My Penance for Failing to Get a Mother’s Day Card

It’s just not time for Christmas. Easter is passé.
July the Fourth and fireworks are several months away.
Halloween’s too creepy; Boxing day: obscure.
You don’t get into Kwanzaa; Leap year: so unsure.

Labor Day sounds worksome. Flag day feels strung out.
Columbus makes you seasick. (April 1st is just plain out.)
Father’s Day: transgendered. Thanksgiving? ... getting warm.
Arbor Day? Potential -- had you lived on a farm.

Mother’s Day is over; your birthday: months ahead,
Memorial Day’s in a week or two (but that implies you’re dead.)
Valentine’s is jaded; Earth Day’s not your thing
St. Patrick’s Day is taken. Ditto M.L. King

I've run the year in circles; I’m coming to conclude,
There’s just no day worth choosing that strikes that perfect mood.
No day to mark the standard. No day to set the tone.
No day that’s even-handed. No day that’s all your own.

This can't be "luck" or "chances". An oversight? Can't be!
This must have been deliberate. Intended cruelty!
A slight of great proportion. A snub of epic scope!
An injustice unforgiven; But, wait! … I think there's hope.

There's still a way to fix it -- a remedy, I feel
I think we can address it, and start to grow and heal.
Though culture may have faltered and failed to homage pay
I’ll remedy that error, and declare it "Stacy Day"!

Flor-abundance

The months (yes, months) of blood, sweat and tears during the marathon 9-month sprinkler installation are finally paying off. Now that we've had 6 months of regular watering the yard is starting make it all worthwhile. This has been the best our roses have ever looked, and just about everything makes it past the two-week mark that was the previous life expectancy of anything I planted.

That we don't forget the sufferings of the past:

Tea for Two

I stayed home from work this morning and as is usually my morning custom, I made a pot of tea. L tasted mine and said she wanted some. I poured her a little mug and added a decent amount of sugar to make it more to her liking. When she took her first sip her eyes lit up.

"There's a little bit of special treat mixed in mine! " she said, "You can taste it!"

The Lights are On and Everybody's Home

Saturday mornings used to be sacred. Saturday mornings were when the world was simple, pure and delightful. Saturday mornings were the Age of Aquarius, the Millennial Kingdom, the Golden Age, and the Temporal Utopia, all rolled into one -- at least between 5am and 8am. That was when I was the only one up in the house and I had those few precious, solitary, peaceful, quiet, utterly lovely hours all to myself.

All that has changed now. Like a biological Loch Ness monster, some long dormant gene in L has raised its ugly head from the sleepy depths of her chromosomal pool, such that now nothing, including genes, stays dormant in our house beyond 5am on any given morning. On good days I am awakened at 5:00am (5:30am at the outside), to WAAAAY too loud and cheerful songs, filled with joy and chipperness, as L sings N awake with her 3-year-old off-key caterwaul, in a what I can only think of as a twisted, inverted Mary Poppins thing.

Less welcome are the mornings I awake to the clanking of pots and pans and other riotous noises from the kitchen. As I lumber down the hall in the dregs of my ursine half-hibernation I'm greeted with every light in the entire house full-ablaze. The kitchen is usually dripping on all sides as L has pulled out half of all our cookware and filled it with water (L's rather thin version of oatmeal). There are often plates or bowls at each spot on the table, commonly chock full of soggy Cheerios and milk or some other such foul cereal pudding. You can always tell how full (and heavy) the milk jugs were (emphasis on the past tense), by the size of the white pool at the base of the refrigerator door.

Yes, yes. Her love for her brother and family is touching, and her desire to assist her Mommy is charming, and all that garbage. But can't the daily assault hold back for just another hour or two?

I want to join a union just so I can file a grievance.

Pleasing the Piano Critic

They say those who can't do, teach. I was playing the piano a bit after dinner tonight while L played on the floor of the living room beside me. I was playing a song I hadn't played in a while and it was pretty rusty. Every time I hit a wrong note (a "clunker" as Pastor Greg calls them), L would jump up and say, "No, Daddy. That's not the right one. It's down here." And then she'd go hit some random bass note, then return to her game, quite pleased with herself.

Also this evening I noticed some little black dots on N's arms. I didn't think much of it until I happened into the dining room and caught Dr. L in consultation with her patient. She had N sitting in his chair and had his arm extended. She held a black ballpoint pen against his outstretched arm and said, "This won't hurt at all." At that point she thumbed the spring-loaded button at the end of the pen giving N his ink dot "shot".

I had to pretend not to notice so that I wouldn't have to tell her to stop.

Nevertheless I probably should be looking into malpractice insurance.

My First Commission

I've finished my first "commissioned" oil painting, a scene of a pirate ship running in the Mediterranean with Gibraltar off in the background. It's for my friend Evan McCallum at work. It is a copy based on a picture he found online somewhere. Enclosed below is the original source picture.



I wasn't sure I was going to like this painting, but as it gelled I grew to like it more and more and now I'm very happy with it. I think the waves in the original are still a lot better than mine, but mine aren't too bad. I'm glad I have no room left in our house or I would have a hard time giving it away!

Every Rose Has Its Thorn...

...and N seems to have found most of them.

A head dive off the garden path yesterday left N looking a little worse for the wear. I'm not too worried. His future as a GQ model might have just taken a detour, but he'll still have plenty of positive opportunities before him. I can, for example, just stick bolts on the side of his neck for Halloween this year. He can make big bucks playing Victim #8 in Freddy Krueger Decimates Dallas. At any zoo he's free to crawl into the tiger cage, because the cats will all assume he's already been mauled.

By the way, anybody know of any cute little 1-year-old girls with a shock of white hair running down the middle?