sure that they're free to do the math and the reading and the writing.

When Something Happens Everyday

2011-04-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

I used to work the night shift as an assistant to the city desk for the daily newspaper in my home city. It was my first job out of college and I filled a role that was called an editorial assistant. We were a kind of errand runner slash note taker slash copy writer slash general hand around the room. We did the little jobs while we learned about the news.

When it was quiet, I'd watch the events of the world come in across an early version of the internet. In those days, the news came through services provided by AP and Reuters on green screens with yellow type. There was no indexing or hyperlinks; you just scrolled through a long unsorted list of stories like goods in a general store - it was assumed that because you only had one place to go, everything you saw was important.

I was excited by the pace of that city desk; the news coming in by phone or from a reporter off a beat or off the AP or Reuters services - news of the world, of the nation of the city. I'd get off the job at 1 a.m. and walk past the roaring presses on the first floor and wonder what the next day would bring. I worked through elections, and local crime and natural disasters and even a war in that job. But when I went home, it was quiet. There wasn't a lot going on in my life. I had to work at it to make things interesting.

I don't know if it was the process of getting older, or graduating to a more responsible job, or being married or having children, but my home life feels busier than that city desk ever felt. And as it's my house that the news is coming in to, it's a whole lot more personal - work news, kid news, family news, news of local politics and even beyond. We're a smaller world than I saw at the newspaper, but we're a planet that packs a punch.

I don't know when it will stop (if it ever will), but it feels like something significant happens every day now; like there's an event that comes through our door that could be put up in big Daily Planet block letters with a splashy photo underneath; something that will make all the tongues wag and eyes pop when people read it.

"Where's that copy Sexton?" my old editor (wonder what's become of him) said once upon a time, "Post it already will ya."

I was only working on the little local stories, News in Briefs or NIBs, we used to call them, but the night editor treated them as if they were front page.

"We don't have a paying ad for those two inches Sexton," he'd laugh, "Get that piece over here - whatever it looks like."

Sometimes, when I'm writing up the family events now, I can still here his voice and see his (seemingly) immobile shape and his big thermos of coffee and the mound of cigarette ash and the pile of discarded newsprint. I think of him and wonder what our headline will be tomorrow.

Bicycles an Swings

2011-04-04T14:05:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was my first day of Spring. We broke out my daughter's bicycle and my son's trike and tore up the walkways at our local park. I felt a little like a father robin out for a test flight with my little nestlings.

Except the little birds aren't all that little; my son is getting both hands up on the handlebar (and the swing ropes) and my girl is nearly riding solo on her two wheeler - the winter changed a few things on me.

"Give me that bike back!" my son demanded when it came time to head home and added (for my understanding), "It's not night time - sorry."

I had worried he might not be ready yet - what was I thinking? I think it's me that's not ready.

I'm wondering if this is going to be the norm going forward - having my mind blown at each quarter turn of nature's stop watch? I feel a little like the relay racer who sees the baton rush away in a blur while he catches his breath. I feel as though the all to brief time where we run side to side for the hand off will go by before I have time to catch my breath.

Happy spring everyone.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Sea Monkeys

2011-03-26T17:34:00.001-07:00

I did not know, though I'm not at all surprised, that sea monkeys hatch from eggs, require fish food, and grow to maturity in five days. The sea monkeys will also live in my bathroom, next to the toothpaste, and I'm not allowed to play with them.

My daughter is happy, delighted actually; I just feel confused, like cows are forming a political party.

Good night.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

New Flowers

2011-03-16T17:32:00.000-07:00

I put some mums and daisies and daffodils in our containers out front today. Sunshine yellow and paper white and a kind of fuschia purple that you might find in a big box of crayons. After the heavy rain overnight and this morning, the soil was moist and clumpy and perfect for planting. It's a delight to see those colors after the drab winter.

When I dream of the few years I'm likely to allow myself for full retirement, I dream of gardens. A space filled with bright annuals and persistent wildflowers and bushes and perennials that require seasonal care and attention. A place to sweat and get the good soil of the earth under my nails.

You see I spent a good part of my young adult years caring for other people's gardens. It was good work while I was a student. It left me time to think and to dream. It gave me wholesome work to do while I was still unsure of how I would make my way in the world. It's good to begin in a garden.

And in the event the pleasant garden of my retirement does not materialize someday (though I very much hope it does), I spend a little time - a day each season at most - uprooting and pruning and making my little temporary garden fresh. Yellow, white, fuschia and the black moist, musty soil of early spring; they're all in my thoughts today and will be in my dreams tonight.

I'm looking out at those flowers now. I know the earth and all its changes are stirring and that new things will come. I wonder what this season will bring. I'm planting the flowers and hoping. I'm thinking and dreaming of what will come.

Good night.

What to do?

2011-03-14T09:11:00.001-07:00

Everyday is a tough day for somebody. I hear the news, personal and local and from far away and know there's always something tough going on somewhere.

But some days it just feels like there is a lot of that toughness coming down, like a bad winter or a hot summer or a rainy spring. I can just feel it like I imagine some animals can feel the approach of a weather front, though it may be miles away.

But what to do? Grab a shovel and hop on a plane? Sit with my head down and worry? I know today that neither of those impulses are correct, but sometimes I struggle to find the motivation to do anything at all.

I once saw a quote of Ghandi's posted at eye level on a colleagues' desk that read something to the effect of "Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."

And in the way of the best advice, those words startled me and puzzled me and stuck to me persistently. Those words came back to me again and again whenever I felt like putting down a dull task, or letting my feelings delay a necessary task. Those words dogged me and made me uncomfortable when I was already uncomfortable.

It's been at least ten years since I read those words, and that colleague has probably moved to a new job, just as I have. But now I find them a great comfort. When I feel helpless, like there's nothing I can do to help a situation far beyond my control. When I wish I could be there, or could have been there, and feel like chucking whatever insignificant task I'm working on, those words keep me steady and on track.

And so today I'm trying to remind myself that the small actions and decisions of people who had ordinary responsibilities in ordinary jobs just a week ago had impacts they could never have foreseen. That the small, seemingly insignificant tasks or routines that they had done countless times before would ensure that a valve worked, or a sensor was functioning or a monitor would shut some itself down automatically if the earth shook.

So today I'm trying to focus on the small tasks that I've been given, however small and unimportant they may seem. And today I'll try to keep my mind on the little wheels and cogs that would only matter if they stopped. Today I'll be responsible. I guess it's time for me to get back to work.

Hope you have a good day.

Techie Days

2011-03-09T14:06:00.001-08:00

I'm trying a new method of posting from my smart phone - my new toy - so these new on-the-run posts may be short; hopefully it will encourage me to be concise.

I'm a reluctant techie; I work in technology but drag my heels to use it. My kids are already more comfortable with the new tools and toys than I think I will ever be.

And even though I'm on a smart phone, I can't bring myself to use texting abbreviations like 'K for okay or 4 for for or u for you. Which all makes me a bit of a dinosaur by most measures - but I'm soldiering on none the less.

I wonder what my kids will think someday when they read all this (if all this is still here) - part of my reason for blogging is to provide a record for them of this time in their lives. I wonder how quaint it will seem. I wonder what they will think.

Well, this post already is long enough to be disqualified as a tweet - the new bantam weight of pith. So please bear with this old dino Dad as he tries to evolve before the next meteor strike.

BBN - sorry, couldn't resist.

Free Sample

2011-03-07T16:47:00.000-08:00

I had an embarrassing parent-ashamed-to-be-seen-by-their-child-in-public moment on Saturday.

I had my son with me and we were stopping for a cup of coffee at our corner shop before going to join my wife and daughter for services. While waiting in line, I noticed one of those square ceramic serving plates the shop sometimes uses for free pastry samples - I'm not to be trusted around those. It was sitting on the counter near the register and on it was the last lonely piece of a butter croissant.

I looked at that bite of croissant the way my son sometimes eyes a lollipop he's not supposed to take. I wrestled oh so briefly with my don't-take-the-last-of-anything scruple sensor and then did the what the bad angel whispered in my ear; I picked the flaky bite between forefinger and thumb.

You can likely guess the outcome.

Somewhere in the second between taking the sample in my greedy fingers and popping it in my mouth, I realized it was not a sample.

That awkward fact dawned on me as I saw the horrified look spread across the face of the twenty-something male barista who looked as though he'd just seen a baboon making donuts. I quickly tried to recover by offering to replace the soiled article, but the poor woman I'd pilfered from was gone in a heartbeat and there was no easy way to recover.

This left me facing the smirks and glares and open mouthed stares of the folks in line behind me - not to mention my impressionable son. Was I ever wanting to sink through the floor.

I left with what dignity I could recover (not much) and tried to imagine how I could manage my life without my daily stop at my favorite coffee shop - not a happy prospect.

A couple of days have passed since my confection transgression and that glowing red embarrassment in my cheeks has faded to a guilty pink.

I went back to the scene of the crime this morning to take my medicine and let the attendants have a few laughs at my expense. It felt about as bad as seeing someone after an awkward date, but it had to be done.

After re-crossing that threshold, I had a couple of thoughts about the whole thing.

On reflection, I think I made a terrible faux pas, but an honest mistake; I've decided to try and let the incident roll off and move on. I've also decided to not to attempt an apology if I ever run into that poor lady again; there's no sense in making things more embarrassing for her. I'll just have to remain that guy who took that lady's food for as long as folks remember and bear with it.

And if one thing is for sure, I've also decided to swear off free samples for life.

Awake

2011-02-17T22:44:00.000-08:00

My daughter woke up for a little bit tonight, and I'm sitting with her while she drops off back to sleep. The cat jumped up and startled me (she likes to pretend she's a hunter) and is sitting on my other side and has started purring and it's been hard to stay awake.

But the house is peaceful and my son is sleeping soundly and it occurs to me that we've come a long way from the days when we didn't get more than a couple of hours of rest at a stretch. I feel, like I feel when the winter suddenly relaxes it's grip for a day or two and the kinder weather returns; like a prisoner whose been unexpectedly freed (and is unsure if the release is permanent).

(I'm hearing the steady sounds of my daughter sleeping, which tells me I can head back to my own sleep in a bit.)

I wonder very much what's coming next for us, what the Spring will bring with it.

I find myself looking for early seasonal birds and thinking about the little crocus fronds that come up first in March and the acrid musty ozone smell of the earth thawing. I know Winter has a punch or two left to throw, but I feel like we're coming to the end. I'm hopeful I guess and that has to be a good thing.

Good night.

2011-02-12T18:39:00.000-08:00

If I walk on swift legs

With arms smooth and strong

And a heart beat steady

As a summer song.

And at days end meet

Secure and bright

A roof, and walls, and door

To keep warm this night;

And arms and hands

Embrace with love my own

And bright eyes assure

That this is my home.

Is it enough for my will

To soften, for my watch to relent

To what end do I follow

My heart and find content.

Close My Hand

2011-02-05T18:44:00.000-08:00

The day I both dreaded and looked for came and went when I wasn't watching; my little man has begun to be aware that one of his hands wont work the way the other does. There's something, I guess, that every father dreads his child knowing, whatever it may be, because once they know it, it's impossible for them to unknow it. My son is now aware of his disability.

"Close my hand," my little guy says in the morning and at lunch and when he thinks of it.

Because his version of that phrase actually sounds more like hose sand, until today I thought he was asking to go to the beach.

He looks down at that hand and moves it with his right hand and seems to know now that there's something missing. He's doesn't display any anger or frustration (not yet anyhow), he's just puzzled I think.

He'll look up at me or his mother or sister and repeat the request until we can distract him with some other activity.

There's no way to explain it to the boy (not yet anyhow), and very little to do beyond what we are doing, but like the tax notice or the mortgage adjustment or the dental x-ray I knew was coming, that day is now.

There's a silver lining in all this of course. He's aware of that left hand, and so he'll try to use it more and more. Even though it's affected by his cerebral palsy, it belongs to him and knowing my little guy, he'll find a way to make it useful. Like any kid with a toy that's a little beyond his years, he'll fumble with it for a bit until that day that he learns to make it do what he wants it to do.

But that knowledge that his early days held back like the warm days hold back the frost is now settling in upon him. I can't hold it back. I can't bring back the forgetful summer.

I wish he had more time to be innocent. I wish those little shoulders didn't have to heave up that load so early. I wish I could make it easier for him. As vain as those wishes are, I wish them.

He's a strong boy though. And more tough minded than some adults I work with. I know too he'll do what he has to do; I know there are a village of people standing just behind him and beside him. He'll be all right.

Good night.

Old Man & Winter

2011-01-28T18:53:00.000-08:00

We've had so much snow this winter, it has begun to remind me of my time as a boy growing up around Boston. But even in that colder past, I only recall two or three winters that packed this many punches. I've felt like I sometimes have when I'm overmatched by an opponent and the best I can hope is to hold it together long enough to live to tell about it.

This last week left the latest layer of snow, a good fifteen more inches. We're running out of places to put it all. At least half of our parking spaces on the street are now occupied by 7 foot tall piles of snow.

"Reminds me of Boston," I said to a neighbor and fellow expatriate of our fair city. We were shoveling our adjacent cars out of deep snow drifts and trying to find a place to put the snow.

"Yeah," he said, smiling and added in true Boston fashion, "It's wicked snowy this winter."

Then, forgetting that he was a bit younger than me, I added, "Reminds me of the storm of '78."

His face just went into blank wonderment, and it was a good ten seconds of silence before I realized he might not have been born for that one.

"Or the winter of '92," I said trying to recover.

"Yeah," he said, "I remember school being closed a lot that year."

"School!" I thought to myself, "Oh boy. I was in school in '92, but I was teaching."

We chatted a few more minutes and finished our shoveling. It was amicable, but I felt a little embarrassed.

Everyone has one of those moments when you know you've crossed another of the many thresholds of age. And even though I know I'm still young by many standards, this was one of those moments that made my progress through time feel rougher than normal.

I've looked at that snow out there a little differently this week; I've been thinking how my father was younger in 1978 than I am now in 2011 and the future that I had always imagined so far away as a boy is now upon me like the layers and layers of snow that sit just outside my door.

Winter makes you feel old I've heard people say. I think personally it's time for a little early spring - I'm ready for some younger thoughts.

Good night.

2011-01-13T18:08:00.000-08:00

Just a really quick post tonight. My little guy has begun to sleep for a fairly long stretch at night, which is a good thing. But he takes a long time to put to bed, which is driving me a little crazy. One hour, two hours, sometimes three hours of stories, pleading, putting my head in my hands and trading places with my wife to get the little guy to sleep. It's like waiting at a bus stop when you're late for work and watching as bus after empty bus ride by with the "NO SERVICE" in the placard window.

But right about the moment when I'm just about to lose it each night, the little guy, without fail, will look up at me with a rascally little grin spreading over his knowing face and he'll say:

"I love you too Daddy," and then he'll laugh.

It's like the bus still hasn't arrived, but a free donut and coffee truck showed up while I was waiting. It's just unbelievably sweet and delicious.

You can imagine, I just can't be anywhere near mad when he does this. I know that in part he's just trying out another power phrase and enjoying the reaction he's getting out of me; but there's also a little part of me that just loves to hear those words come at me from that boy - what a feeling.

It more than makes the three hours of picking him up and putting him back in bed feel worthwhile. It's like working a long weekend and being given a new car to drive home. It's weary and wonderful.

Digging Out

2010-12-29T20:05:00.000-08:00

Just a short post tonight. I'm feeling very tired.

For the last few days, our little city (and the bigger one across the river) have been chockablock with snow. I watched on Monday as the ambulances ran two ways down the only open road in town and plows and busses and flatbeds and tow trucks and other vehicles that you never see get stuck - get stuck. I watched and tried to stay patient and enjoy the enforced slowness that the aftermath of a blizzard can bring.

We're three days into the aftermath now and life is just beginning to pick up it's pace again. I'm seeing people walk a bit more briskly on the sidewalks and fewer folks stop to look at the shape of a strange snow drift or a fully buried car.

I'll miss this time a little - for all that I want things to get back to normal - because it reminds me that things can be different. A little change in the temperature and the barometer and we're all subjects of a different kingdom for a few days. And it's not such a bad place to reside; as long as the monarch doesn't cut the power, I'm just fine.

Have a good night.

Subways

2010-12-28T19:49:00.000-08:00

My car has been buried and our road has gone unplowed this week, so I've been working in the city. I'm lucky in that I have an office in the suburbs, but can sit in with my clients in Manhattan almost as often as I want. Typically this is once a week, but I've been traveling there each day since Monday.

I take something called the Path when I travel to the city. For anyone whose not familiar with New Jersey, the Path is a subway that connects Manhattan with Hoboken, Jersey City and Newark. It's relatively reliable and inexpensive ($1.75/ride) and it runs all day and all night.

There's something about that ride in and out of the city, in the lighted car, screeching and jolting along the dark track under the Hudson River. So many people crowded in together, each a stranger to the other, each with their own thoughts and cares.

They mostly try to ignore the discomfort of the trip and the presence of other people - I try too; sometimes I'm successful. But there's something also between those many people, who manage to be jostled and shaken and moved by the train and everyone around them and still manage to behave far far better than they would on any freeway above ground.

I think sometimes when I'm on that trip, surrounded by those other souls, between what I have to do and where I want to be, that time is rushing by or over in the dark beyond the windows. I feel like I'm not in a subway at all, but instead in a capsule that for a moment allows me to pass by all the lives and paths that I will never know but only be aware of as a great sweep of noise and movement beyond the little light of my life.

I'm tired I guess, and probably a little loopy - I have a tendency to fly into the sublime when I'm tired. There's a new year coming up tomorrow too, and I'm sure that's put me in a reflective mood as well - the years move faster than they used now.

But the subway is a comfort to me - as it is for many city dwellers. Because even though it's not always convenient and not always clean or even safe, it's a reliable passage between the places I need to be. And unlike the dreams that ferry me from one day to the next, I know I am not dreaming, and though I may be a stranger to those around me, I am not alone.

Good night and good luck in the new year.

Snowbound

2010-12-26T17:17:00.000-08:00

I haven't heard thunder in a snowstorm since I was a kid growing up in Boston, which tells me how much power is out there tonight. I feel sometimes, when I see the great swirl of clouds from a satellite image that some continent sized hand is stirring the atmosphere with a wooden spoon that would make the Empire State Building look like a toothpick.

How small the weather can still make me feel; small like I used to feel when my father would swing me up on his shoulders. Small and full of wonder.

I had the kids out this morning while the snow was still just a dancing of dust and the sidewalks looked as if someone had just sprinkled powdered sugar on them. Bundled up in their coats and snow pants and boots, they ran around chasing snowflakes at our local park for a good 45 minutes or so before I brought them back for a hot lunch.

I'm glad now I got them out. The rest of the day proved unbearable. And it's amazing how just a little time out in the fresh air gives them some peace. The both went to sleep without a fight after baths tonight.

I'm watching the snow mount up into great fantastic shapes like white elephants above the cars outside, half stunned at how beautiful it is, and half wondering if we'll lose power tonight - I sure hope not.

A winter storm is a wonder and a worry.

I think about what the morning will be like tomorrow. Checking email to see what the attendance policy will be at work, shoveling out the walk, watching the kids bounce off the walls, listening to see when the sun and the temperatures will begin to clear the roads down to pavement again. Best not to think of it I guess.

And sometimes I can forget tomorrow for a while. I'll look at the weather and try to feel like I'm small again. Like I'm five or eight or eleven and my only thought for the storm was whether there would be enough snow to cancel school and go sledding.

Good night.

Easy Morning

2010-12-24T06:49:00.000-08:00

It's my first day off, a real day off with no calls from work (fingers crossed) since our vacation this summer. It's the first day I can sit with my kids here at home and really relax. No therapy visits to manage, no school to get our daughter ready for - just a day at home.

The kids are watching Go Diego Go and I'm happy to let Diego go go go as much as he wants. When it warms up a bit we'll go the park.

I also had time to put seed out front for the little gang of House Wrens that peckle for food on our block. They're popping in and out of the baskets and dishes on the ledge of our picture window.

In the old days, before the kids I mean, I would be out looking for something to do on a quiet day. Not now. I know I just have to wait a bit and something will turn up on its own. One of the kids will have an idea or someone will come to visit or we'll take a walk to the park and something will turn up.

On a busy day those little interruptions are another speed bump - today they're like house flowers peeking out from a window on a cold day.

I'll try to wrap up quickly. I've probably got about five minutes before the next event comes bouncing along like one of my kids many playground balls.

But I wanted to put a quick note out to say we're having a good day here; a good day near the end of the year and that's a very good thing to me.

Wish you all the best of the holidays and a good start to the new year. All is well.

Trust

2010-11-30T18:03:00.001-08:00

I'm sitting here on the rug with my back against my son's small bed and he's just begun to breathe the even deep breaths of sleep. My daughter's bright voice can be heard through the door chattering away with my wife down the hall.

The world is still busy outside, but I've turned off my email and put on my slippers and put my cell phone on silent. It's time to close the shop.

Tonight we're safe.

There's no reason to believe there won't be countless more nights like tonight here in our little house with our family.

But I know, and today I was painfully reminded, that any night could be different. Today we watched while they laid my young cousin to rest. Today I held his parent's trembling hands and know that they're no different than my hands and that no hands are strong enough to make everything all right for our children all the time.

I grieve for his parents, and grandparents and the rest of the family. I know there is nothing that can make what happened right for them; There is no one who can explain why he is not here still. I think of that loss and my heart aches knowing that they cannot hold their boy again - not even for a moment.

There are no answers for this pain in this world.

I look and listen and breathe in the color and sound and freshness of my home tonight and know these moments are precious. They are more precious than any sparkling jewels the world could lay at my feet. That even when the hurly burly persistence of the world is still rapping insistently at my door demanding it's penny, these nights here with my children are irreplaceably and immeasurably more precious than any coin I have to give back to the world for our keep.

I miss you cousin. I loved you while you were here. I love my children the more because of you now. You were a blessing to everyone who shared your life.

I hope you are resting beyond all the world's troubles tonight. I hope the house you rest in, and the hands that you hold will hold you safe forever.

Goodnight.

2010-11-29T19:11:00.000-08:00

We lost a young cousin tonight, only fifteen, just a boy really. I'd been to ball games with him and his father. We celebrated holidays and occasions together. He was the youngest member of my wedding party.

He was a good boy. Good to his parents; good to his family; and a good friend. He was good to me.

I miss him. I wish I hadn't missed that last chance to see him a few weeks back. I won't see him again in this life.

I'm sad for his parents, for his family, for his friends. I'm sad for me.

Wherever you are tonight, I'm thinking of you. When I look up at the light of the stars, I hope you know I'm looking for you.

I miss you cousin.

Grit

2010-11-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

I think they call it grit

Because it's all you have to grasp at

When your gasping from being

Knocked down and are too stupid

To stay down.

I think they call it grit

Because it feels like sand in motor oil

In the pit of your stomach

When you tell the big guy

To say that one more time.

I suspect I've had it from time

To time if only because it grates like a

Thin gravel layer between my bills and the

Bottom of my bank account, and rings like the little

Truth spoken to those who can hurt me.

Zen Days

2010-11-09T18:11:00.000-08:00

I know next to nothing about Zen. I've heard a wonderful program twice on Speaking of Faith with Thich Nhat Hahn, a Vietnamese Zen master, and I've read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance once and very recently I've read Zen Shorts with my children. This is the extent of my Zen teaching.

But I'm finding for this time in my life, there's at least one practice that I understand from those small teachings to be particularly useful; to be mindful.

"Take the hand of a child," Master Hahn advices in one of his works to help understand mindfulness. I had always thought that Zen required solitude and quiet, so it was a real release to have a teacher remove this obstacle from my path - because my children are rarely quiet.

Of course, I'm paraphrasing Master Hahn liberally here (and a little out of my ignorance), but I've found this teaching so helpful in transitioning between the stresses of work and the challenges of home life that I think even my limited understanding has value.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," my children can go on and on.

At the end of a day filled with problems and conflicts, the drumming of their needs can really grate against my angst and fears for what I did not accomplish that day.

I find at these moments I have two choices: to frustrate over what I can't do or to take their hand.

"Story time!" I say when I can muster the mindfulness to make the right choice. Sometimes it takes a while of me making the wrong choice before I can do this (tonight it took 45 minutes of muttering to myself before I said it), and sometimes the right choice does not come at all, but it's always a help when I get there.

"The Fat Cat Sat on the Mat, Mr. Pine's Purple House, In the Night Kitchen," it really doesn't matter what they want to hear that night.

I put my older child on one side and the smaller one in my lap and we read. We read and I listen to the sound of their little voices asking questions, or laughing, or just feel the rise and fall of their soft, unconstrained breathing.

We read I begin to feel the rise and fall of my own breath again, and I relax my face and shoulders, and I feel like a bird or a rabbit or a bear must feel when it's safely tucked into it's nest or warren or cave. I feel like I can let the world be for a while.

We read and the rest of the night seems to take care of itself. The kids calm down, stop clinging and go to bed. I calm down and stop clinging to the things that went wrong and relax - cherry blossoms on a soft breeze when I stop worrying and attend to those little souls.

I know next to nothing about Zen. I hope to learn more some day, but in the mean time, the little I know seems to help more than a little.

Thank you Master Hahn.

View Master

2010-11-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

We have a great toy store near us, just a few blocks away. They're a small chain, two or maybe three locations, and they really know their toys. I feel like I do in a well run independent bookstore, like all the staff has taken great care with the product selection, like they really love what they sell.

A few weeks ago I noticed an old fashioned View Master slide toy, which (in a fit of nostalgia) I bought on the spot for my kids.

To my delight, the toy was a hit - my daughter uses it almost every night.

"This is a T-Rex," she said just a few minutes ago - I'm typing here in a chair while she's winding down before bedtime.

We got some dinosaur slides to add to her small collection through Amazon today. She's been learning about the old lizards at school and she's taken an interest.

"The old boy hasn't lost any appeal," I thought to myself, remembering how transfixed I was the first time I saw a drawing of the tyrant king.

"Daddy, would a T-Rex eat our house?"

"Um," I responded, "I haven't know any T-Rex well enough to ask."

If they weren't extinct, I might feel compelled to tell her the truth, but as we're not likely to see any, I don't mind evading the question.

"Oh," she said and went back to looking.

I think I like the view master, not only because I had one too and it's a way to feel connected to what she's experiencing now, but because it's not animated and enhanced with sounds. I like it because it doesn't answer all the questions and leaves some stuff to the imagination.

"What about a brontosaurus?" she asked after clicking a few slides on.

"I don't know any dinosaurs," I said, "And I haven't seen any at the restaurant, so I don't know what they like to eat."

"Why not?" she asked - she's still working on a sense of time.

"They lived in another neighborhood," I said.

Oddly enough, this seemed to make sense to her. She looked thoughtful for a moment and then let out a little sigh and went back to looking.

I know it's nonsense. It's the kind of thing I used to dream up when I was a kid.

I also know her teacher will likely give me a few odd looks at the parent teacher conference after she repeats my spurious dinosaur lore (oh she definitely will) multiple times in class.

Someday she'll learn the truth herself too and I'll have some explaining to do. But there's something special about sharing this silly stuff with my kid. I feel like when we talk like this that the little kid that I was is still around and I know - somehow - that that little boy and my little girl are friends.

Good night.

We're a Cost

2010-11-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

A very short post tonight about obtaining help for my son through state and local services; just an observation really.

My wife and I have divided our respective energies and specialities between working with the government and working with the insurance companies. If you've read my earlier posts, you'll know I work with the insurance agencies. I think I have the easier job.

"We're in for a fight," my wife said to me tonight.

I won't mention with who or for what. It's enough to know it's part of the process to obtain help for our son that we have to justify and justify and verify and authenticate and evaluate and you name your favorite auditing practice here - you get the idea.

I work in financial services, so I'm no stranger to auditing, but I have to say that the level of stringency for children with disabilities seems like a very high bar. Even from my seat here in the observation deck, it seems like a lot to ask of families who are already under considerable strain just to care for their kids.

"It cost me ten large," a friend of mine once told me when describing the legal bills he had to foot to get his community to stop stonewalling and offer his own son services.

"We had to move," I recall a former neighbor say to my wife when describing how she had to get service for her son.

And when I see what passes for auditing on building projects, or pension funds, or even general schooling, I wonder why families with children with special needs get hit with such a high bar.

Sometimes, I feel like the good kid in school again who gets thrown into detention for some minor infraction while the spitballs fly fast and go unchallenged. I feel like we're easy pickins' for government who can't get it right anywhere else.

In the end, I know we'll manage. I know the laws are on our side and that the intent of the laws are good. I also know that we're lucky to live in a state and a community that at least have such laws on the books - however they may be implemented.

In the end, I know we're a cost. Even though it's far, far cheaper to help my son now that it would be to do it later in life; and even though his care is far, far cheaper than the cost we pay for some perfectly healthy individual who created and sold toxic assets; I know we're a cost.

I just wish my collective state and local government officials would take some of the hurdles in our path and throw them in front of a stadium project, or a school building program, or an already cost the state multi million dollar tunnel project before they decided to cancel it.

I just wish they'd pick on someone more worthy of their mistrust.

Behind the Stars

2010-10-28T19:03:00.000-07:00

Stars and dreams have been in my thoughts lately; sometimes waking, sometimes sleeping. There's no coherent story to tell about them, nothing with a singular event or a narrative or even a cryptic conversation, so I'm appealing to poetry to make some sense of what might otherwise be difficult to convey. To me prose and poetry are the difference between orchards and gardens; when I can't labor for the fruit, I walk among the flowers.

Behind each star may be a dream

So though dark and void may seem

The sky at night like blackened ice

Still flicker phantoms of delight.

Behind each eye may be a fire

Consuming, never ending, lost desires

Rooted in hearts like imprisoned light

Flaring vast beyond the reach of sight.

Past all lights and fires, past all dreams

Past all that sleep or waking seems

I must pass, must pass alone someday

Beyond what all reason or fancy may say.

Following the Messenger

2010-10-18T19:16:00.000-07:00

We have a little roof deck. It's about eight by eight and sits up at eye level with many of the buildings that surround us. There's not much of a city view, but there's a fine view of the stars at night.

Sometimes, when it's been a rough day, I'll go up after supper and sit in the arm chair and look. I'll look and breathe and look, thinking much the same way that a child thinks that their parents have always been there and always will be there, that those little points of light are untouchable by harm or time. They reassure me.

And very recently, there's been one star thats become very bright in the eastern sky. The star happens to be the planet Jupiter, and when I saw it's moons through a pair of low power binoculars I was so excited, that I ordered a real first telescope.

I have to admit that I know next to nothing about astronomy. About the closest I got to studying the subject was a history of science course I took at college. We learned about the early astronomers from Aristotle to Copernicus to Tyco Brahe.

And we learned about the modern master of those who know, Galileo.

"I see a planet Daddy," my daughter said on a recent night with as much excitement as she did when she first saw fireworks, "I can see the moon."

It's amazing to me that the two of us can stand together, thousands of miles and hundreds of years from where Galileo stood and see the same moons circling Jupiter. It's kind of the same excitement that you feel when you're tuning into a short wave radio and pick up a transmission from a great, great distance.

"This must be what he saw too," I found myself saying out loud and my little girl, looking cute in her jean jacket and sherpa lined crocs, looked up at me quickly to see who I was talking about.

"Galileo," I said, and told her a little about why he's one of my heros.

I think the most remarkable things about him, was that with the mind he had, and in the time that he lived, he chose to write in the vulgar; that is, in the language of the people; that is, for those of us who could easily have been shut out - and got himself shut in (under house arrest) in the process.

But it was that very same work that got him into trouble, The Starry Messenger, that I think of when I look out at the sky. I think of Galileo setting up late into the night watching first one moon and then another and another circle Jupiter. I think of him seeing those moons circle and begin to deduce away the great imaginary cathedral walls that had until that time risen all the way to heaven. I think of him standing there just as we are standing here and I feel closer to his thought than to any great scientific mind in the ages that have passed between.

"Can I look one more time," my daughter asks, and although I'm sleepy, I say yes and let her look.

We're only looking at the near sky objects right now. I know there are more remote, and possibly more stunning things to be seen, but even if I had the equipment, I'm not sure it would be any more fun than what we're doing right now anyhow.

It's a wonder to be gazing at the same wonders that he looked at long ago. It's a wonder to be seeing the same planets that he discovered. It make me think that of all the great minds his seems to shine the brightest, not the least because he drew close enough to us to be observed.

Spoonful

2010-10-16T17:44:00.000-07:00

After working nearly forty hours non stop between yesterday and today - New York can be a rough town - just trying to get my son's weak left arm into a coat sleeve seemed like it was going to unstring me.

The little guy kept thrusting his hand down just inside of the coat or catching just his thumb on the sleeve, which forced his elbow out sharply. And the sight of him like that, like he's been winged, is too much for me; it's a reminder of all the things I'm afraid of. It went on like this for a long time; a little like trying to coax a bird that's inadvertently flown indoors back through an open door without hurting it.

But after many, many tries, we finally connected. His arm went the right way at the perfect pitch and I caught his thrust and pulled his little hand home. It felt like catching the express train after missing the local and waiting at the station for a long time.

"T'ank you Daddy," he said delightfully, and looked up at me with the sweetest most pure radiance of affection.

He repeated his thanks when he saw my weary smile, "T'ank you."

It isn't always like that, of course; sometimes I just can't get it right and I have to take a long break, call for help or just give up. But every once in a while there's a spoonful of the sweet to go with the bitter and it goes right to my heart like the warmth of brandy.

Thanks right back at you little man. Thanks a million.

Undone

2010-10-10T22:18:00.000-07:00

Today was a day where I could see everyone one around me looking at me like I was a normally friendly dog on the verge of going into pack mode. Not good.

I can't say I don't know where a day like this comes from because they tend to happen on Sundays that follow cycles where I haven't had a non-working day for two or three weeks.

"Child. Child. Child! Child! CHILD!" I can hear myself sounding more and more like one of those unreasonable parents at the playground that is so obviously overwrought, but I find almost no way to stem my feelings.

My wife, gratefully, was having a better day, and stepped in where necessary to head me away from the cliff I'm still perfectly prepared to drive right over.

Not that the kids were much help either. Both of them were in ON mode like I haven't seen for a long time.

My boy refused to nap and clung to me like he was trying to set down roots. I love the little guy, but I've got chafe marks from where his little hands were gripping the scruff of my neck. I'm so glad he finally went to sleep.

My daughter, who to be fair is used to me having a pretty fair amount of patience, kept going at my personal space in small ways that ultimately undermined my sanity:

Me: "What happened to my wallet?"

Girl, laughing: "It's not your wallet Daddy, it's a birthday gift for my brown bear!"

Me: "Where are my keys?"

Girl, looking innocent: "I think I put them someplace."

Me, looking like Charlie brown losing his kite to the tree again: "Arrrghhhh!"

Normally, I'd have the patience and this would all be cute and delightful. Today, I'm just glad I'm married, and hoping that the other 364 days of good behavior will convince my family I'm worth enduring.

"I'm overreacting I'm sure .... tomorrow will be better ... there's always those last beers in the fridge ... the traffic will be light going to work on Columbus day ...," there's a long parade of hopes, little hopes coaxing me back.

I just feel when I'm like this more and more like the old line from the country music tune The Bug: "Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger Baby, Sometimes you're the ball."

Oh boy! I better go to bed.

Goodnight.

Not my City

2010-10-09T20:16:00.001-07:00

When I wade to the bright city

The city that is closest to me

And swim the deep channeled water

Running outward to the sea.

Lights suspend and seem pristine

Floating skyward and ascending

On slender filaments unending

To the pious city of Augustine.

My city is not that saintly city

And avarice, sin and strife

Live in daily concourse amid

Both dearth and mortal delight.

Men of business, bodily men

Rise and sweat and tend

To pass beneath that which at

Once is both a means and an end.

Heaven I pray as I pass, consigned

To the concrete and earthly light

That I may return home again

And be redeemed to your truer delight.

The Happy Alarm Clock

2010-10-04T18:24:00.000-07:00

Just a short bit of good news tonight.

There's been a welcome change in my mornings recently. I wish I could say that I was sleeping later, but that's still a distant dream. My son has stopped waking up upset, and has started waking me up by calling my name.

"Daaaaddddyyyy! Daaaaadddddyyyy! DAAAAADDDDDYYYY!"

Ah! The sweet sounds of my little insistent child at 5:30 a.m. Soooo much better than the days of Whaaa and Ahhh!

He's actually happy and standing up in his crib when I arrive. After so long of waking up the other way, it's like getting a dose of setting the clocks back on a daily basis.

It doesn't seem to matter so much that I'm still sleepy when he's sitting down to a breakfast of bananas, milk and Rice Crispy's. It's just wonderful to hear him chatter and gabble away happily.

I hope this is a sign of things to come. I'm dearly looking forward to getting a solid night's sleep again. I feel like I'm coming in from a very long voyage out at sea and have just seen the first shore birds and other signs of a coast approaching.

Fingers crossed.

Clouds

2010-09-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I emerged from my little cave at work feeling shaky from having a very tense discussion with a business partner that was only just south of open warfare. I was feeling pretty awful and expected the weather, which had been rainy and glum, to match my mood - I think they call that feeling the pathetic fallacy.

It turned out that the rain had lifted, and the sky was simply blooming with towering cumulonimbus clouds and sunset hues that ranged from blue to gold to copper red. It was a little like getting called to the assistant principal's office and in the midst of dreading the encounter finding out that you're parents are there to pick you up from school early. Boy, what a wonderful sight.

I climbed up onto the roof deck of the parking garage, which also fortunately happens to sit on the crest of a hill, and surveyed the miracle of those clouds and the light falling in great yellow golden shafts to strike the hills and the dells and the little lakes that I could see.

You won't hear me talking about my faith much in my writing - I consider it a private matter for most of us - but I'm pretty sure someone important was trying to get my attention.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," I thought to myself after a few deep breaths, "There are always clouds to fall back on."

Quiet House

2010-09-16T23:49:00.000-07:00

Our house is quiet tonight and the rain is pattering softly outside. It sounds a little like a laid back un-syncopated steel drum band out there with the gentle metallic sound of water in the drainpipe and raindrops hitting the top of our steel garbage can.

The rest of the family is sleeping and Maggie the cat is curled up on the rug here beside the sofa.

I'm so used to being up at this time of night with my son, I think my body has integrated the timing into my internal clock. I'm just finding myself awake now at 1 or 2 or 3 a.m. regardless of the circumstances. This would not be so bad were it not for his new habit of getting up at 5:30 a.m. - the clock moves too quickly.

"Maybe today he'll sleep late," I think as I write this - hope springs eternal.

I'm glad tomorrow is Saturday. I'm teaching again this fall on Saturday, but it still feels like a weekend to me.

Things are changing again. I can't say exactly what's moved, or is moving, but I feel like I do when I'm in Port Authority late at night and all the busses hum dissonantly like migratory beasts around a watering hole. I think of the many far flung destinations of those busses as I pass through the wide brightly lit corridors emptied of the hustle of the daylight hours. I feel like all the destinations of the world are open to me, even though I'm just taking the 126 bus back home.

Good night.

Paperwork

2010-07-26T17:43:00.000-07:00

They all bear the same return address and come in the same institutional envelopes, but I've learned to pick them out by color. The eggshell ones are informational. The ultra white ones are rejected claims. The pink ones like the color of a china piggy bank - the most rare - are reimbursement checks.

All of them together make a small mountain of paper.

I have so much correspondences from our insurance carrier, I feel like I'm having a direct impact on global warming through the defoliation required for my mailings.

You'd think that with a child with special needs, folks would cut you a break, that they'd streamline the process and reduce the paperwork. Nope. Not. No way. It's a little like a being converted from an occasional house guest to a permanent boarder - where's that rent check?

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to have my insurance plan. I can see very clearly from the pre-adjusted numbers what life would be like without it. Part of me says Don't complain about the size of the life raft when there are sharks in the water.

But part of me also wishes that there was another way; for me and for everyone who has to care for someone with a disability.

But I'm making my way up the mountain regardless. I pull a few more fat envelopes down and keep up with the numbers. I make a few phone calls each day and keep up with the claims. I exercise my shredder periodically and recycle my little mountain of paper.

I'm glad at least they don't vary the color of the correspondence - it's nice to know at least which ones I want to open.

Like an Old Shoe

2010-07-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

Long ago now, I was rolling round my home town in my rusty silver Toyota pickup. I had a leaf blower and a set of steel rakes and a burlap tarp and a can of gasoline. I remember it was mid fall and the weather was very fine. I turned up a road that I can see in my minds eye, not far from my high school and a new tune came on a station I used to listen to.

The articulate guitar, it may have been a steel guitar, with it's steady leisurely beat like a firm footfall and the raspy, weary voice with a note of reluctant longing in it drew me in at once like a lighted room on a rainy night.

"That one just seems to hit all the right spots," the woman announcing the songs - don't remember her name either - said before turning to the next tune.

I missed the song's title and had to wait for days before it came on the air again. I found it, and wrote it down, and hunted through music sections until I finally found the artist. The song was Something 'Bout You and the artist was Kevin Welch.

I've kept that album for years now, and the songs are on my IPod, but I haven't seen or heard Kevin Welch on the air since. His music was like a chance companion whose friendship I made and then missed through a long parting of the ways.

Then, just as suddenly, I heard that raspy voice on the radio the other morning. I couldn't place the voice at first. He was speaking, not singing, and telling Bob Edwards a little bit about his childhood. I'm glad to say I recognized him before his name came up in the announcements - somehow it's important to me to have that spontaneous recognition, like it feels to see an old friend after a long absence.

He was promoting his album of course, but it was a pleasure to hear him again. I'm listening to him now on CD. I haven't loved an album this much at first listen for years. It feels like the best pair of shoes I ever owned and lost. I just found them again and I feel like walking.

On Our Block

2010-07-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

At about 9 p.m., about the time my children are getting ready for bed, the little block outside our front door starts to pick up.

It's hot in New Jersey, and the day is no time to loiter around on the pavement - people move quick and get out of the heat when they get the chance.

When the darkness rolls in with it's cooler air, doors start to open and folks stroll by with no hurry on their way to parties and bars. My neighbors come out too, watering their plants, letting restless children run a little in the cool air, gathering in little impromptu knots of twos and threes to talk. It's like watching a little nocturnal ecosystem start to percolate and chatter.

I stood for a while tonight talking with my friends, letting my daughter get in a few extra episodes of Sponge Bob while I stood outside the open window and caught up on the small news.

I'm getting better at enjoying these little spaces, just putting the unpleasant tasks of the day behind me, forgetting the tough discussions, the arguments around making a living. I can stand and talk and enjoy without my thoughts jumping back and forth between what's happened and what might.

"Gotta get the second kid to bed," I said finally, making my apologies before coming back into the house.

"Okay Dave, have a good night," said one of my older neighbors, a kind, retired truck driver with arms like small tree trunks and about twice my time behind him, "Going to bed soon too."

The house is quiet now; the block is quieter too.

I've had ambitions in my life, some of them are still with me, but there are moments like these when really all I want is to come home to this little cobblestone block each night in the kind weather to where people know me.

Goodnight.

First Bicycle

2010-07-02T23:46:00.000-07:00

I started teaching my daughter to ride a bicycle this week, which felt a little like trying to teach a butterfly how to land on a flower - she's a natural. Within a day, she was up and balancing on her own and pedaling away from me down a wide sidewalk near our house. She's still a little uncertain, but she's gaining confidence fast.

She's been working on her cycling while I'm at work too, so when I get home in the evening, she seems to have gotten stronger without my having to coach her. Its one of those times, where I'm amazed at how quickly and unexpectedly my kids adapt to what I remember as being a challenge.

I suppose I should have seen this coming when we fitted her out for the bike.

The shop we visited set her up with a bike that I never would have thought she'd be ready for - it was a size up from what all her friends are using. She's very tall for her age, and when the seat was lowered, she was able to stand tip toe while sitting.

"Perfect," said the shop owner, smiling while he checked the fit and had her step on and off the bike, "Awesome!"

When I got over the shock of seeing how tall she'd gotten, I was pleased. The fact that she just comfortably stepped into the taller model meant she could keep that bike for a season or two. It's a fun model too - It's a bright summery green with a white basket with flowers.

She seemed pleased herself, "I like the green flames Daddy," she said pointing to the flashy sticker on the crossbar.

"Cool," the man at the shop said to my daughter, "Go choose a bell for yourself."

He brought out a step stool to help her look through three baskets of random bicycle bells while he tuned up the cycle for us to take home.

I chatted with him while she sorted through what must have been about a hundred bells with different stickers on them.

When she returned with a bell, she ran past me and handed it to the shop owner. He took one look and flashed a big smile.

"All right!" he said and took the bell and mounted it, "Great choice! Awesome!"

I waited until they'd wheeled it around before taking a look.

"Oh my," I thought looking at the little Jolly Roger skull and crossbones bell she'd chosen for herself, "I wonder what her Mom will think?"

She's growing up fast.

Planting

2010-05-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

When the kids were quiet yesterday, I took about 20 minutes to plant some fresh flowers for my wife's mother. I bought a red geranium, six pink petunias, and a small plant with ivy like leaves and tiny yellow flowers like bitsy stars in a minute galaxy (I don't know all the plant names). It cost about 13 or 14 dollars at the local garden supply which happens to be next to a coffee shop I like.

It wasn't much in time or money and I got a hot cup of joe to boot. Nice.

When I got back, I cleared the old flowers and weeds from the planters and refreshed the soil and placed the flowers carefully in their new home with a small green trowel. I used my fingers to snuggle the roots into the new bed firmly and finished all with a sprinkle of water. It was a pleasure and live flowers make vibrant gifts.

I also feel the gardening bug coming on in me. I grew up around gardeners (my mother is a good one) and always wondered if I'd take a turn at it myself some day. I think that day may be drawing close.

Maybe it's the parent in me now that makes this activity feel more than it used to, but there's something about brightly colored annuals that feel both precious and fleeting. I feel hope and worry and amazement all at once in those bits of loose soil under my nails and in the creases of my palms. It makes my heart ache like it has for friends that I know I'll only see for a day between long absences.

As we pulled out late last night for our trip home, I looked in quick succession in the rear view mirror at my children in their car seats and then beyond the front of the car where my mother in law stood by the door and the flowers. Fleeting thoughts passed through my mind as I steered and also made sure we were safe to drive out and away.

"Too short, too too short the time," I thought, "So much happens and goes in just a few moments - so much that must be forgotten so you can focus on the next thing."

But I know I'll remember yesterday. I'll remember my wife and her mother and my children laughing. I'll remember the drive to the garden store and for coffee. I'll remember the flowers and wonder.

Good night.

Writing

2010-05-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

A very short note tonight.

I've been off the blog for a bit while I've been working on a book project. Not the online project - I'll be returning to that; but something that came up and has developed a life of it's own. I'm not sure how far this project will go, but right now the trail is fresh and I'm going to follow it.

As I have limited time to write, it's taken away from my blogging. I'll get online as I can and update everyone on our progress. For the present, we are all well.

Hope to post again soon. Good night.

Another Poetry Night

2010-04-17T21:48:00.000-07:00

I'm in a very Nineteen Century poetical mood lately. Sometimes I think these are bulbs I planted a long, long time ago that - for God knows why - are waking up and growing and flowering now. I suppose you never know what will happen when you major in English literature and listen to Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion on Saturday nights.

Friendship

There are eyes I've met, the clearest blue

Shuttered tight against all storms that lose

The unguarded, open, and unfiltered light

That lose the simple reflection of delight

And rest dull and hard in returning gaze

Just another stranger in a darkened maze.

And there are those I've seen, of hazel,

Brown or green that hide behind a door

And furtively peek, frightened, and unsure

Like a child punished; sad and unassured

That never trust the eyes they long to see

And as quickly out, are just as quickly to retreat.

So few, so very few that let the light of day

Filter in, or inward light of night out shine

So very few that gaze without fear or shame

A very precious few, color for color, eye to eye

Like lantern boats that glimmer on a darkened sea

That meet and pass and know and remember me.

Knocked Down

2010-04-11T18:25:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough few days, thanks to a bad pat of butter or mushroom on my pizza Thursday. Whatever it was, by Thursday evening I was in gasping pain the like of which I can't remember, and oh so grateful for some anti nausea medicine that begins with a Z (didn't hear all that much at the time) and works miracles in minutes when given through an IV.

Oh boy, what a wonderful night that was.

It does make me glad for a few things though. If you know the little story of There Was An Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly - not what I did by the way - you'll understand the flow of my gratitude below.

There was a nice wife who stayed with me all night