It's Not Just Sticks and Stones!

If anyone needs an explicit list of things that a 6-year-old boy who is supposedly recovering from a broken arm should not be doing, I can provide you with one.

I can also accommodate you with a list of sisters who were sentenced to hard labor for being accomplices to their brothers' crimes.

Broken Arms, Wounded Thumbs, and Pains a Little Less Physical

A broken arm may be even harder to deal with when it happens to your sibling.

As tragically crippled N has been the talk of the town and eager recipient of phone calls and letters and visits from teachers and friends for the last couple of weeks, healthy, irrelevant L has been struggling with graciously playing second fiddle. Progressively more gloomy and bitter, she had taken to pouting and foot stomping, with bouts of stubbornness and occasional entirely out-of-proportion emotional breakdowns over ludicrously trivial things. Stacy, who had borne the brunt of the woe-is-mes Monday through Friday and was wearing thin, was having her own emotional challenges to work through. Mr. Dick Wahler, her long time neighbor and husband of her beloved friend Helen passed away last week a month shy of his 93rd birthday - the funeral was to be this afternoon and Stacy was to play the piano. Sad and stressed, she had little patience for a drama queen who'd lost her court.

This morning L had a 9:00am choir rehearsal so I decided to give Mommy a break and take her to her practice, but first, to make an L-centered event out of it, we would have a Daddy/Daughter Breakfast. We left the house (and Mommy, and that insufferably wounded 6-year-old) at 7:30 and drove to a little diner on the way to her practice. L, all bubbly and buzzed, was a far cry from the goth child of moments before. At least until we got to the diner and she slammed her thumb in the car door in the parking lot. Without hesitation every woe of ages past descended anew and the meltdown was superb. I can't doubt that it hurt, but the display of unbridled agony demanded far more blood and gore than the slight indention evident on her thumb. I flailed about trying ineffectively to de-escalate the situation, alternating wildly between cuddling and cooing on one hand, and threatening additional severed digits or limbs on the other. I'm not sure exactly what transpired to bring heads to a cooler state; it probably had something to do with the waitress, sympathetic to my plight, who soundlessly mouthed "Hot chocolate?" to me while gesturing toward L. Cocoa always brings the world back into perspective.

Having recovered, our breakfast was breezy and bright again and the world was a happy place.

Joy restored.

Displaying the horrifically mangled digit.

The scene of the crime.

L demonstrates safe door-closing technique.

We got to the community college where L's choir meets with a half hour to spare. L quickly and graciously accepted my invitation to take a walk around the campus while we waited. Being early on a Saturday morning the place was fairly deserted. Nevertheless as we wandered by the art building we noticed that it was open, so we slipped inside and pursued the cases of student sculpture that line most of the hallways. I was a little amused at the works. Most were graphic and distorted and were clearly full-hearted (if misguided) attempts at being disturbing. Lots of half-melted skulls and mangled, severed body parts --apparently a theme I wasn't fated to escape this month. Aside from one particularly savage sculpture of a ravenous flesh-rending dinosaur, L thought the pieces rather "gross."

Eventually L was delivered to her class and I putzed around the ethnic markets in the neighborhood for the two hours I had to kill before retrieving her. (My weird purchases for the day were "almond oil" from the Arabic market, and "ginger tea," which was really more like ginger jelly from the Japanese grocery.) When we got home Stacy was all puffy-eyed when she greeted us at the door, and I assumed she was dwelling on Dick's upcoming funeral that afternoon. But she pulled me aside out of earshot of the kids and broke some more bad news. Her grandfather Lefty Harris had died that morning. Evidently it had been quick and peaceful, and at age 90 no one could argue it was unexpected or a death out-of-season - but it was a blow.

There's a blessing to busyness, and we only had a few minutes to eat and change before heading up to Burbank. The traffic on the way to the Wahler funeral was horrible, so with all the griping and complaining we were able to extract from that we all kept pretty well focused on other things and reasonably composed. It was only L, who internalizes stress in ways I haven't yet come to understand, who, once we got to the church, betrayed that all was not well. She began complaining about her stomach and retreated to the sour and bitter attitude of earlier in the day. Her maladies were forgotten when Aunt Claudia and Grandma arrived or Uncle Kyle showed up, but once she was alone again and thinking, her stomach came to the forefront. "I'm not sad about Grampa Dick or GGPA (Lefty)," she quickly disclaimed through her tears, though no one had suggested she was; "My tummy just hurts a lot." After the funeral Stacy took N downstairs to the reception, and I took L outside for a walk and some fresh air. We ended up just sitting on the church's front steps while she cried in my lap. All because of her tummy, of course.

Twelve Cheers for Twelve Years

Tomorrow will mark twelve years of marriage to a truly wonderful woman. It astounds me what a quick and easy twelve years it has been. Sure, we've had our share misunderstandings and hurt feelings (generally caused by we-all-know-who), but in the course of twelve years, we've never had a full-on fight.  We are amazingly aligned, compatible, and comfortable with each other.  I love her beyond words.

Nevertheless, here are some words giving the top twelve reasons why, in no particular order.

1. She models gentleness and compassion to our children.

Sure, L and N are occasionally hired by Lucifer himself to do his bidding, but in general they are sweet, gentle, content and loving children.  Mommy's grace, for sure.

2. She chooses to find my idiosyncrasies amusing rather than infuriating.

Stacy:  Steve, where did you put the tea?
Me:  Huh?  It's right where it belongs - filed in the pantry under "T", next to the toilet paper. Duh!

3. She loves old people.

I would estimate that 50% of Stacy's best friends are in their 70s, 80s or 90s. She drinks in their stories, skills and talents, and finds joy in being with them. (This bodes well for me, as I aspire to become one.)

4. Her beauty is displayed in elegant reserve and modesty. 

Aside from an occasional attack of candy-cane colored hair, her wardrobe and accouterments are subtle, elegant and enhance her naturally beauty rather than distract from it.

5. She loves my parents and they love her.

This probably aligns with her ability to handle cranky old bats.  (See #3). Yes, Mom, I'm talking about you...

6. Her quiet faith preaches to me loudly.

Her self-discipline is never bragged about, but it is very convicting nonetheless.  Folly pains her.  I'll laugh when people do stupid things; she'll cry.

7. At the end of the day she is happy to see me even when I'm a nasty, bitter, jaded %@$#&*.

Stacy:  You're home!
Me:  #^$%@!!!
Stacy:  I love you too!

Again, this probably aligns with #3 and #5.

8. She's a fantastic cook.

You probably haven't noticed, but I've put on a little weight in the last 12 years...

9. She handles telemarketers much better than I do.

I'll be on the phone for an hour hearing about new synthetic roof shingles before getting the courage to just hang up.  Stacy will too, but by the end of it she's learned all about the telemarketer's recent bout with cancer, his struggles with inadequacy and self-doubt, and how he thinks that maybe he can make a fresh start after all.

10. She would go to Maine in December if I really wanted her to. 

Though she's made it very clear that I don't really want to.

11. She very rarely nags, so when she does, it's usually worth paying attention to.

Stacy:  Steve, you're coughing up blood again. Don't you think it's time to see a doctor?
Me:  <cough, cough, gurgle>

12. Her works praise her in the city gates.

Stacy has become the defacto public front for our family. The amount of good-will and pleasant service we get from store clerks, doctors' office staff, and the public in general varies greatly depending on whether it's Stacy or I who are doing the face-work. People I've never met before give me instant "good guy" credit simply because they know Stacy.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart!  I love you.

"Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.”
--Proverbs 31:29

Our Laundry Basket is Punxsutawney Filled

Stacy was feeling a little under the weather this afternoon, so she retreated to the bedroom to take a nap.  A short while later I was working at my computer in the kitchen/office when I realized that the door to the bedroom hallway was shut and behind the door I could hear L belting out what appeared to be a speech or announcement in the most stentorian tones she could generate.  Furious at her callousness to her mother's headache I dramatically flung open the door and stormed into the hallway ready to decapitate her.  I found her frozen in mid-presentation and I quickly realized she wasn't alone.  L stood at the end of the hall next to the laundry basket, and the guilty eyes of N were peeking over the rim.

"What are you doing?" I bellowed, allowing myself all the noise I was about to wring her neck for.

"We're playing Groundhog Day.  N is Punxsutawney Phil and I just pulled him out of his house." she replied. "And there's six more weeks of winter."

Be All That You Can, Bee

You're wise not to be too rigid in your expectations when downloading a camera in our house. You should expect the unexpected. This time it seems we've gotten a bee's-eye view of the world...

♪  ♫  "I like bee's butts and I cannot lie..."  ♫  ♪  

In post-download questioning L says she found a bee that was acting a little lethargic and she tried to "help" it.  Photographic evidence suggests she poked and prodded it for about an hour before offering it a flower, which seemed much to its liking.

There were also about 70 pictures N's nostrils. I'll spare you those.

That Doesn't Look Normal...

N decided to take it to the next level at gymnastics today...

This could be a set-back for Rio in 2016.

Lesson of the Day:  Bad things happen when you sneak over to swing on bars you weren't given permission to use.

NOW he's smiling...   He won't be once he's recovered enough for Daddy to deal with him.  

Surviving A Mild Art Attack

Over the fall I had been trying to expand the kid's horizons in the world of art. Risking a technicolor backyard, I set them up on the patio, bedecked them in plastic wrap, and let the kids go to town with my some of my oil paints. Both kids were really jazzed to play with my supplies, but I made L take it seriously. I had her come up with a source picture - a study for what she wanted to paint. True to form, she came up with a sketch of her favorite topic - mermaid life. (She has notebooks and notebooks devoted to her hand sketches of mermaids from every tribe and nation.)

Once she had the source drawing laid out the way she wanted it, she transferred the sketch to a canvas I provided and we began the dirty work of applying pigment.

N found it an interesting diversion for a half an hour or so, and he got reasonably far along on the little paint-a-truck kit he had before he wandered off to smear something valuable with burnt sienna. But L really took to it. She was locked in and did a great job of mixing and blending and deciding the color layout of her piece.

We talked about how the light would fall and whether you'd expect ocean water to be brighter at the top or bottom. We discussed whether it would be better to start with lighter colors and then add the dark or the other way around.

And finally we got an opportunity to practice patience once everything on the canvas was wet and wouldn't allow any further working without getting a large, smeary mess. We packed up for the day with a good mermaid start, and a week or so later set up again for a second working. (N found some other form of self-expression to occupy him this time.)

Over the Christmas break we got out the almost-finished masterpiece one last time, and Daddy gave her the sacred signature brush. With a deft blobbing of the hand the work was signed and dated and L took on the title "accomplished artist," having actually completed a full work.

When I was sorting out my painting supplies earlier in the fall I came across a frame I'd bought a year or so ago when I bought in bulk all the suppies of a lady who was giving up painting. It was just the right size and complemented the painting perfectly. I gave her the frame this evening and we mounted it. Someone was quite proud of the finished product.

L insisted that it be hung in Stacy and my bedroom that we might admire it perpetually.