[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]
Shannon and I have been sick for the last couple of days. Not the kind of sick where you're a little sniffly and have a slight cough. We have been knock-you-on-your-ass-and-stay-in-bed-for-the-rest-of-the-week sick.
This occurred at a most inopportune time. It was my Spring Break from school, and it was also Shannon's brother, Pete's Spring Break as well, so he was in Lexington visiting us. Shannon and I have a kind of epic struggle over household chores. Shannon is convinced that they are my responsibility. I remain convinced that they are her's. We have remained locked in this mortal combat over household chores for the duration of our marriage (six-and-a-half years), and our house has therefore managed to maintain itself in something of a state that could be charitably described as "disarray".
When we have visitors, however (this applies only to those from out-of-town, as you friends in Lexington no doubt know) we manage to put aside our differences of opinion and get the house into tip-top shape. The house looked excellent (to us, for normal people read: "livable") for Pete's visit, and remained that way most of the time he was here. We also, since we were trying our hand at living like "normal" people, cooked meals at home that were both healthy and delicious, and all sat at the table and ate like a "real" family.
One of the things my children love to do is pray, especially when we are all together for a meal. I'm not bragging, I think that this trait has very little to do with me. I think my only contribution to their prayoral pre-disposition is whatever little genetic defect that makes them fight with each other over who's turn it is to pray. The only childhood mealtime (or other time) prayer I consistently prayed was a silent one asking God that it please not be my turn to pray in front of everybody. I guess I have always felt inadequate that way. But I'm supposed to be talking about my children, not my emotional insecurities...
Back on track. So my children love to pray. Generally before each meal we select one to lead us in prayer. That child will pray, either in the form of a song called "God Our Father" that they learned in preschool, or just by saying something like "thank you God for our good food, and for Mommy and Daddy, and all the baseballs in the world, and for guitars...", etc. They can be very thankful for a lot of the things that we take for granted. They can even be thankful for things I'm not even sure exist, but that's for another story. Shannon and I are sick, remember?
So we'd done a very good job for the first part of the week keeping the house neat and clean. Dinners are served at the kitchen table (we have no dining room) around 6:30 or so instead of in the living room around 8:00. Meals consist of a small portion of lean meat (pork chop, chicken, roast beef, etc.) and at least one serving each of fruits and vegetables. Milk, water, and juice are our beverages, not pop or Kool Aid. Dishes are put not on the counter or in the sink, but in the dish washer after every meal. Homework is checked. The children are bathed and in bed by their appointed bedtime. Life is going pretty well and I'm feeling pretty good about our system. It's really working! Why haven't we been able to do this constantly before?
Then Friday morning hits. I have an alarm clock that is set to 7:00am. I don't need it. I get up every morning before 6:30 and promptly turn it off. I'm not sure that I had heard that alarm in years... Until Friday morning. The alarm is going off and I can't get out of bed. I can't move. I can't open my eyes. I can't do anything. I remember Shannon talking on the phone in the living room and I think I remember a Sixpence None the Richer CD playing at some point. That's about it. I never really got out of bed on Friday.
[Editor's note- This condition did not keep me from watching UK beat UAB on Friday night. I have a TV in my bedroom. It actually helped that the game started so late (9:50) because I'd been sleeping all day. I had no trouble staying awake, I was well rested (albeit still immobile).]
Come Saturday Shannon is feeling pretty bad, too. I took Friday off from cleaning or maintaining the house in any way, and Shannon had her hands full with the children, so the house is starting to lose its luster. Sunday comes and Shannon is feeling worse than she was on Saturday, and I'm not much better. Dishes are piling up. Laundry needs to be done. The trash needs to be taken out in the worst way. I just can't bring myself to care. Now the children are telling me that they need to eat.
And what do we have?
Nothing.
So I pack the kids up in the car and we go to the grocery. My head is pounding. I managed to keep it together for church and band practice, but I think my head will actually split open here in the grocery store. I'm trying to look at fresh produce. I'm trying to get good food. The kids want cookies. The kids want candy. The kids want donuts. The kids want Lunchables.
Hell, Lunchables aren't so bad. I can live with Lunchables, and it shuts them up. But they're on a roll and so somehow before we leave the grocery our cart manages to acquire the making of Root Beer floats. I'm not sure exactly how that happened. But we take our loot and go home for dinner.
Shannon's in bed and not interested in eating. My head hurts too bad to consider it. So I sit the children down at the table, open their Lunchables for them, and dinner is served.
I mentioned before that my children love to pray. That's actually not entirely true. The oldest two do, in fact, love to pray and will fight the other to the death for the opportunity to do so. I have thus far been unable to impress them with the irony in this. Caleb, the youngest, is only two and has thus far shown no interest in, or concept of, prayer.
Apparently the excitement of having Lunchables and Root Beer floats for dinner made Josh and Maggie forget, for a moment, their need to be the one to pray before dinner. Caleb took this opportunity and moved right in. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, folded his hands in front of him like a Precious Moments statuette, and said, "Thank you God my food." He then clapped enthusiasticly, with a devilish grin as though he had settled, once and for all, the issue of who would be praying at our dinner table.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
On a strange transitional object...
[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]
I've often heard that most children have a "transitional object". This is something dear to them, that often will remind them of their parents' love, and make them feel secure. Often these objects are blankets, and thus called "security blankets". I had a blanket that my grandmother made for me that served this purpose. My nephew had a stuffed duck. I don't recall what, if any, transitional objects Josh and Maggie (my two oldest children) had. Some children never have a transitional object, and so it is possible that neither of them did.
These objects are often clung to, especially in a new and unfamiliar environment. It is said that these objects essential provide a similar level of comfort to their possessor that having a parent with them would.
My youngest son Caleb has a transitional object. He sleeps with it. He takes it with him in his car seat. Everywhere Caleb goes, this object must be with him. If it isn't, there will be hell to pay for whoever is responsible for its absence.
This object is not a blanket. He has many blankets available to him, but he is indifferent to their presence unless he is cold.
This object is not a doll or stuffed animal. Both my wife and I have saved most of our childhood toys, especially dolls and stuffed animals. Our families have also purchased many dolls and stuffed animals for our children. We have more floating around our house than I could possibly keep track of. But Caleb is as indifferent to the dolls and stuffed animals as he is to the blankets. Unless it is one of Maggie's dolls and it would start a fight with her for him to take it.
What Caleb will not part with. For any reason. EVER. Is his lightsaber. Caleb has a toy lightsaber (several, actually- but only one that really serves as the transitional object) that we bought for him before he was born (we didn't want him to come into the family as the only one without a lightsaber). He takes it to school. He takes it to church. He takes it on trips. He takes it to bed. He watches movies holding it. It is never to be out of his sight. He quite simply will not live without it.
What a little geek I've raised. This father could not be more proud.
I've often heard that most children have a "transitional object". This is something dear to them, that often will remind them of their parents' love, and make them feel secure. Often these objects are blankets, and thus called "security blankets". I had a blanket that my grandmother made for me that served this purpose. My nephew had a stuffed duck. I don't recall what, if any, transitional objects Josh and Maggie (my two oldest children) had. Some children never have a transitional object, and so it is possible that neither of them did.
These objects are often clung to, especially in a new and unfamiliar environment. It is said that these objects essential provide a similar level of comfort to their possessor that having a parent with them would.
My youngest son Caleb has a transitional object. He sleeps with it. He takes it with him in his car seat. Everywhere Caleb goes, this object must be with him. If it isn't, there will be hell to pay for whoever is responsible for its absence.
This object is not a blanket. He has many blankets available to him, but he is indifferent to their presence unless he is cold.
This object is not a doll or stuffed animal. Both my wife and I have saved most of our childhood toys, especially dolls and stuffed animals. Our families have also purchased many dolls and stuffed animals for our children. We have more floating around our house than I could possibly keep track of. But Caleb is as indifferent to the dolls and stuffed animals as he is to the blankets. Unless it is one of Maggie's dolls and it would start a fight with her for him to take it.
What Caleb will not part with. For any reason. EVER. Is his lightsaber. Caleb has a toy lightsaber (several, actually- but only one that really serves as the transitional object) that we bought for him before he was born (we didn't want him to come into the family as the only one without a lightsaber). He takes it to school. He takes it to church. He takes it on trips. He takes it to bed. He watches movies holding it. It is never to be out of his sight. He quite simply will not live without it.
What a little geek I've raised. This father could not be more proud.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
An ominous start to the day...
[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]
Caleb wakes up at around 3:00 some mornings just wanting to be held and loved. Josh and Maggie went through the same thing at his age. I don't know if it's night terrors or what, but about once or twice a week Caleb will revert to being an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night.
On a good night, his mother or I will go into his room, talk to him, comfort him, hold him for a few minutes, and put him back in his bed. On a bad night, we'll just bring him back to our bed with us and try to go back to sleep. On these nights, Caleb never has trouble going back to sleep. We might.
Caleb likes to sprawl. He just stretches out and gets comfortable. He also, for whatever reason, really likes the headboard on our bed. He likes to touch it. He likes to press himself up against it. He likes to maintain constant contact with it and both of his parents. This means that Caleb will often, if given the chance, be found laying perpendicular to us across our faces and pillows in the middle of the night. It is for this reason that we are much more likely to get him back to sleep in his bed than ours. We've been down this road before (with Josh and Maggie) and we don't like it.
Last night Caleb was pitiful, and I was weak. I brought him to bed with me. I snuggled up with him and got him back to sleep in a relatively reasonable position. All was good.
I made, however, two crucial mistakes.
1). I didn't account for his ability to squirm in his (and our) sleep and get into his preferred position laying against the headboard.
2). I did not check the condition of his diaper or change it.
This morning I awoke to Caleb laying across my pillow, with pee all over it and him.
That's right, my pillow had been peed on.
I actually have two pillows on the bed that are mine. When I go to sleep they are stacked one on top of the other. I often have allergy issues and difficulty breathing, so propping my head up a little helps me to go to sleep. I am a fairly "active" sleeper, however, so my pillows do not often stay in the position in which I left them when I went to sleep. Due to this trait, only one of my pillows was peed on. The other fell harmlessly to the floor in the middle of the night.
The five of us (Shannon, Josh, Maggie, Caleb, and myself) are not the only living creatures in our house. We also possess a dog (Abby) and three cats (Cheddar, Colby-Jack, and Winky). Having so many living creatures in one house means that often somebody is not getting the attention they feel they deserve. This usually culminates in someone "acting out" to obtain attention. Apparently bad attention is still attention, and when attention-starved it will do nicely. When one of the children is attention starved, he or she will generally pick a fight with a sibling or get into something that they know they aren't supposed to. When one of the animals is attention starved, they often will just pee or poop on something.
This morning, one of the cats apparently was not paid enough attention. I'm not sure which one, and so I guess whoever-it-was's plan for attention failed, as I gave it none, not knowing who to give the attention (read: punishment) to. But one of the cats peed on something. And not just anything, but something extraordinarily important to me, especially in light of what happened in the middle of the night.
That's right, the damned cat peed on my other pillow.
I can tell that this is going to be the kind of day that I would be better just going back to bed and sleeping through. I'll try the whole thing again tomorrow, right?
Well I would, except what would I use for a pillow?
Caleb wakes up at around 3:00 some mornings just wanting to be held and loved. Josh and Maggie went through the same thing at his age. I don't know if it's night terrors or what, but about once or twice a week Caleb will revert to being an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night.
On a good night, his mother or I will go into his room, talk to him, comfort him, hold him for a few minutes, and put him back in his bed. On a bad night, we'll just bring him back to our bed with us and try to go back to sleep. On these nights, Caleb never has trouble going back to sleep. We might.
Caleb likes to sprawl. He just stretches out and gets comfortable. He also, for whatever reason, really likes the headboard on our bed. He likes to touch it. He likes to press himself up against it. He likes to maintain constant contact with it and both of his parents. This means that Caleb will often, if given the chance, be found laying perpendicular to us across our faces and pillows in the middle of the night. It is for this reason that we are much more likely to get him back to sleep in his bed than ours. We've been down this road before (with Josh and Maggie) and we don't like it.
Last night Caleb was pitiful, and I was weak. I brought him to bed with me. I snuggled up with him and got him back to sleep in a relatively reasonable position. All was good.
I made, however, two crucial mistakes.
1). I didn't account for his ability to squirm in his (and our) sleep and get into his preferred position laying against the headboard.
2). I did not check the condition of his diaper or change it.
This morning I awoke to Caleb laying across my pillow, with pee all over it and him.
That's right, my pillow had been peed on.
I actually have two pillows on the bed that are mine. When I go to sleep they are stacked one on top of the other. I often have allergy issues and difficulty breathing, so propping my head up a little helps me to go to sleep. I am a fairly "active" sleeper, however, so my pillows do not often stay in the position in which I left them when I went to sleep. Due to this trait, only one of my pillows was peed on. The other fell harmlessly to the floor in the middle of the night.
The five of us (Shannon, Josh, Maggie, Caleb, and myself) are not the only living creatures in our house. We also possess a dog (Abby) and three cats (Cheddar, Colby-Jack, and Winky). Having so many living creatures in one house means that often somebody is not getting the attention they feel they deserve. This usually culminates in someone "acting out" to obtain attention. Apparently bad attention is still attention, and when attention-starved it will do nicely. When one of the children is attention starved, he or she will generally pick a fight with a sibling or get into something that they know they aren't supposed to. When one of the animals is attention starved, they often will just pee or poop on something.
This morning, one of the cats apparently was not paid enough attention. I'm not sure which one, and so I guess whoever-it-was's plan for attention failed, as I gave it none, not knowing who to give the attention (read: punishment) to. But one of the cats peed on something. And not just anything, but something extraordinarily important to me, especially in light of what happened in the middle of the night.
That's right, the damned cat peed on my other pillow.
I can tell that this is going to be the kind of day that I would be better just going back to bed and sleeping through. I'll try the whole thing again tomorrow, right?
Well I would, except what would I use for a pillow?
Friday, January 27, 2006
"Maggie's Dad" vs. Allan Holdsworth: May the best parent of a pre-schooler win
[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]
Do you know who this man is?
Do you know who this man is?I have recently emerged from behind the shelter of my "I-don't-really-play-all-that-many-solo-gigs-anymore" shell to perform what is becoming something of an annual event.
Yes, I've played for pre-schoolers again. How bad-ass-rocker is that?
It seems now that every year one of my children (or perhaps their mother) lets slip that not only does their father (or husband, depending upon who it is that actually squealed) play guitar in a band and lead worship at a church (it is a Baptist pre-school, after all) but he also has an extensive catalog of Veggie Tales songs at his disposal with which he is proned to entertain his children for hours (well... minutes actually, they are quite young and short of attention span; and let's face it, I'm not all that captivating) on end. So weeks of discussions about schedules and whatnot led to my epic three song set at Porter Memorial Pre-school today.
As far as gigs (at least the ones that I am likely to get with my apathetic self promotion abilities) go this one was not so bad. The children can't tell the difference between me and any other guitarist, so it could have very well been Allan Holdsworth who came to their school for all they cared. Actually, they probably thought I was cooler than Allan Holdsworth, because I was "Maggie's Dad", which apparently carries with it a great deal of inherent credibility.
[Editor's note- It is herein acknowledged with much regret that no school aged children, whatever their grade, are unlikely to consider Allan Holdsworth as anything other than "some old guy". However, to the writer Allan Holdsworth is regarded quite reverently as being perhaps the absolute coolest being to have ever walked the planet and one of the most amazing and influential instrumentalists of all time. It is for this reason that Allan Holdsworth is mentioned above in the manner in which he is. If you are unfamiliar with his work, do not let me find out about it. That would subject you no more hours than you would likely prefer to spend listening to a master guitarist incomparably perform his craft. Ask my wife. She'll tell you.]
The pre-school gig is far better than some of the other gigs I've played in recent years, ranging from the "solo-acoustic-coffee-shop-gig-for-tips-only-yielding-roughly-seventy-five-cents-in-nickels-as-payment-after-playing-unaccompanied-and-without-a-break-for-the-last-three-hours" gig, to the "it's-for-a-good-cause-so-why-not-play-an-hour-and-a-half-set-outdoors-in-thirty-degree-weather-while-ill-to-the-point-that-singing-is-a-great-yet-totally-unintelligible-adventure-and-oh-yeah-did-I-mention-the-next-band-no-showed-because-of-the-weather-so-could-you-possibly-play-for-another-hour-you're-such-a-good-sport" gig, to my all time favorite gig as the opening act for Karaoke Night at a Louisville pub. [Editor's note- This in no way indicates that I either engaged in the performance of or endorse in any way the engagement in karaoke. My band was merely booked to play at the pub on the same night of and to play immediately before Karaoke Night. We were the "warm up" act. The clientelle of the bar engaged in that unfortunate practice. We did not.] That was my brother's last gig as my booking agent. He would argue that it was a success because we did actually get paid. I've never in my life needed money that bad (well... apparently that isn't completely true; we did play the gig, after all).
The point (insomuch as there is a point, I guess) is that as the years have passed, I have found myself not needing to prove myself by gigging all of the time just for gigging's sake. I now do it rarely, and for fun. I can not imagine much more fun than playing for a group of my daughter's friends who honestly could not tell the difference between me and a rock star. They honestly would not have been more impressed if (let's pick somebody who's actually a "star" this time, instead of one of my idols) John Mayer came to play for their class. It doesn't get much more "rock star" to a group of four-year-olds than knowing how to play Veggie Tales songs. And they're one demographic I don't mind playing to.
Yes, I've played for pre-schoolers again. How bad-ass-rocker is that?
It seems now that every year one of my children (or perhaps their mother) lets slip that not only does their father (or husband, depending upon who it is that actually squealed) play guitar in a band and lead worship at a church (it is a Baptist pre-school, after all) but he also has an extensive catalog of Veggie Tales songs at his disposal with which he is proned to entertain his children for hours (well... minutes actually, they are quite young and short of attention span; and let's face it, I'm not all that captivating) on end. So weeks of discussions about schedules and whatnot led to my epic three song set at Porter Memorial Pre-school today.
As far as gigs (at least the ones that I am likely to get with my apathetic self promotion abilities) go this one was not so bad. The children can't tell the difference between me and any other guitarist, so it could have very well been Allan Holdsworth who came to their school for all they cared. Actually, they probably thought I was cooler than Allan Holdsworth, because I was "Maggie's Dad", which apparently carries with it a great deal of inherent credibility.
[Editor's note- It is herein acknowledged with much regret that no school aged children, whatever their grade, are unlikely to consider Allan Holdsworth as anything other than "some old guy". However, to the writer Allan Holdsworth is regarded quite reverently as being perhaps the absolute coolest being to have ever walked the planet and one of the most amazing and influential instrumentalists of all time. It is for this reason that Allan Holdsworth is mentioned above in the manner in which he is. If you are unfamiliar with his work, do not let me find out about it. That would subject you no more hours than you would likely prefer to spend listening to a master guitarist incomparably perform his craft. Ask my wife. She'll tell you.]
The pre-school gig is far better than some of the other gigs I've played in recent years, ranging from the "solo-acoustic-coffee-shop-gig-for-tips-only-yielding-roughly-seventy-five-cents-in-nickels-as-payment-after-playing-unaccompanied-and-without-a-break-for-the-last-three-hours" gig, to the "it's-for-a-good-cause-so-why-not-play-an-hour-and-a-half-set-outdoors-in-thirty-degree-weather-while-ill-to-the-point-that-singing-is-a-great-yet-totally-unintelligible-adventure-and-oh-yeah-did-I-mention-the-next-band-no-showed-because-of-the-weather-so-could-you-possibly-play-for-another-hour-you're-such-a-good-sport" gig, to my all time favorite gig as the opening act for Karaoke Night at a Louisville pub. [Editor's note- This in no way indicates that I either engaged in the performance of or endorse in any way the engagement in karaoke. My band was merely booked to play at the pub on the same night of and to play immediately before Karaoke Night. We were the "warm up" act. The clientelle of the bar engaged in that unfortunate practice. We did not.] That was my brother's last gig as my booking agent. He would argue that it was a success because we did actually get paid. I've never in my life needed money that bad (well... apparently that isn't completely true; we did play the gig, after all).
The point (insomuch as there is a point, I guess) is that as the years have passed, I have found myself not needing to prove myself by gigging all of the time just for gigging's sake. I now do it rarely, and for fun. I can not imagine much more fun than playing for a group of my daughter's friends who honestly could not tell the difference between me and a rock star. They honestly would not have been more impressed if (let's pick somebody who's actually a "star" this time, instead of one of my idols) John Mayer came to play for their class. It doesn't get much more "rock star" to a group of four-year-olds than knowing how to play Veggie Tales songs. And they're one demographic I don't mind playing to.
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