Yes, I am a Mormon. Yes, I live in Utah. But no, I do not have more than one wife.
It just seems that way.
The Mormon church quit practicing polygamy a long time ago. (1890, to be exact.) That's over 120 years ago. And yet, when some people hear the word "Mormon," they feel compelled to say, "So, how many wives you got?" (And then they stand there with a smug look on their face like they just uttered the funniest sentence in the history of the human race.) (They didn't.) (I'm not sure what the funniest sentence uttered in the history of the human race is, but I'm pretty sure it involves the word "poop.") (Or maybe "horticulture.")
As Mormons, we try to educate the world that we are normal-ish, one-wife-loving people. The 2002 Winter Olympics were a great opportunity to get that message out. There are occasionally profiles about the church on television shows like 60 Minutes, or magazines like Time or Newsweek. Or sometimes we'll trot out Steve Young as our example of Mormonhood. (Isn't it sad that we're still using Steve Young for this? He retired over 12 years ago, after the 1999 season. Shouldn't we have had another talented, handsome BYU quarterback to hold up as an example by now? John Beck and Max Hall, you've really dropped the ball!) (Often literally.)
But, every time we make some progress along those lines, Hollywood comes along and puts out a show like Big Love or Sister Wives. (Yes, I'm blaming Hollywood for all of our problems.) (That last parenthetical notation was sarcasm, by the way.) (Hollywood is really responsible for only 64% of our problems.)
I've never seen any episodes of Big Love because I am too cheap to pay for HBO, Showtime, or whatever station used to air that show. And, despite what my DVR might tell you, I haven't seen more than three minutes of Sister Wives. My wife, her mother, and her sisters all like to watch that show. If I walk into the room and it is on, I'll find myself something more entertaining to do, like maybe the dishes.
They say they like Sister Wives for the "train wreck" aspect of it. Me, if I want to see a train wreck, I'll watch an actual train wreck. Or a Minnesota Vikings playoff game.
Personally, I can't fathom being married to more than one woman. It took me forever to find one woman crazy enough to marry me, let alone several. And yet, sometimes it seems like I have several wives.
A couple of weeks ago I took my family to the zoo. It ended up looking like a trip with a polygamist clan. Besides me, there was my wife and two kids; my wife's sister and her two kids (her husband is in the army and is currently deployed); my wife's sister's friend and two of her kids (separated from her husband); my wife's mother (her husband at work); and my wife's mother's friend (her husband at work.)
So, for those of you counting at home, that's one man, five women, and six kids. My very own "Sister Wives" troop! (And, for those of you wondering about the generation gap, because of the "scandalous" age difference between my wife and I, I'm actually slightly closer in age to her mother than to my wife, so the whole thing is somewhat feasible.)
I find myself in these "Sister Wife" situations frequently. Partly because of my work schedule. (I work two day shifts and two evening shifts per week, giving me either five days or five evenings a week to go out with my troop.) And partly because my wife's family is so female-centric. (She is one of three sisters, with no brothers. The only man in the family, her father, works a standard five-day work week, and is often busy on the weekends doing volunteer communications work for local search and rescue.)
The funny thing is, the zoo trip didn't include probably my most frequent "Sister Wife," my wife's other sister, the single one who lives in our basement apartment. Other occasional members of my clan include my wife's aunt, when she visits from New York; my sister, when she visits from Idaho; and my adult niece when she visits from Washington.
Do I like being surrounded by attractive, intelligent women? Of course I do! Would I want to be married to them all? Oh heck no!!! One wife is a-plenty for me!
Because there are so many women in my life, I often find myself in very feminine-istic situations. The other day I went with some of them to a place where we painted ceramics. Yes, I was painting ceramics. Even tonight my wife and one of her sisters are upstairs playing Barbies with their daughters. I had to take Buzz and escape downstairs to finish this column and maintain a little hint of my masculinity.
My "Sister Wives" are great and all, but there are times when I wish I had some more "Bro Dudes" to hang out with to watch some games and belch and fart with. Who knows, maybe the Vikings will make the playoffs this year so me and my "Bro Dudes" could watch a train wreck of our very own.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Slow Joe, the Marathon Man
I was watching the Olympics, and it got me thinking about my own athletic prowess. And then, after that daydream ended, I thought about my actual athletic achievements. Such as they were.
My first attempt at organized athletics came when I tried out for the 7th grade basketball team. I thought I had a pretty good chance of making the team. I was fairly tall, and...well, that was about my best qualification.
When it came time for the actual tryout, I had a rude awakening. When the coach had us run "killers" (from end line to foul line and back, then to half court and back, then far foul line and back, and finally to the other end line and back) I finished second to last, just barely ahead of the fat kid. (And everyone else was moving on to the next drill before the two of us finished.) I was not athletic. And I didn't make it past the first cut.
There's a reason they call me "Slow Joe from Arimo."
When 9th grade rolled around, I thought I'd try out for the football team. Unfortunately, tryouts started two weeks before school did, and I did not know this. But, in a way, it was a good thing I missed tryouts, because that's when I learned about the cross country team. Desperate for runners, the cross country coach (also the high school basketball coach) asked the few who weren't on the football team if they would be interested in running. I was.
I was definitely the tortoise from the tortoise and the hare. At basketball tryouts they needed fast rabbits, but for the three-mile cross country course, the slow and steady turtle could win the race. Not that I actually won any races. But, I did finish 10th in the Junior Varsity district finals, which, for me, was pretty good. Maybe, by the time I was a senior I could be good at this.
But then the cross country team was dropped after my freshman year due to budget concerns and lack of interest.
That left the track team my only option for athletic achievement in high school. My old joke about being on the track team went like this:
Me: I'm on the track team.
Other person: Oh, really? What do you run?
Me: Slow.
The longer the race, the more I could hide my lack of speed. But, the longest events at track were the mile and two-mile races. I was too slow to be any good at them. And that was the extent of my athletic career.
Until ten years ago. That's when I thought it would be a good idea to try to run a marathon.
At the time, I was pushing 36 years of age. I had just gotten on an exercising kick. I lost about 40 pounds and was working out regularly on an elliptical trainer. I went to visit some friends, and they were going to run a 5K race that day. I figured I was in the best shape I had been in since high school, so I told them I would run with them. After all, 5K is just a little more than three miles, and with all the work I'd been doing on the elliptical, that shouldn't be a problem at all.
I quickly learned that there is a big difference between working out on an elliptical and actually running. But, I did manage to finish the race. My friend then told me he was planning on running a marathon in September. (The 5K run happened in March.) I decided, what the heck, I'd run the marathon with him.
So, over the next several months, I ran to train for the marathon. I would usually run five miles at a time, and I would do this about three times a week. (I later learned that to actually train for an actual marathon, this was not nearly enough.)
And then, it was time for the marathon. The marathon my friend (Daren) and I chose to run in was the Top of Utah Marathon in Logan, Utah. The race starts 13 miles up a country road, so we parked in the city and they took us by bus to where the race was to start.
It was a bit surreal before the race started, because all I can remember are buses and port-a-potties. There were the dozens of school buses that brought all the participants to the starting area, and then there were about 40 port-a-potties. And each of those port-a-potties had a line of about twenty people waiting to get into them. It's not something I would have thought of beforehand, but when you have over 1100 people who are about to run for over 26 miles, all of those people are going to want to go to the bathroom right before the race.
I had never seen so many port-a-potties at the same time. And there weren't nearly enough of them.
The race started, and I didn't feel very good. I was even more slower and sluggish than normal. Finally, about three miles into the race, I was able to get into a bit of a groove. Daren ran with me. It was his second marathon, and even though he could have easily gone at a faster pace, he chose to stay with me at my pace to keep me company.
It's a good thing he did. When I got to about mile 17, my body was done. I was ready to quit. But, Daren stayed with me. He kept telling me, "Let's just walk to the next mile marker, and then you can decide if you want to keep going." And, when we reached that mile marker, he would talk me in to walking to the next one. Finally, when we got to mile 20, I knew I had come too far to give up, and that I was going to finish the race.
At that point, 60 year old women were passing me, and 8 year old kids were passing me. I didn't care as long as I reached the finish line.
But then, it became a race against time. At six hours they take down all the barricades and such off of the roads and most of the marathon volunteers leave their posts. So, we had to push it to get to the finish line before the six hour cutoff.
I finally managed to cross the finish line five hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-two seconds from when I started. I finished in 1,078th place (out of 1,130 finishers.) 633 men finished ahead of me, and 444 women finished ahead of me (many of them over the age of 60.) But, I don't care because I finished.
I can now and forever say that I ran a marathon! (Okay, I ran and walked a marathon.) Regardless of how I did it, I did do it. The results are on the internet and everything! (And the internet is forever.)
After finishing my marathon, I thought that maybe in a few years I'd try it again. But do better. Ten years have since gone by, and I now realize that it's never going to happen. I'm too old. (Yes, I know that people older than 46 run marathons all the time. Believe me I know, because I saw all those 60 year old women pass me on the course.) But, my feet are too wooggity at this point. And I'm too fat. And my knees get creaky climbing up a flight of stairs.
So, no more marathons for me. I'm officially through showing off my athletic prowess. (Except on the basketball court. I'm still holding out hope that some NBA team is in need of an old, slow, fat guy who can shoot 18% from the three-point line.)(On a good day.)(If nobody is guarding me.)
There's a reason they call me "Slow Joe from Arimo."
When 9th grade rolled around, I thought I'd try out for the football team. Unfortunately, tryouts started two weeks before school did, and I did not know this. But, in a way, it was a good thing I missed tryouts, because that's when I learned about the cross country team. Desperate for runners, the cross country coach (also the high school basketball coach) asked the few who weren't on the football team if they would be interested in running. I was.
I was definitely the tortoise from the tortoise and the hare. At basketball tryouts they needed fast rabbits, but for the three-mile cross country course, the slow and steady turtle could win the race. Not that I actually won any races. But, I did finish 10th in the Junior Varsity district finals, which, for me, was pretty good. Maybe, by the time I was a senior I could be good at this.
But then the cross country team was dropped after my freshman year due to budget concerns and lack of interest.
That left the track team my only option for athletic achievement in high school. My old joke about being on the track team went like this:
Me: I'm on the track team.
Other person: Oh, really? What do you run?
Me: Slow.
The longer the race, the more I could hide my lack of speed. But, the longest events at track were the mile and two-mile races. I was too slow to be any good at them. And that was the extent of my athletic career.
Until ten years ago. That's when I thought it would be a good idea to try to run a marathon.
At the time, I was pushing 36 years of age. I had just gotten on an exercising kick. I lost about 40 pounds and was working out regularly on an elliptical trainer. I went to visit some friends, and they were going to run a 5K race that day. I figured I was in the best shape I had been in since high school, so I told them I would run with them. After all, 5K is just a little more than three miles, and with all the work I'd been doing on the elliptical, that shouldn't be a problem at all.
I quickly learned that there is a big difference between working out on an elliptical and actually running. But, I did manage to finish the race. My friend then told me he was planning on running a marathon in September. (The 5K run happened in March.) I decided, what the heck, I'd run the marathon with him.
So, over the next several months, I ran to train for the marathon. I would usually run five miles at a time, and I would do this about three times a week. (I later learned that to actually train for an actual marathon, this was not nearly enough.)
And then, it was time for the marathon. The marathon my friend (Daren) and I chose to run in was the Top of Utah Marathon in Logan, Utah. The race starts 13 miles up a country road, so we parked in the city and they took us by bus to where the race was to start.
It was a bit surreal before the race started, because all I can remember are buses and port-a-potties. There were the dozens of school buses that brought all the participants to the starting area, and then there were about 40 port-a-potties. And each of those port-a-potties had a line of about twenty people waiting to get into them. It's not something I would have thought of beforehand, but when you have over 1100 people who are about to run for over 26 miles, all of those people are going to want to go to the bathroom right before the race.
I had never seen so many port-a-potties at the same time. And there weren't nearly enough of them.
The race started, and I didn't feel very good. I was even more slower and sluggish than normal. Finally, about three miles into the race, I was able to get into a bit of a groove. Daren ran with me. It was his second marathon, and even though he could have easily gone at a faster pace, he chose to stay with me at my pace to keep me company.
It's a good thing he did. When I got to about mile 17, my body was done. I was ready to quit. But, Daren stayed with me. He kept telling me, "Let's just walk to the next mile marker, and then you can decide if you want to keep going." And, when we reached that mile marker, he would talk me in to walking to the next one. Finally, when we got to mile 20, I knew I had come too far to give up, and that I was going to finish the race.
At that point, 60 year old women were passing me, and 8 year old kids were passing me. I didn't care as long as I reached the finish line.
 |
| That's me on the right, looking like someone who has ran 18 miles and doesn't care to run any more. |
But then, it became a race against time. At six hours they take down all the barricades and such off of the roads and most of the marathon volunteers leave their posts. So, we had to push it to get to the finish line before the six hour cutoff.
I finally managed to cross the finish line five hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-two seconds from when I started. I finished in 1,078th place (out of 1,130 finishers.) 633 men finished ahead of me, and 444 women finished ahead of me (many of them over the age of 60.) But, I don't care because I finished.
 |
| That's me on the left, bolting across the finish line in record time! (A record for me, anyway.) |
I can now and forever say that I ran a marathon! (Okay, I ran and walked a marathon.) Regardless of how I did it, I did do it. The results are on the internet and everything! (And the internet is forever.)
 |
| Here I am with Daren after receiving our "finisher's medal." (I'm the red-faced one who looks like he might die. Daren is the smiling one who looks like he's ready to go for another jog.) |
So, no more marathons for me. I'm officially through showing off my athletic prowess. (Except on the basketball court. I'm still holding out hope that some NBA team is in need of an old, slow, fat guy who can shoot 18% from the three-point line.)(On a good day.)(If nobody is guarding me.)
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Tubby Time for Tough Guys
I like to take long soaks in the bathtub. This does not make me less of a man. Really, it doesn't. Tough guys can take tubby time, too.
When my wife's sister heard that I like to take baths, she made fun of me, called me a "girl," and compared me to Chandler Bing, the character from the show Friends. (For the record, I'm not quite like Chandler Bing. I'm more like a cross between Chandler Bing and Ned Flanders.) (Hi-duhlee-ho, neighbor-eeno!)
She then quoted from the Friends episode where Chandler discovers he really likes to take bubble baths. (My sister-in-law has a Friends quote for every occasion, sort of like I used to have a M*A*S*H* quote for every occasion. It's kind of a generational thing.)
I guess that's the image that comes to mind when you hear a guy likes to take baths: Chandler Bing soaking in a bubble bath, desperately clinging to his manhood in the form of a toy boat.
But, that's not how I take baths. I haven't taken a bubble bath since I was a kid. The only bubbles in my bath are from the jetted tub and/or the periodic farts. And, I don't have any toy boats. (Although maybe I should get one.) My baths are therapeutic.
Liking to bathe is a relatively new phenomenon for me. When I was single, I hardly ever took a bath. (For the record, I did shower every day.) (Well, at least every day that I ventured out of my Fortress of Solitude to face the real world.) About the only time I ever soaked back then was when I was battling kidney stones. (And when you are battling kidney stones, you'll try anything to take the edge off.)
Shortly after I got married, I switched jobs to the one I currently have. For reasons known only to a crazed architect (who I'd like to punch in the face), the offices are up a long flight of 34 stairs. I have to go up and down these stairs more than a dozen times a day. Truck drivers seeing me on the stairs will often say, "These stairs must keep you in shape." I point to my gut and reply, "You'd think so, but no. All they do is beat the heck out of my knees." And that's the truth.
I'd been at the job for three or four months, and my knees were killing me. Then, serendipity helped me out. For the six-month anniversary of our wedding, The Wife and I went back to the bed and breakfast where we spent our wedding night. (We don't celebrate our six-month anniversaries anymore now that we're no longer in the "shappy" phase of the relationship. [Shappy=sappy+happy] In fact, our six-month anniversary just passed a few days ago without either of us noticing. Still, we had a good evening doing the things we like to do these days: watching a couple of episodes of Castle and hope-hope-hoping that the kids actually go to sleep and stay asleep.)
Anyway, one of the amenities of our room (along with a really cool Scooby-Doo-ish "hidden" wall door!) was a two-person jetted tub. We liked and enjoyed the tub.
I was back at work the next day. As I walked up the stairs I noticed that my knees didn't hurt anymore! It was the Miracle of the Jetted Tub!
At first, I wondered how a little soak in hot bath could help my knees so much, but then I remembered the television crime dramas that I grew up watching in the 1970s. Shows like MacMillan & Wife, Barnaby Jones, and Charlie's Angels would occasionally have a plot that involved murder and intrigue inside the rough and tumble world of professional football. These episodes would usually showcase real-life tough guy football players as guest stars. Tough guys like Joe Namath. (Wait. He was known for wearing panty hose and fur coats. Not a tough guy.) Tough guys like Rosie Greer. (Wait. He was known for his love of needlepoint, not the activity of a tough guy.) Tough guys like Deacon Jones and Ben Davidson. (Okay, now these are a couple of real tough guys who would head-slap their own mothers if it meant they could get to the quarterback.)
These shows would invariably show a locker room scene in which, after a rough game or practice, one of the tough guys would be soaking in a hot tub. These tubs were called "whirlpools" or "spas," and no one questioned the toughness of the guys soaking in them. It wasn't girly, it was therapeutic.
So, after that, every two or three weeks (or whenever my knees demanded it) I would take a soak in the tub. It was easy to find time to do this before we had kids. Even after The Girl came along I could synchronize my tub time with her naps, putting the baby monitor near the tub so I could listen for her.
A few months later, when we moved from a condo to our house, the large jetted tub in the master suite was a definite selling point. I guess we could have looked for a house with a hot tub on the back deck. It's interesting how different the perception of me would be if my soaks were in a hot tub on the deck instead of a jetted tub in the bathroom:
Bathroom tub=girly man
Hot tub on deck=horndog
But, I don't want a hot tub on the deck, at least not now. There are three reasons: 1) I can't afford to put a hot tub on the deck. 2) While the kids are little, there would be safety concerns about a hot tub. And c) in a few years, when the kids are teenagers, I wouldn't want it to attract the horndogs and the hoochie-mamas.
So, we don't have a hot tub, just the jetted tub in the bathroom. Unfortunately, now that we have the two kids it is becoming more and more difficult to find the time to take my therapeutic soaks. "Nap time" is often more of an abstract concept than an actual reality. Also, The Girl has learned to move stealthily enough that I can't always hear her in the baby monitor. Plus, both kids have mastered the art of doorknob operation. (Things were so much easier when they couldn't open doors!) Any time I try to bathe now, I'm always on edge. And my knees are suffering for it.
Last week I finally had a perfect opportunity for a good bath. The kids were down for naps, and were both actually sleeping! The Wife was home, working on some schoolwork, and said she would take care of them if they woke up. So, I drew a bath. [Rant Alert: "Drew a bath?" What kind of stupid expression is that? What, do I suddenly have to become an artist to be able to get water in the tub? That may be the dumbest phrase I have ever heard! End rant]
I got in the tub, filled it with water, and started to soak. I had the bedroom door closed, but the door from the bathroom to the bedroom open to keep some air circulating. I had just started to relax when I heard it. "MMROWULLL!" I had shut the cat in the bedroom. "MMROWULLL!" She wanted out. When our cat "talks," she sounds like someone is putting a fork through her foot. (This confuses The Boy, our 2-year-old. He is learning from books that cats say "meow," but his real-world experience is that they say "MMROWULLL!")
Instead of a nice, relaxing bath, I got to spend the next ten minutes listening to our caterwauling cat.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get another uninterrupted soak. Maybe there is some way I could make it into the NFL so I can use their "whirlpools" and "spas." I can be a tough guy. (I wonder if they'll let me bring my toy boat.)
When my wife's sister heard that I like to take baths, she made fun of me, called me a "girl," and compared me to Chandler Bing, the character from the show Friends. (For the record, I'm not quite like Chandler Bing. I'm more like a cross between Chandler Bing and Ned Flanders.) (Hi-duhlee-ho, neighbor-eeno!)
She then quoted from the Friends episode where Chandler discovers he really likes to take bubble baths. (My sister-in-law has a Friends quote for every occasion, sort of like I used to have a M*A*S*H* quote for every occasion. It's kind of a generational thing.)
I guess that's the image that comes to mind when you hear a guy likes to take baths: Chandler Bing soaking in a bubble bath, desperately clinging to his manhood in the form of a toy boat.
 |
| Yes, that's me as a baby, taking a bath. (I am very grateful for the strategically placed red donut!) |
But, that's not how I take baths. I haven't taken a bubble bath since I was a kid. The only bubbles in my bath are from the jetted tub and/or the periodic farts. And, I don't have any toy boats. (Although maybe I should get one.) My baths are therapeutic.
Liking to bathe is a relatively new phenomenon for me. When I was single, I hardly ever took a bath. (For the record, I did shower every day.) (Well, at least every day that I ventured out of my Fortress of Solitude to face the real world.) About the only time I ever soaked back then was when I was battling kidney stones. (And when you are battling kidney stones, you'll try anything to take the edge off.)
Shortly after I got married, I switched jobs to the one I currently have. For reasons known only to a crazed architect (who I'd like to punch in the face), the offices are up a long flight of 34 stairs. I have to go up and down these stairs more than a dozen times a day. Truck drivers seeing me on the stairs will often say, "These stairs must keep you in shape." I point to my gut and reply, "You'd think so, but no. All they do is beat the heck out of my knees." And that's the truth.
I'd been at the job for three or four months, and my knees were killing me. Then, serendipity helped me out. For the six-month anniversary of our wedding, The Wife and I went back to the bed and breakfast where we spent our wedding night. (We don't celebrate our six-month anniversaries anymore now that we're no longer in the "shappy" phase of the relationship. [Shappy=sappy+happy] In fact, our six-month anniversary just passed a few days ago without either of us noticing. Still, we had a good evening doing the things we like to do these days: watching a couple of episodes of Castle and hope-hope-hoping that the kids actually go to sleep and stay asleep.)
Anyway, one of the amenities of our room (along with a really cool Scooby-Doo-ish "hidden" wall door!) was a two-person jetted tub. We liked and enjoyed the tub.
I was back at work the next day. As I walked up the stairs I noticed that my knees didn't hurt anymore! It was the Miracle of the Jetted Tub!
At first, I wondered how a little soak in hot bath could help my knees so much, but then I remembered the television crime dramas that I grew up watching in the 1970s. Shows like MacMillan & Wife, Barnaby Jones, and Charlie's Angels would occasionally have a plot that involved murder and intrigue inside the rough and tumble world of professional football. These episodes would usually showcase real-life tough guy football players as guest stars. Tough guys like Joe Namath. (Wait. He was known for wearing panty hose and fur coats. Not a tough guy.) Tough guys like Rosie Greer. (Wait. He was known for his love of needlepoint, not the activity of a tough guy.) Tough guys like Deacon Jones and Ben Davidson. (Okay, now these are a couple of real tough guys who would head-slap their own mothers if it meant they could get to the quarterback.)
These shows would invariably show a locker room scene in which, after a rough game or practice, one of the tough guys would be soaking in a hot tub. These tubs were called "whirlpools" or "spas," and no one questioned the toughness of the guys soaking in them. It wasn't girly, it was therapeutic.
So, after that, every two or three weeks (or whenever my knees demanded it) I would take a soak in the tub. It was easy to find time to do this before we had kids. Even after The Girl came along I could synchronize my tub time with her naps, putting the baby monitor near the tub so I could listen for her.
A few months later, when we moved from a condo to our house, the large jetted tub in the master suite was a definite selling point. I guess we could have looked for a house with a hot tub on the back deck. It's interesting how different the perception of me would be if my soaks were in a hot tub on the deck instead of a jetted tub in the bathroom:
Bathroom tub=girly man
Hot tub on deck=horndog
But, I don't want a hot tub on the deck, at least not now. There are three reasons: 1) I can't afford to put a hot tub on the deck. 2) While the kids are little, there would be safety concerns about a hot tub. And c) in a few years, when the kids are teenagers, I wouldn't want it to attract the horndogs and the hoochie-mamas.
 |
| I would love to have one of these at the house, but I'm afraid it would attract the horndogs and the hoochie-mamas. |
So, we don't have a hot tub, just the jetted tub in the bathroom. Unfortunately, now that we have the two kids it is becoming more and more difficult to find the time to take my therapeutic soaks. "Nap time" is often more of an abstract concept than an actual reality. Also, The Girl has learned to move stealthily enough that I can't always hear her in the baby monitor. Plus, both kids have mastered the art of doorknob operation. (Things were so much easier when they couldn't open doors!) Any time I try to bathe now, I'm always on edge. And my knees are suffering for it.
Last week I finally had a perfect opportunity for a good bath. The kids were down for naps, and were both actually sleeping! The Wife was home, working on some schoolwork, and said she would take care of them if they woke up. So, I drew a bath. [Rant Alert: "Drew a bath?" What kind of stupid expression is that? What, do I suddenly have to become an artist to be able to get water in the tub? That may be the dumbest phrase I have ever heard! End rant]
I got in the tub, filled it with water, and started to soak. I had the bedroom door closed, but the door from the bathroom to the bedroom open to keep some air circulating. I had just started to relax when I heard it. "MMROWULLL!" I had shut the cat in the bedroom. "MMROWULLL!" She wanted out. When our cat "talks," she sounds like someone is putting a fork through her foot. (This confuses The Boy, our 2-year-old. He is learning from books that cats say "meow," but his real-world experience is that they say "MMROWULLL!")
Instead of a nice, relaxing bath, I got to spend the next ten minutes listening to our caterwauling cat.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get another uninterrupted soak. Maybe there is some way I could make it into the NFL so I can use their "whirlpools" and "spas." I can be a tough guy. (I wonder if they'll let me bring my toy boat.)
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
On Being a Father
PART 1: BARF
I woke up on Father's Day to the sound of my wife yelling at me.
Well, she wasn't actually yelling at me. She was yelling for me. They had let me sleep in, and The Wife was sitting on the love seat, playing on the laptop computer. And then, four-year-old Roni walked up to her, gave a little cough, and puked all over her, the laptop, the love seat, and the floor.
That's when the yelling started. I came stumbling around the corner, half asleep. The Wife gave me a choice: I could take Roni and clean her up, or I could clean up the laptop, the love seat, and the floor. Not being stupid, I chose Roni. I wiped a little bit of barf off of her nightgown, then threw her into the tub. Meanwhile, The Wife was stuck cleaning the vomit off of herself and everything else. (Unfortunately, we have since found that laptop computers don't take well to high volumes of vomit in their keyboards.)
The Wife then spent much of the rest of the day apologizing to me for making me clean Roni up on Father's Day. ("It's Father's Day. You shouldn't have to do that.") The Wife is sweet. First of all, she did the vast majority of the cleanup. Second of all, I wasn't the one who was vomited on. And thirdly, what kind of father would I be if I didn't help clean up my daughter's barf, Father's Day or not?
PART 2: DUCK
Being a father certainly has its ups and downs. For every new word learned or unexpected hug, there is a puke clean up or diaper poop-through. The key is that the highs are definitely worth wading through the lows.
I find myself really enjoying the times the kids surprise me. Years ago, my brother started a little family tradition. When riding in a car with my sister's kids, he would tell them they needed to duck whenever they went under a bridge so they wouldn't hit their head. Being naive, gullible children of the 80s, they believed him, and would duck whenever they went under a bridge.
A few years later, my brother had his own kids. They were hardened, cynical children of the 90s, and when they were told to duck when going under a bridge, they balked and (rightfully) said they were in no danger of hitting their heads.
So, the other day, I decided to pass this little family tradition on to my own kids. As I was taking the kids to the library for story time, we had to go under the freeway. I said, "We're going under a bridge. You have to duck so you won't hit your head." My kids, being free thinking kids of the 21st Century, heard the word "duck" and started to quack.
"Quack, quack, quack!" they said.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
Roni answered, "There's a duck under the bridge. Quack! Quack!" Buzz then joined in with several "quacks" of his own.
And since that day, whenever we go under a bridge, either one of them might just start randomly quacking. And every time they do, I shake my head and smile. (I love it when they make me smile.)
PART 3: HAIR
I like to think I'm a good father. I do at least some of everything that needs to be done for the kids. I feed them. I change diapers. I bathe them. I do their laundry. I take them to story time at the library. (I'm usually the only father there.) I read to them. I read with them. I play toys with them. I clean up after them. Could I do all of those things better? Of course I could. But I try hard, and do a pretty good job.
But, there's one thing I don't do. I can't do my daughter's hair. Oh, I'll bathe her, wash her hair, and comb her hair, but I just can't seem to fix her hair. The problem is, doing a little girl's hair involves putting rubber bands into her hair.
I've been shown how to do this several times by The Wife and her sister. They make it look easy. All you have to do is twist the rubber band around three or four times and put Roni's hair through it. It sounds simple. It looks simple. Unfortunately, the little rubber band starts at about a quarter of the size of a dime. (That's very small.) And then I'm expected to twist this little thing over around on itself three or four times with my large, sausage fingers? I don't think so!
And even if I manage to get the rubber band twisted, I still have to put it in her hair. I'm sorry, but I always try to not hurt my daughter. Pulling her hair to put a rubber band in it just seems mean. So, it's pretty easy to tell the days that I am in charge. They are the days that Roni looks like a ragamuffin. (It makes me appreciate Buzz that much more. Boy hair is easy.)
In conclusion, I wouldn't give up being a dad for anything in the world. It's never going to be easy. There are always going to be surprises, whether they be bad (puke on a laptop) or good (quacking under a bridge). I just have to keep trying my best to do all I can to help them grow to become good people. (And hope that someday Roni will forgive me when she looks back at pictures from this time-frame and sees that I let her out of the house with her hair looking like that.)
I woke up on Father's Day to the sound of my wife yelling at me.
Well, she wasn't actually yelling at me. She was yelling for me. They had let me sleep in, and The Wife was sitting on the love seat, playing on the laptop computer. And then, four-year-old Roni walked up to her, gave a little cough, and puked all over her, the laptop, the love seat, and the floor.
That's when the yelling started. I came stumbling around the corner, half asleep. The Wife gave me a choice: I could take Roni and clean her up, or I could clean up the laptop, the love seat, and the floor. Not being stupid, I chose Roni. I wiped a little bit of barf off of her nightgown, then threw her into the tub. Meanwhile, The Wife was stuck cleaning the vomit off of herself and everything else. (Unfortunately, we have since found that laptop computers don't take well to high volumes of vomit in their keyboards.)
The Wife then spent much of the rest of the day apologizing to me for making me clean Roni up on Father's Day. ("It's Father's Day. You shouldn't have to do that.") The Wife is sweet. First of all, she did the vast majority of the cleanup. Second of all, I wasn't the one who was vomited on. And thirdly, what kind of father would I be if I didn't help clean up my daughter's barf, Father's Day or not?
PART 2: DUCK
Being a father certainly has its ups and downs. For every new word learned or unexpected hug, there is a puke clean up or diaper poop-through. The key is that the highs are definitely worth wading through the lows.
I find myself really enjoying the times the kids surprise me. Years ago, my brother started a little family tradition. When riding in a car with my sister's kids, he would tell them they needed to duck whenever they went under a bridge so they wouldn't hit their head. Being naive, gullible children of the 80s, they believed him, and would duck whenever they went under a bridge.
A few years later, my brother had his own kids. They were hardened, cynical children of the 90s, and when they were told to duck when going under a bridge, they balked and (rightfully) said they were in no danger of hitting their heads.
So, the other day, I decided to pass this little family tradition on to my own kids. As I was taking the kids to the library for story time, we had to go under the freeway. I said, "We're going under a bridge. You have to duck so you won't hit your head." My kids, being free thinking kids of the 21st Century, heard the word "duck" and started to quack.
"Quack, quack, quack!" they said.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
Roni answered, "There's a duck under the bridge. Quack! Quack!" Buzz then joined in with several "quacks" of his own.
And since that day, whenever we go under a bridge, either one of them might just start randomly quacking. And every time they do, I shake my head and smile. (I love it when they make me smile.)
PART 3: HAIR
I like to think I'm a good father. I do at least some of everything that needs to be done for the kids. I feed them. I change diapers. I bathe them. I do their laundry. I take them to story time at the library. (I'm usually the only father there.) I read to them. I read with them. I play toys with them. I clean up after them. Could I do all of those things better? Of course I could. But I try hard, and do a pretty good job.
But, there's one thing I don't do. I can't do my daughter's hair. Oh, I'll bathe her, wash her hair, and comb her hair, but I just can't seem to fix her hair. The problem is, doing a little girl's hair involves putting rubber bands into her hair.
I've been shown how to do this several times by The Wife and her sister. They make it look easy. All you have to do is twist the rubber band around three or four times and put Roni's hair through it. It sounds simple. It looks simple. Unfortunately, the little rubber band starts at about a quarter of the size of a dime. (That's very small.) And then I'm expected to twist this little thing over around on itself three or four times with my large, sausage fingers? I don't think so!
And even if I manage to get the rubber band twisted, I still have to put it in her hair. I'm sorry, but I always try to not hurt my daughter. Pulling her hair to put a rubber band in it just seems mean. So, it's pretty easy to tell the days that I am in charge. They are the days that Roni looks like a ragamuffin. (It makes me appreciate Buzz that much more. Boy hair is easy.)
In conclusion, I wouldn't give up being a dad for anything in the world. It's never going to be easy. There are always going to be surprises, whether they be bad (puke on a laptop) or good (quacking under a bridge). I just have to keep trying my best to do all I can to help them grow to become good people. (And hope that someday Roni will forgive me when she looks back at pictures from this time-frame and sees that I let her out of the house with her hair looking like that.)
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Ode To My Father
My Dad was a tall, rugged, handsome man. Ron Capell stood an imposing 6 feet 4 inches tall. (6'6" if you include his hard hat.) He was one of the best high school athletes in the history of Arimo. (Started center on a state championship basketball team; batted clean-up on the baseball team; anchored the defensive and offensive lines for football teams that didn't lose a single game in his four years playing.) He wasn't just tough, he was farm tough.
Basically, he was everything any little boy would want to grow up to be like.
So, of course, I look like my Mom.
Don't get me wrong. I love my Mom. She's a wonderful woman. But, I have never heard her referred to as "ruggedly handsome." Likewise, I have never heard of myself referred to as "ruggedly handsome," either. (When I hear a "not completely hideous" I tally that up in the "compliment" file.)
My Dad passed away six years ago, on the Saturday morning before Father's Day. I miss him. He died about a month after my wife and I first met, and about a month before we went out on our first date. So, he never got to meet her. It's too bad, because he would have loved her. And he would have loved to see how happy she makes me.
As a kid, I really looked up to my Dad. (Literally and figuratively.) He was the biggest guy in the whole town. (Okay, there was one guy who was taller, but Dad could have easily whupped him in a fight.) I remember being shocked (shocked!) the first time I met someone who was significantly bigger than my Dad. (It was former Idaho Congressman George Hansen, who stood at 6'7" and well over 300 pounds.) I didn't think it was possible.
Dad grew up on the farm, and he stayed on the farm his whole life. He knew how to fix things, and if he didn't, he sure knew how to try to fix things. (We're very different in that way. I give up at trying to fix things very easily. He did not.)
Unfortunately, Dad's ability-to-fix-things gene was handed down to his first child, my sister, and completely missed my brother and I. But, I am reasonably good at going to fetch tools so that someone else (in most cases, The Wife) can fix things while I watch.
I'm not sure how Dad managed to walk around, because he always had an entire tool kit in his pockets. (Actually, I'm even more impressed that he was able to sit down with all that stuff in his pockets.) He always had in his pockets the following items (and I am not exaggerating): a pair of pliers; a pocket knife; several box wrenches (up to and including a 9/16th wrench); a screwdriver; a crescent wrench; a tape measure; a set of allen wrenches; and a set of calipers. And that was the minimum he had in his pockets at any time. He would have more and different things depending on the job at hand. We were always amazed at the amount of stuff he had in his pockets. And sometimes, he was too. Sometimes it would take him a while to dig through his pockets to find the specific tool he was looking for.
Most farmers wear hats. They know they need to keep their heads out of the sun. Some (usually the older ones) would wear straw hats. Most farmers around where I lived would wear baseball (or "trucker's") caps. My Dad, however, chose to wear a hardhat. For about as long as I can remember, my Dad wore a shiny red metal hardhat when he worked on the farm. After a few years most of the red had faded or chipped off.
Over time, the hardhat had been through a lot. There was one time when a cow was charging at Dad. In order to get the cow to stop and change direction, Dad took off his hardhat and whacked the cow on the top of its skull with it. This was successful in stopping the cow. It was also successful in putting a big dent in the top of the hardhat. Dad wore the hardhat with the dent in it for years, then one day we noticed that the dent was gone. We asked him why the dent wasn't there anymore. Apparently, when it rained the water would gather and pool in the dent, and when he would take off the hat or move his head just right, the pooled rain water from the dent would splash down on him. Dad got tired of that problem, so he fixed it. He pushed the dent out with a hydraulic press. (I, of course, would have had no idea how to fix a dent in a hardhat. Dad did.)
Of course, my Dad wasn't perfect. At about the time their three kids were ready to leave home for marriage, college and such, my Mom and Dad's own marriage fell apart. After 26 years together, they got divorced. It was not a happy time, and I was not very pleased with some of the choices my Dad made during this time.
He remarried, and helped raise his new wife's four children as their stepfather. Since I was already out of the house when Dad remarried, I was never very close with his four stepchildren. I never thought much about the impact he had on their lives until Dad's funeral. The youngest of those four children related a simple story. When Dad would enter the house after a long day at work, he would step through the door, take off his hardhat, and drop it on the floor. (My Dad was not a "hat rack" kind of man.) The boy would be downstairs in his room, and when he heard the THUMP of the hardhat, he knew Dad was home.
When my stepbrother related this tale at Dad's funeral, suddenly hundreds of evenings of hearing that hardhat THUMP came racing back to my mind. It always was a pleasant sound. And, at that moment I also realized how important my Dad had been to these four stepchildren, too. He didn't just raise his three biological children, he also greatly influenced the lives of his new family, also.
Dad was always at the ready to help anyone who needed it. There are few people in Arimo who didn't benefit from his generosity, whether it be moving snow with his bulldozer, fixing roads with his road grader, or digging holes with his backhoe. (It helped that he had such great "toys" to help people with.)
From my Dad, I learned great lessons of work ethic and responsibility. I wish I carried those two qualities in the quantities that he did, but, as with most things, I don't quite measure up to him.
Since he happened to die on the day before Father's Day, every year Father's Day is especially poignant. I think of his life. I think of his death. I think of how much I wish he was still here. I think of how I wish my kids could experience the influence of "Grandpa Ron."
And then I realize that the best way for them to experience his influence is if I live the kind of life that would make my Dad proud. Thanks for everything, Dad.
 |
| My (ruggedly handsome) Dad |
So, of course, I look like my Mom.
Don't get me wrong. I love my Mom. She's a wonderful woman. But, I have never heard her referred to as "ruggedly handsome." Likewise, I have never heard of myself referred to as "ruggedly handsome," either. (When I hear a "not completely hideous" I tally that up in the "compliment" file.)
My Dad passed away six years ago, on the Saturday morning before Father's Day. I miss him. He died about a month after my wife and I first met, and about a month before we went out on our first date. So, he never got to meet her. It's too bad, because he would have loved her. And he would have loved to see how happy she makes me.
As a kid, I really looked up to my Dad. (Literally and figuratively.) He was the biggest guy in the whole town. (Okay, there was one guy who was taller, but Dad could have easily whupped him in a fight.) I remember being shocked (shocked!) the first time I met someone who was significantly bigger than my Dad. (It was former Idaho Congressman George Hansen, who stood at 6'7" and well over 300 pounds.) I didn't think it was possible.
Dad grew up on the farm, and he stayed on the farm his whole life. He knew how to fix things, and if he didn't, he sure knew how to try to fix things. (We're very different in that way. I give up at trying to fix things very easily. He did not.)
Unfortunately, Dad's ability-to-fix-things gene was handed down to his first child, my sister, and completely missed my brother and I. But, I am reasonably good at going to fetch tools so that someone else (in most cases, The Wife) can fix things while I watch.
I'm not sure how Dad managed to walk around, because he always had an entire tool kit in his pockets. (Actually, I'm even more impressed that he was able to sit down with all that stuff in his pockets.) He always had in his pockets the following items (and I am not exaggerating): a pair of pliers; a pocket knife; several box wrenches (up to and including a 9/16th wrench); a screwdriver; a crescent wrench; a tape measure; a set of allen wrenches; and a set of calipers. And that was the minimum he had in his pockets at any time. He would have more and different things depending on the job at hand. We were always amazed at the amount of stuff he had in his pockets. And sometimes, he was too. Sometimes it would take him a while to dig through his pockets to find the specific tool he was looking for.
Most farmers wear hats. They know they need to keep their heads out of the sun. Some (usually the older ones) would wear straw hats. Most farmers around where I lived would wear baseball (or "trucker's") caps. My Dad, however, chose to wear a hardhat. For about as long as I can remember, my Dad wore a shiny red metal hardhat when he worked on the farm. After a few years most of the red had faded or chipped off.
Over time, the hardhat had been through a lot. There was one time when a cow was charging at Dad. In order to get the cow to stop and change direction, Dad took off his hardhat and whacked the cow on the top of its skull with it. This was successful in stopping the cow. It was also successful in putting a big dent in the top of the hardhat. Dad wore the hardhat with the dent in it for years, then one day we noticed that the dent was gone. We asked him why the dent wasn't there anymore. Apparently, when it rained the water would gather and pool in the dent, and when he would take off the hat or move his head just right, the pooled rain water from the dent would splash down on him. Dad got tired of that problem, so he fixed it. He pushed the dent out with a hydraulic press. (I, of course, would have had no idea how to fix a dent in a hardhat. Dad did.)
Of course, my Dad wasn't perfect. At about the time their three kids were ready to leave home for marriage, college and such, my Mom and Dad's own marriage fell apart. After 26 years together, they got divorced. It was not a happy time, and I was not very pleased with some of the choices my Dad made during this time.
He remarried, and helped raise his new wife's four children as their stepfather. Since I was already out of the house when Dad remarried, I was never very close with his four stepchildren. I never thought much about the impact he had on their lives until Dad's funeral. The youngest of those four children related a simple story. When Dad would enter the house after a long day at work, he would step through the door, take off his hardhat, and drop it on the floor. (My Dad was not a "hat rack" kind of man.) The boy would be downstairs in his room, and when he heard the THUMP of the hardhat, he knew Dad was home.
When my stepbrother related this tale at Dad's funeral, suddenly hundreds of evenings of hearing that hardhat THUMP came racing back to my mind. It always was a pleasant sound. And, at that moment I also realized how important my Dad had been to these four stepchildren, too. He didn't just raise his three biological children, he also greatly influenced the lives of his new family, also.
Dad was always at the ready to help anyone who needed it. There are few people in Arimo who didn't benefit from his generosity, whether it be moving snow with his bulldozer, fixing roads with his road grader, or digging holes with his backhoe. (It helped that he had such great "toys" to help people with.)
From my Dad, I learned great lessons of work ethic and responsibility. I wish I carried those two qualities in the quantities that he did, but, as with most things, I don't quite measure up to him.
 |
| My daughter, with Dad's hardhat |
Since he happened to die on the day before Father's Day, every year Father's Day is especially poignant. I think of his life. I think of his death. I think of how much I wish he was still here. I think of how I wish my kids could experience the influence of "Grandpa Ron."
And then I realize that the best way for them to experience his influence is if I live the kind of life that would make my Dad proud. Thanks for everything, Dad.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Moms Say the Darndest Things
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I think we've finally had some success with my Mom. (Yes, in this analogy, I am equating the "old dog" with my Mom.) (No, I don't think she'll like that.)
For years, whenever Mom would talk about Walmart she would add an unnecessary "s" at the end of "Walmart." She would say things like, "I'm going to the Walmarts to get some tube socks." Or, "I found the cutest outfit at the Walmarts." Or, "Did you hear about the shooting over at the Walmarts?"
My brother and I, in our endless need to tease and torment my Mom, would then say, "Oh, really? You're going to more than one Walmart?" We've been hounding her constantly about this for years. Then, suddenly, a while back she started saying it correctly. She would say things like, "I'm going to go get some barbecue sauce at the WalmarT." (She would emphasize the "t" to make sure we knew she was saying it right.)
We were amazed. Even at her advanced age (39-ish), she was able to learn something new! And so, with that, she never said anything ever again that we were able to tease her about.
NOT!
Just the other day she was visiting and we went to Wendy's to eat lunch. I asked her what she wanted. She said, "McNuggets." I pointed out to her that, since we were at Wendy's, I didn't think she would be able to get "McNuggets." It took a while for it to dawn on her why she couldn't get "McNuggets" at Wendy's. But, that didn't stop her from referring to her chicken nuggets as "McNuggets" three more times during the course of our lunch.
As her son and official tormentor, I was obliged to point it out and mock her every time she said it. That's what a loving son does.
If there ever comes a time when she hasn't said anything mockable for a while (it's rare, but it does occasionally happen), we will ask her to say one of her old standbys. We will ask her what the largest city in Illinois is. (Her answer: "Chi-CARR-go.") Or what state Boston is in. (Her answer: "Mass-a-TOO-sets.") Or what is downstairs by the clothes dryer. (Her answer: "the war-shing machine.")
It's fun, it's easy, and if we didn't do it she'd wonder if we still loved her.
Of course, my Mom isn't the only one who misprounounciates things. When my brother's mother-in-law tries to talk about a couch "cushion," she calls it a "QUEE-shun." And, according to her, the shortened nickname of former basketball star Shaquille O'Neal is not "Shaq," but "Shag," making him sound more like a carpet and less like an out-building. (I'm not sure which is better.)
Unfortunately, from time to time, I've found myself on the wrong end of some mispronouncial mocking. Apparently, I have trouble with some words that begin with the letters "hu." In my voice, "humor" comes out as "yumor." "Huge" is "yuge." And the star of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Music and Lyrics is "You Grant."
Personally, I don't see much difference between a "human" and a "yuman," but The Wife most certainly does, and she delights in every opportunity she gets to mock me about it. I try to take it in stride. And then I try to find something that she says in an odd way so I can mock her back.
But, the only thing I can find that she mispronounces is "sorry." It comes out as "soary," kind of like the way a Canadian would say it. (Hmm..., if I didn't know better, I might think she actually comes from Canada. Sure, she says she's from Utah, but I just might have to do some investigating.)
A while back, The Wife, who is a junior high teacher, got mocked by her students for pronouncing something correctly. She was saying the word "mountain" when her students asked her why she was putting that "t" in the middle of the word. It seems here in central Utah, most people pronounce the word as "mou (ryhmes with "ow")-uhnn." "Mou-uhnn." They couldn't understand why she was actually enunciating all the letters. A boy named Thomas pointed out that we don't pronounce all the letters in every word, because if we did his name would be pronounced "Thaw-mus." He had a point. (And a new nickname for the rest of the year.)
Now that I think about it, maybe I'm being too hard on my Mom. Everyone makes mistakes, and maybe I shouldn't harp on hers so much. Maybe I should let her shop at however many Walmarts she wants. Maybe I'll let her get McNuggets at any restaurant she chooses, even ones in Chicarrgo or Massatoosets. Maybe I'll just say I'm soary and let her be. After all, she's only yuman.
For years, whenever Mom would talk about Walmart she would add an unnecessary "s" at the end of "Walmart." She would say things like, "I'm going to the Walmarts to get some tube socks." Or, "I found the cutest outfit at the Walmarts." Or, "Did you hear about the shooting over at the Walmarts?"
My brother and I, in our endless need to tease and torment my Mom, would then say, "Oh, really? You're going to more than one Walmart?" We've been hounding her constantly about this for years. Then, suddenly, a while back she started saying it correctly. She would say things like, "I'm going to go get some barbecue sauce at the WalmarT." (She would emphasize the "t" to make sure we knew she was saying it right.)
We were amazed. Even at her advanced age (39-ish), she was able to learn something new! And so, with that, she never said anything ever again that we were able to tease her about.
NOT!
 |
| My brother and I tormenting my Mom, as usual. (She's the short one in the middle.) |
Just the other day she was visiting and we went to Wendy's to eat lunch. I asked her what she wanted. She said, "McNuggets." I pointed out to her that, since we were at Wendy's, I didn't think she would be able to get "McNuggets." It took a while for it to dawn on her why she couldn't get "McNuggets" at Wendy's. But, that didn't stop her from referring to her chicken nuggets as "McNuggets" three more times during the course of our lunch.
As her son and official tormentor, I was obliged to point it out and mock her every time she said it. That's what a loving son does.
If there ever comes a time when she hasn't said anything mockable for a while (it's rare, but it does occasionally happen), we will ask her to say one of her old standbys. We will ask her what the largest city in Illinois is. (Her answer: "Chi-CARR-go.") Or what state Boston is in. (Her answer: "Mass-a-TOO-sets.") Or what is downstairs by the clothes dryer. (Her answer: "the war-shing machine.")
It's fun, it's easy, and if we didn't do it she'd wonder if we still loved her.
Of course, my Mom isn't the only one who misprounounciates things. When my brother's mother-in-law tries to talk about a couch "cushion," she calls it a "QUEE-shun." And, according to her, the shortened nickname of former basketball star Shaquille O'Neal is not "Shaq," but "Shag," making him sound more like a carpet and less like an out-building. (I'm not sure which is better.)
Unfortunately, from time to time, I've found myself on the wrong end of some mispronouncial mocking. Apparently, I have trouble with some words that begin with the letters "hu." In my voice, "humor" comes out as "yumor." "Huge" is "yuge." And the star of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Music and Lyrics is "You Grant."
Personally, I don't see much difference between a "human" and a "yuman," but The Wife most certainly does, and she delights in every opportunity she gets to mock me about it. I try to take it in stride. And then I try to find something that she says in an odd way so I can mock her back.
But, the only thing I can find that she mispronounces is "sorry." It comes out as "soary," kind of like the way a Canadian would say it. (Hmm..., if I didn't know better, I might think she actually comes from Canada. Sure, she says she's from Utah, but I just might have to do some investigating.)
A while back, The Wife, who is a junior high teacher, got mocked by her students for pronouncing something correctly. She was saying the word "mountain" when her students asked her why she was putting that "t" in the middle of the word. It seems here in central Utah, most people pronounce the word as "mou (ryhmes with "ow")-uhnn." "Mou-uhnn." They couldn't understand why she was actually enunciating all the letters. A boy named Thomas pointed out that we don't pronounce all the letters in every word, because if we did his name would be pronounced "Thaw-mus." He had a point. (And a new nickname for the rest of the year.)
Now that I think about it, maybe I'm being too hard on my Mom. Everyone makes mistakes, and maybe I shouldn't harp on hers so much. Maybe I should let her shop at however many Walmarts she wants. Maybe I'll let her get McNuggets at any restaurant she chooses, even ones in Chicarrgo or Massatoosets. Maybe I'll just say I'm soary and let her be. After all, she's only yuman.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Letting the Little Birds Fly
As a father, I frequently come across situations that are very difficult to deal with.
When Roni was born, coming home from the hospital without her was very difficult. Because of some breathing problems, she spent her first 12 days in the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit). To see her there with all her tubes and wires and not be able to do anything to help her was very, very difficult.
Then there was the time when Roni was two years old. She was just learning how to use her fingers for counting, holding up her index finger to indicate the number one. One day I walked into her room to find her extending both of her middle fingers at me. She excitedly exclaimed, "Look, Daddy! Here's two different number ones!" I had to fight hard to keep from laughing. It was very, very difficult.
(Why fight so hard to keep from laughing at that? Even though it was totally innocent, if I encourage her by laughing, she'd 'flip the bird' to everyone she sees in order to get them to laugh. Before you know it she'd be a YouTube sensation known as the "Bird-Flipping Little Girl." That would lead to starring in a sitcom with Courtney Cox and/or Tony Danza as the precocious, smart-mouthed little girl. And then, before you know it, she'd turn out like the Olsen twins or Lindsay Lohan. And, although the money would be nice, I couldn't do that to my sweet daughter. So, I can't laugh at her flipping me the bird, no matter how very difficult it might be.)
But, I've found something that is going to be even more difficult to deal with than those things: Letting go.
A couple of months ago, we went as a family for Roni's second dentist appointment. The first time she went, I was with her the whole time. This time it would be different. Roni would be by herself. The Wife had an appointment of her own at the same time, so she was down the hall in a room of her own. Meanwhile, I was out in the lobby trying to keep Buzz entertained and/or trying to keep Buzz from destroying the lobby.
When they were finished with Roni, they brought her out to me. Roni was very excited, and she started telling me about her dentist adventure. "Nina and I watched a movie! And then we something-something-something sugar-bugs something-something-something!!!" She was incredibly enthusiastic about what she was telling me, but I had no idea what she was saying.
And it was then that it hit me: I wasn't going to always know what she was doing.
Up to this point in her life, either I, The Wife, Aunt Kimmie, Grammy, or PopPop have always been there with her to experience everything that Roni experiences. It's not always going to be like that. And I don't know how I'm going to handle it.
Since she was born, one of the top priorities in my life has been to keep her safe. I have to make sure she doesn't do anything that will hurt herself. I have to make sure that other people don't hurt her in any way. I have to make sure she is in situations where things can't hurt her. But soon, I won't be able to control those situations anymore. And it scares me.
Our house is right across the street from a school bus stop. Occasionally I'll glance out the window, see the kids lined up waiting for the bus, and I'll recognize some of the kids that The Wife and I used to teach in nursery. (One of the "fun" things about the Mormon church is that you "volunteer" for church assignments. For a while, The Wife and I were asked to "teach" in the nursery, which basically means wrangling all the kids ranging in age from 18 months to three years.)
I'll see one of our old nursery kids and think, "It seems like just the other day when that kid couldn't drink from a disposable dixie cup without spilling all over himself, and now they're letting him stand at the bus stop without adult supervision? How is this possible?" I guess at some point you have to let go a little bit.
What makes this even more scary with Roni is her nut allergy. Roni is deathly allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. So much so that the doctor said as little as one-eighth of a peanut could cause a reaction that could kill her. If he was trying to scare us, it worked. (Especially with those italicized words.)
We are very vigilant about what food we bring into our house, reading the labels of everything. (And I do mean "everything." One time I brought home some shredded cheddar cheese. Luckily, The Wife checked the label and saw that it said it "may contain traces of peanuts of tree nuts." Who would have ever thought shredded cheese might have nuts in it?)
So, the thought of sending Roni off to school is terrifying. One errant peanut butter sandwich and....
This is going to be very, very, very difficult.
So, how will I be able to let her go? Well, first I'll have to realize that I am not the first parent in the world who loves and worries about his kid. (It seems to me that, although other parents love their kids, they can't possibly love their kids as much as I love mine.) (But, I'm sure I'm not the only parent who thinks this way.)
Nor will I be the first parent to have to deal with a child with allergies. Yes, it will be scary, but we'll just have to educate the people she'll be around about her allergy. If that means we're going to be annoying parents, so be it. I'd rather be annoying than careless.
And then, we need to teach Roni as best we can. We have to make every situation she might find herself in as safe as we possibly can, then trust her to do what's right.
Letting her go is going to be very, very difficult. But, eventually we have to let the little birds fly, don't we? (And if I can keep myself from laughing when my little girl flips me off, I can do anything, right?)
When Roni was born, coming home from the hospital without her was very difficult. Because of some breathing problems, she spent her first 12 days in the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit). To see her there with all her tubes and wires and not be able to do anything to help her was very, very difficult.
Then there was the time when Roni was two years old. She was just learning how to use her fingers for counting, holding up her index finger to indicate the number one. One day I walked into her room to find her extending both of her middle fingers at me. She excitedly exclaimed, "Look, Daddy! Here's two different number ones!" I had to fight hard to keep from laughing. It was very, very difficult.
(Why fight so hard to keep from laughing at that? Even though it was totally innocent, if I encourage her by laughing, she'd 'flip the bird' to everyone she sees in order to get them to laugh. Before you know it she'd be a YouTube sensation known as the "Bird-Flipping Little Girl." That would lead to starring in a sitcom with Courtney Cox and/or Tony Danza as the precocious, smart-mouthed little girl. And then, before you know it, she'd turn out like the Olsen twins or Lindsay Lohan. And, although the money would be nice, I couldn't do that to my sweet daughter. So, I can't laugh at her flipping me the bird, no matter how very difficult it might be.)
But, I've found something that is going to be even more difficult to deal with than those things: Letting go.
A couple of months ago, we went as a family for Roni's second dentist appointment. The first time she went, I was with her the whole time. This time it would be different. Roni would be by herself. The Wife had an appointment of her own at the same time, so she was down the hall in a room of her own. Meanwhile, I was out in the lobby trying to keep Buzz entertained and/or trying to keep Buzz from destroying the lobby.
When they were finished with Roni, they brought her out to me. Roni was very excited, and she started telling me about her dentist adventure. "Nina and I watched a movie! And then we something-something-something sugar-bugs something-something-something!!!" She was incredibly enthusiastic about what she was telling me, but I had no idea what she was saying.
And it was then that it hit me: I wasn't going to always know what she was doing.
Up to this point in her life, either I, The Wife, Aunt Kimmie, Grammy, or PopPop have always been there with her to experience everything that Roni experiences. It's not always going to be like that. And I don't know how I'm going to handle it.
Since she was born, one of the top priorities in my life has been to keep her safe. I have to make sure she doesn't do anything that will hurt herself. I have to make sure that other people don't hurt her in any way. I have to make sure she is in situations where things can't hurt her. But soon, I won't be able to control those situations anymore. And it scares me.
Our house is right across the street from a school bus stop. Occasionally I'll glance out the window, see the kids lined up waiting for the bus, and I'll recognize some of the kids that The Wife and I used to teach in nursery. (One of the "fun" things about the Mormon church is that you "volunteer" for church assignments. For a while, The Wife and I were asked to "teach" in the nursery, which basically means wrangling all the kids ranging in age from 18 months to three years.)
I'll see one of our old nursery kids and think, "It seems like just the other day when that kid couldn't drink from a disposable dixie cup without spilling all over himself, and now they're letting him stand at the bus stop without adult supervision? How is this possible?" I guess at some point you have to let go a little bit.
What makes this even more scary with Roni is her nut allergy. Roni is deathly allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. So much so that the doctor said as little as one-eighth of a peanut could cause a reaction that could kill her. If he was trying to scare us, it worked. (Especially with those italicized words.)
We are very vigilant about what food we bring into our house, reading the labels of everything. (And I do mean "everything." One time I brought home some shredded cheddar cheese. Luckily, The Wife checked the label and saw that it said it "may contain traces of peanuts of tree nuts." Who would have ever thought shredded cheese might have nuts in it?)
So, the thought of sending Roni off to school is terrifying. One errant peanut butter sandwich and....
This is going to be very, very, very difficult.
So, how will I be able to let her go? Well, first I'll have to realize that I am not the first parent in the world who loves and worries about his kid. (It seems to me that, although other parents love their kids, they can't possibly love their kids as much as I love mine.) (But, I'm sure I'm not the only parent who thinks this way.)
Nor will I be the first parent to have to deal with a child with allergies. Yes, it will be scary, but we'll just have to educate the people she'll be around about her allergy. If that means we're going to be annoying parents, so be it. I'd rather be annoying than careless.
And then, we need to teach Roni as best we can. We have to make every situation she might find herself in as safe as we possibly can, then trust her to do what's right.
Letting her go is going to be very, very difficult. But, eventually we have to let the little birds fly, don't we? (And if I can keep myself from laughing when my little girl flips me off, I can do anything, right?)
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