I woke up to the sound of my two oldest kids singing - no, screaming - in the kitchen. In harmony.
I’m alive! And the world shines for me today
I’m alive! Suddenly I am here today
Why did my children start their day by belting out these words from the Xanadu Soundtrack?
First of all, their mother is home. This, apparently, makes them happy. There have been no tears. Only lots and lots of singing.
Second, their mother does not like radio and instead uses time in the mini van to expose our children to music she wishes stations would play. And stuff from her childhood. This batch of tunes includes, but is definitely not limited to, music from the Brady Kids, Dolly Parton, Katrina and the Waves, Michael Jackson, and the soundtrack to Xanadu. THese songs are their only palette for self expression. It’s sad really. Pray for their emotional and creative development daily.
Third, they are grateful that, despite three days of eating dad’s cooking, they are in fact alive.
I play and/or speak 100 times a year nowadays. That’s a lot of goodbyes. And every one of them is the same. A hug. A kiss. A brief explanation of where I’m going and how long I’ll be there.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
And I’m out the door. And my kids are on the couch eating breakfast - seemingly unaffected.
Becky left this morning to visit her sister in New York City and her goodbye last night was a little different. There was some whining, some sniffling, a little worry on three small faces as if to say: Don’t leave us alone with this man, Mommy. What will we eat? What will we wear? What will we do without you? He can’t match clothes and forgets to eat sometimes - are you aware of this?
I recognize the fear. I remember my mom leaving me alone with my dad one weekend when I was smallish. I remember eating shiny plasticky dry pancakes and drinking the wrong kind of milk. I remember a bedtime that felt earlier than usual, bath water that didn’t run deep enough, a wake up that involved a bugle call and no back rubbing.
[Note to self: Leave saxophone in the attic for the next few days and do not attempt pancakes.]
But I can do things Mom can’t or won’t do. I’ll show them.
I can wrestle. I can put a tent in the living room. I can smack talk during board games and wrestling and, for no good reason, while putting up a tent in the living room. I can fry pork chops and thinly sliced potatoes and onions. I can tolerate the mall. The. Mall.
I can play in the creek at the park and throw large stones into the middle of it and convincingly pretend they’re cannon balls fired by pirates. I can fill a head with pony tails in about a minute.
I can burp. Very loudly. And fart. Also very loudly.
I lack the compassion for caged animals that keeps my wife out of pet stores and zoos. I can touch bugs and feed them to our Venus Flytrap.
I can play any song on the piano that little people want to dance to - including, but not limited to Hey Ya!, Canon in D and Viva La Vida. I can eat Chick-fil-A for every meal and I’m willing to go down the slide on their playground.
I can and will do these things for the next couple days. And the kids will cry when mom comes home. Not that I want anyone to cry or that I need the validation; I’m just saying it’s a possibility. That’s all. A very strong possibility.
It started out as your standard game of King of the Mountain: Old guy on top of the mountain. Six kids of both genders and all ages attempting to knock old guy off of said mountain. That’s how it started.
It ended with old guy breaking a rib and crawling to a bench where he rested for a few minutes and then whined for 24 hours (so far) every time he laughed, coughed or sneezed.
I was on all fours tickling my nephew Kase (recently six, pictured on my back above). I was laughing. I was distracted. Obviously, in hindsight, I now recognize this as part of their elaborate strategy.
Then, my son, Gresham (also recently six), my own flesh and blood, the mastermind behind the assault I’m pretty sure, speared me in the ribs with his head after a good running start.
And down the mountain I came. And retaliated with such trademark old guy moves as tickle time..
and the dreaded booty punch.
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*This statistic is the result of only one round of research conducted at Pump It Up, a non-Brant-certified non-regulation fighting space, in combat against recently six year-olds.
I didn’t write this. One of many Wayne Kirkpatrick songs I wish I did. This is God Is With Us performed on the Gloria! Christmas Tour - made beautiful by the cello stylings of one Cara Slaybaugh. Enjoy.
Today I’m 35. Noah was promised 70 years so that means I’m exactly middle aged...So says my (older) wife the theologian this morning.
A much younger me once thought of middle age as some sort of switch, like you go to bed able to tie your own shoes and wipe yourself and you wake up middle aged and in need of a little assistance. Turns out the first morning of 35 is a lot like the last morning of 34. I’m still tying my own shoes and I’ve gone potty with no help whatsoever. It’s just the number that’s changed. (That and I now say and type the word “potty” without flinching.)
I woke up middle-aged this morning and Becky still loved me. And for reasons I’ve never understood, she still thought I was hot. We laid in bed talking and laughing for a while, listening to a CD she made me of the worst versions of “Happy Birthday” she could find. Then I got dressed. All by myself. Then, also, I went potty. All by myself.
Then I took my (older) sister - in town for Christmas - to meet the Cuban Assassin. And I kicked 35’s butt with a very large number of push-ups and crunches.
And now I’m blogging. I can see the screen as well as I could yesterday. The words are just as difficult to find with all the noise swirling around me in this house. And it’s just as weird to me as always that I have anything left to say and anyone left to say it to.
Yep, the first day of middle-age feels exactly like yesterday, except with cake and a little more gratitude than usual for such a great life.
I’d like a gift from you now. Well, from those of you older than I am (Nancy, Beth, Brian, Cristy, I could go on and on and on). Dispense some wisdom to me will ya? If you could tell the younger 35 you one thing (or twenty) what would you say? What do you wish the younger you knew at my age?
