I recall a word of wisdom from a legendary plumber in these parts when we were installing the sink in the drop-in center that I helped build about 4 years ago. After it was installed and the plumbing was hooked up I went over and tried out the taps. Yep, water was running, draining, doing everything a sink was to do. Then I noticed a healthy scratch in the brand new kitchen sink. "Wow, this sucks", I said out loud. I was pretty sure that the sink was damaged even before it was installed but now that it was in I wasn't about to take it out and return it. "Ah, it's no big deal," the plumber said. "It's like the first dent on your new truck. It hurts so bad at first, but then you don't even notice it after a while because the scratches and dents seem to come fast after that one." Now here's the money line: "You really want to avoid that first dent."
Recently Olivia has been experiencing a healthy dose of "girl politics" as they seem to be. Grade one. Geez they start early. We get a little bit of what's going on and, in many ways, it's just kids being kids and most of it is harmless. Unfortunately kids being kids means they're often emulating adults in their life which is likely a completely different post. Adults can be so
counter-productive to the health of children at times.
"You really want to avoid that first dent." What kills me as a Dad is that I don't have a clue when that first dent is going to made to my kids. It certainly isn't predictable and what leaves a mark for one person won't even leave a scratch on another. There's a distinct possibility that it's happened already. I just hope and pray that I wasn't the offending party without knowing it. And perhaps that's the worst part: you just never know even after the damage has been done. A sharp remark here, a poor thought out comment there and suddenly you're looking at the sink thinking, "now how did that get there?"
But we all get that first dent that leaves a historic mark on our souls. Looking back, maybe you can spot it and testify to the moment where the rest of the scratches and bruises started piling on. And if it was only the one, well, maybe we could heal up from it. But there are always more and more and they seem to somewhat get close to that original one, or at least that's how we tend to see it. Often depth and width of that first mark dictates much of how we perceive hurts in our lives.
I'll never forget a young girl that was a camper at a kid's camp that I worked at when I was 17. She was 15 and always, and I mean always, wore her sunglasses; inside, outside, sunny, cloudy, daytime or night it really didn't matter. At first blush you assumed she was desperately trying to maintain a aura of cool but after more conversation the true story came out. When she was little she had an uncle that consistently told her that her eyes didn't match the rest of her face. Eventually the dent started to hold water and she developed a rather intelligent way to compensate. In reality (or at least my reality and others at camp) she was a beautiful young girl with lovely eyes.
To try to put some lipstick and rouge on this pig, the good news is that the dents don't have to be a life-dictating force. We can always figure them out, which is really, really important especially if you parent small lives since our hammers can leave the biggest marks. Hmmmm, it's either end awkwardly here or keep on rambling. Let's leave it for another post.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
80 somewhere but not here.
So we bought a house and are doing extensive renovations. Good angst can be expelled by smashing out a kitchen and putting your foot through drywall. Give it a shot sometime, reno or no reno. I'm in the bathroom today tearing out drywall and I'm on a two-step ladder reaching with my knife to score the drywall to limit where it breaks off when I have a keen recollection.
About 7 years ago we did renovations to our existing bathroom. My Dad was helping me put in fresh drywall on the ceiling. If you've ever placed drywall into a ceiling before, you know it's about as much fun as chewing tinfoil: it's gotta happen but you can't wait for the credits. So I'm on a stacking stool and my Dad is on a two-step ladder. We bring a piece of drywall up that is almost a full 4x8 sheet towards the ceiling. The plan was simple, brilliant and straight-forward. We put the piece up on the ceiling, position it and I would hold it up by myself while Dad put 2 or 3 screws in just to keep it from crashing. The drywall goes up and gets into position. That was the last successful part of the plan. Dad places a screw on the drill and starts to put it into the drywall. Misses the ceiling joist. Puts another screw on the drill. Misses the joist to the opposite side. At this point my muscles are experiencing serious acid build up. I work with people all day. My hobbies include fishing and playing guitar. I have a limited muscle mass. It's true now and it was certainly true then. Dad tries to take the screw out of the drywall. "Dad, just leave it. Try again", I plead. He places another screw on the drill and this one falls off just as he gets it to the face of the drywall. My arms are doing the shakes. Badly. "Hurry Dad. Hurry up. Hurry, hurry." I can still see him moving in almost slow motion to get another screw. 45 minutes later he finds one and puts it on the drill. This one goes into the drywall and into solid wood! But wait. Dad has screwed it too far and has broken the paper which completely takes all the strength away. At this point I have to reposition myself and I slip a little. Dad tries to catch the drywall and in doing so repositions the leg of his ladder over a hole in the floor. He goes sideways which causes his body to hit my stool which sends me flying like I'm ducking for cover in a gunfight. When all is said and done, Dad and I are on the floor, the drywall is in two pieces and the stacking stool has two legs going the opposite way they were designed to. I let out a couple expletives and just shake my head at the whole debacle.
It was Dad's birthday yesterday. He should have turned 80 except he passed away in May 2003 of a massive heart attack. He literally died in the middle of saying sentence.
Dad and I were not really very close, but I loved the guy and I know he loved me. I miss him. And when I stood on that ladder today in that half gutted bathroom I couldn't help but think of the old guy and I really missed him. He would be driving me absolutely nuts with this renovation and I would be coming home from working at the house complaining like crazy about him. Wouldn't that be a treat...
About 7 years ago we did renovations to our existing bathroom. My Dad was helping me put in fresh drywall on the ceiling. If you've ever placed drywall into a ceiling before, you know it's about as much fun as chewing tinfoil: it's gotta happen but you can't wait for the credits. So I'm on a stacking stool and my Dad is on a two-step ladder. We bring a piece of drywall up that is almost a full 4x8 sheet towards the ceiling. The plan was simple, brilliant and straight-forward. We put the piece up on the ceiling, position it and I would hold it up by myself while Dad put 2 or 3 screws in just to keep it from crashing. The drywall goes up and gets into position. That was the last successful part of the plan. Dad places a screw on the drill and starts to put it into the drywall. Misses the ceiling joist. Puts another screw on the drill. Misses the joist to the opposite side. At this point my muscles are experiencing serious acid build up. I work with people all day. My hobbies include fishing and playing guitar. I have a limited muscle mass. It's true now and it was certainly true then. Dad tries to take the screw out of the drywall. "Dad, just leave it. Try again", I plead. He places another screw on the drill and this one falls off just as he gets it to the face of the drywall. My arms are doing the shakes. Badly. "Hurry Dad. Hurry up. Hurry, hurry." I can still see him moving in almost slow motion to get another screw. 45 minutes later he finds one and puts it on the drill. This one goes into the drywall and into solid wood! But wait. Dad has screwed it too far and has broken the paper which completely takes all the strength away. At this point I have to reposition myself and I slip a little. Dad tries to catch the drywall and in doing so repositions the leg of his ladder over a hole in the floor. He goes sideways which causes his body to hit my stool which sends me flying like I'm ducking for cover in a gunfight. When all is said and done, Dad and I are on the floor, the drywall is in two pieces and the stacking stool has two legs going the opposite way they were designed to. I let out a couple expletives and just shake my head at the whole debacle.
It was Dad's birthday yesterday. He should have turned 80 except he passed away in May 2003 of a massive heart attack. He literally died in the middle of saying sentence.
Dad and I were not really very close, but I loved the guy and I know he loved me. I miss him. And when I stood on that ladder today in that half gutted bathroom I couldn't help but think of the old guy and I really missed him. He would be driving me absolutely nuts with this renovation and I would be coming home from working at the house complaining like crazy about him. Wouldn't that be a treat...
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Away in a Manger
Every night at bed time at our house is a slice of Christmas. That's because I get to sing "Away in a Manger" as a bed time song to my 4 year old daughter, Grace. Ever since it made it's appearance in December last year it has been a fan favorite. It matters not to her that it's traditionally a Christmas song. For her it's like a comfy stuffy.
Two nights ago I was tucking her in bed and she was having a hard time. Grace cries buckets of tears when she weeps and this is often the end result of being very tired. As I pulled up the blanket to her chin she asked me the very familiar question, "Can you sing (sob, sob) Away in a Manger?" As I brushed away over sized drops from her cheek I of course agreed and began the nightly ritual. She stopped crying as she heard the first of three verses and when the last note was off my lips she gently said, "Goodnight Dad" and she was off, putting another day behind her.
I paused on the bed and wondered, how long will this work before a tired childrens Christmas song won't work? When will it no longer be enough to quiet the tears and usher her into a peaceful sleep? When will I not be enough to keep her safe and to chase away the scary moments and the moments that hurt so bad? I couldn't help but feel incredibly helpless and vulnerable. I'm not really into keeping my kids in a bubble, but the older they get the more safe it seems. With every hint that Olivia brings home from school about a school friend not including her I wonder if maybe isolating them completely wouldn't be so bad? Of course that's impossible and if not impossible then seriously irresponsible. The terrible beauty of life is that we're supposed to love and love hard with as few restrictions as possible. And that's where the cruel joke of love comes in: the more you love the more you lose. Sure the gains are marvelous, but eventually the returns on the investment are called in. To isolate yourself from others so that you don't love is safe, and in likely the most sane thing you can do. Teaching my kids to love with abandonment is only setting themselves up for heart ache. And there are times when heart ache seems to be it's own calling in life.
But where would I be without choosing to love? I certainly wouldn't find myself on the bottom portion of a bunk bed singing Away in a Manger when it's 30 degrees outside. What a shame that would be. Love is a double edged sword and there are times when that handle will turn into the blade and leave a mark, like it or not.
More later...
Two nights ago I was tucking her in bed and she was having a hard time. Grace cries buckets of tears when she weeps and this is often the end result of being very tired. As I pulled up the blanket to her chin she asked me the very familiar question, "Can you sing (sob, sob) Away in a Manger?" As I brushed away over sized drops from her cheek I of course agreed and began the nightly ritual. She stopped crying as she heard the first of three verses and when the last note was off my lips she gently said, "Goodnight Dad" and she was off, putting another day behind her.
I paused on the bed and wondered, how long will this work before a tired childrens Christmas song won't work? When will it no longer be enough to quiet the tears and usher her into a peaceful sleep? When will I not be enough to keep her safe and to chase away the scary moments and the moments that hurt so bad? I couldn't help but feel incredibly helpless and vulnerable. I'm not really into keeping my kids in a bubble, but the older they get the more safe it seems. With every hint that Olivia brings home from school about a school friend not including her I wonder if maybe isolating them completely wouldn't be so bad? Of course that's impossible and if not impossible then seriously irresponsible. The terrible beauty of life is that we're supposed to love and love hard with as few restrictions as possible. And that's where the cruel joke of love comes in: the more you love the more you lose. Sure the gains are marvelous, but eventually the returns on the investment are called in. To isolate yourself from others so that you don't love is safe, and in likely the most sane thing you can do. Teaching my kids to love with abandonment is only setting themselves up for heart ache. And there are times when heart ache seems to be it's own calling in life.
But where would I be without choosing to love? I certainly wouldn't find myself on the bottom portion of a bunk bed singing Away in a Manger when it's 30 degrees outside. What a shame that would be. Love is a double edged sword and there are times when that handle will turn into the blade and leave a mark, like it or not.
More later...
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